My Backyard

Aspirations of an urban farmer

When my wife and I bought our home, we chose it for the yard. It was a little over a quarter acre, a veritable estate in Southern California. Nestled under a proud Wild Oak and an umbrella-like Chinese Elm, the backyard especially felt like a secret garden, secured by a lush green wall of ivy on three sides. 

When my wife closed her eyes, she saw kids playing on the swingset, swimming in the pool, staring up at the tree canopy pondering life. 

I saw a farm. 

For me, having a home where I could grow (some of) my own food, and enjoy watching nature provide was essential to feeling secure. It was essential to my home feeling like a home. 

I always liked the idea of gardening. I love getting dirt under my fingernails, working the soil, and fresh fruits and veggies coming out of it like magic. I’ll admit that my first attempts were pathetic. I thought gardening was simply picking up plants at the local nursery, putting them in some soil with plenty of water, and waiting for the fruits to come. For those of you who garden regularly, you know this is the expensive, and potentially, disappointing way to farm. One notorious year, I spent over $300 on plants (that in a good year might have produced $80 in produce), only to have them ravaged by disease and pests most likely brought from the nursery they were purchased at.

During COVID, I really got educated. I learned more about seeds and cuttings. I read up on organic pest control and soil amendment. I did my homework. And things got better. 

But to be really good at gardening requires one important resource, almost more important than water or sunlight, and that’s time. You can’t garden intensely for a few weeks and then take a break. Agriculture is a lifestyle business–not too dissimilar from brick and mortar retail by the way. Moreover, cultivating requires consistency, follow through, and patience. None of these traits comes easy to me. Thus, at best my garden suffered, at worst, it failed catastrophically. 

Despite my short attention span, or maybe because of it, I have fared better with trees. They seem to be more forgiving, or at least more knowledgeable of my shortcomings. It’s Southern California, so of course I have citrus trees: Navel and Valencia Oranges as well as a Eureka lemon. Each winter, my cup overfloweth with fresh squeezed juice and wedges. The pink flesh of a potted Cara Cara–the sweetest most fragrant of oranges–are my special treat. 

My only prerequisite when we were searching for a home–even above an ensuite master bedroom much to my wife’s frustration–was that we have a fig tree. I am obsessed with this fruit, and will probably never live anywhere they don’t grow. Figs remind me of powerful passages from the Bible, dusty Classics I read in college, and my backpacking throughout the Mediterranean. Most importantly, Figs remind me of Southern France. There was one fig tree at the house when we bought it. I’ve made three cuttings from the same mother plant. Who knew how easy it was to grow. You literally stick the cutting in the ground and it comes to life. Don’t tell my wife. We had to wait five years and a greuling remodel before she got that en suite. 

One last thing about figs. They are also the sexiest fruit out there. Nothing beats eating a fresh fig straight from the tree. I mean, nothing. Try it.  

There’s also a peach tree, which was a gift from a good friend. It provides a lot of fruit for its size, but donates most of it to the local squirrel population. Peaches are a high maintenance tree. They have what’s called a short “retention period.” This is how long the fruit stays on the tree after ripening. Citrus has one of the highest retention periods. Fruits ripen in November or December, and yet there are still sweet, ripe oranges hanging from my trees this morning. If I plan things right, I can have half a tree full of ripe fruit, and the other half in bloom for the next year’s crop.

Peach trees are not so generous. As soon as they are ripe (often in early June or July), they’re dropping fruit everywhere. If you don’t pick what remains on the tree, they will start to rot. Only Cherry trees are worse, sometimes shedding half their fruit before it’s even ripe. Maybe I prefer the fig and citrus because they know my limitations, and work with my inadequacies.

There are two raised beds, chalk full of strawberries, carrots, eggplant and peppers. This year, a blackberry cane is growing like a weed. Occasionally I raise tomatoes but always too late in the season. By harvest time, we’re away on summer vacation visiting family and friends, our house sitters benefiting from my labors.

My favorite part of the garden is all the herbs that grow. I don’t have a section set aside. Instead there are herbs tucked into every nook and cranny. Rosemary is a massive hedge in the front that I hack away at whenever I am cooking lamb or potatoes. The only folks who love this herb more than I do, are the myriad bees who drink from its tiny lavender flowers every morning. 

Oregano grows aggressively under the oak tree, the only plant that seems happy there. When I ask my son to go pick some for the evening’s meal, I have to remind him it’s the soft bush that smells like pizza. 

I planted a lemon thyme a few years back. It wasn’t a disappointment, but the zesty fragrance is simply too strong for most dishes. As if on cue, two summers later, mother nature provided a volunteer French thyme in a planter just off the kitchen. I didn’t put it there, but I’m glad it arrived.

I spread basil seeds around the perimeter of my raised beds every spring. Sometimes the resulting plants grow three feet tall, especially if I remember to pinch the flower caps before they bloom. Fresh pesto all summer long is a staple. There is always a jar in the fridge. And if I let the last of the basil go to seed, volunteers spring up in pots year round for last minute garnishes or the odd mozzarella slice. I only wish pine nuts weren’t so expensive! 

Tarragon sends wispy leaves shooting out in every direction like a garden cow lick. I have a soft spot for this herb. Maybe because it reminds me of the olive branches at my Aunt’s house. Every year, I cut back the plant and dry the leaves, but I forget to cook with them. There is nothing like a Roast Chicken with Tarragon, or a traditional bearnaise. I must remember that next time I give the plant a haircut. 

Cilantro, an essential green for California’s Mexican-inspired cuisine, and one of my favorites to sprinkle on tzatziki, never survives my backyard farm. It turns out cilantro is catnip for the dozen deranged tree squirrels that live in my oak. Just before I’m ready to cut some, these rodents mow it down to the roots. This year, I have a pot perched on a tall rod iron stand, hoping the squirrels won’t find it before taco night.

I also plant savory, which few Americans cook with. If rosemary and thyme had a romantic weekend, savory would be their love child. Prized for its fragrance and as a digestive aid in ancient times, its essential oils stand up to long, slow cooking methods and open flame, perfect for stews, stuffings, and joints of meat. 

Savory is also one of the essential ingredients in Herbes de Provence, which I overuse in all my cooking. One year, when I ran out of my Southern French stash, I attempted my own dried herb concoction, which I amusingly called Herbes de Claremont after the little college town where I live. The tradition stuck, and I make a new blend each year for stocking stuffers and thank you gifts. 

The real jewel of our humble farm is the little orange hutch in the back that houses a handful of chickens. When my eldest daughter started kindergarten, her teacher suggested the kids incubate and hatch chicks in the classroom. The only catch was that they would need a home after they got too big for their cardboard box. I was the parent who agreed to adopt. For the last eleven years, two coop designs, more than a dozen hens, flats of fresh eggs, hundreds of bags of feed, countless five gallon buckets of rich manure, this little group of ladies are like family. We’ve even buried one in the backyard. 

We do get some wildlife visiting our farm. There are native red-tailed hawks, opossums, and racoons. Feral cats prowl the fence tops, staying out of reach of coyotes that wander the alleys at night and cackle like jackals. And of course there are those playful and pesky squirrels burying acorns and dragging oranges up to their oak tree nests. 

We even get some exotics, like the cooing pair of Eurasian doves, and the flock of red-crowned Mexican parrots that squawk between power lines. Every summer, a murder of crows descends on the neighborhood, upsetting the energy. I don’t like smart birds.

If you stand still long enough, the smaller creatures abound. There are lizards, dragonflies, Japanese beetles, and cabbage moths. The Argentine ants build their hills in the yard until summer heat forces them inside covering the kitchen countertops like spilled black pepper in search of water or the odd rogue food morsel. 

What is it about a backyard farm? Why do I keep at it? Why do I love it so much?

I’ll tell you.

It teaches me patience, perseverance, observation, and calm. It reduces stress, and relieves sorrow. It reminds me every day that we can be deeply rooted in the ground if we want to be. Plants do it all the time. And every time I take from the land, I am thankful. An odd strawberry, a zucchini blossom, a chamomile flower. I am so thankful for such a resilient, creative and beautiful natural world. My little plot may be small in scale, but its impact on my heart and soul is immeasurable.