instantly.”
Jane is in the kitchen boiling baby potatoes fresh out of the ground and chopping dill to make a potato salad. She sees Forest arriving and walks out onto the porch for an introduction, wiping her hands on her jeans. She takes his hand in hers and I probably should have warned him that she has superhuman strength. Luckily she doesn’t hug him. Her hugs can collapse your lungs. Steve has a tent all set up on a small stretch of grass just inside the apricot orchard and he’s built a fire pit out of stones so they can pretend to camp. Jane even brought all the stuff to make s’mores. I introduce Forest to Steve and then I take him on a tour of the place. I’m not sure if he’s even interested but I soon realize that he most definitely is, and he asks a million questions. I can’t believe how little he knows about food, let alone growing food. I walk him over to the fig trees and pluck a ripe fig. I pull it apart with my fingers and give half to him. He puts it in his mouth and his eyes open wide.
“Wow. I’ve never tasted a fig before. It sort of tastes like sweet dirt.”
“I know.” I smile and eat the other half.
By the time we’re finished, he’s tasted most of the food we grow. His hands are black with dirt and his shoes are caked with mud. I’ve explained composting in full detail. It blows his mind that we take all of our weeds and vegetable trimmings and eggshells and coffee grounds and even newspapers and pile them up, and that pile magically turns into the rich soil that we grow the vegetables in. Once he’s got the hang of composting, I explain companion planting (planting a variety of herbs, flowers, and vegetables that attract good pests and repel bad pests from our main crop), and rainwater reservoirs (catching the winter rain in underground tanks to use for summer irrigation). I’m starting to feel like a museum docent. I show him the greenhouse and the barn and the chicken coop and my darkroom, which interests him more than anything. The photo he took of me at the diner is clipped to the clothesline. He looks at it carefully and nods.
“Can I have that?”
“Of course.” I unclip it from the clothesline and hand it to him.
He holds it carefully by the edges with his dirty hands. He looks at it so long that I ask him if he wants me to sign it.
It’s weird how I sometimes resent being here on the farm and living the opposite of the life I’d imagined for myself, but when I show the farm to Forest, an unexpected sense of pride swells in me. I’ve helped create so much of what stands here today and it feels pretty cool right now.
I save the house for last. I’m not sure what he’ll think of it. Surely it looks nothing like the houses he lives in. We walk into the kitchen, which is now filled with the aroma of fresh dill and onions and vinegar. Jane is chopping small red onions and singing along to an old Cat Stevens record she found in my dad’s collection. A glass of red wine sits on the counter next to her. She found the case that Reynaldo left behind for us on his last visit.
Forest strolls from room to room as though the house were a farm museum, one of those places you can visit to see how the early pioneers lived without electricity or running water.
“Wow. This place is so cool,” he says quietly, the floorboards creaking under his feet.
All I can see is that this place could really use a coat of paint.
“Come on. I’ll show you my room.” I lead the way upstairs. I’m not about to waste all the tidying up I did. The sun is dipping and my room is filled with a pre-dusk light that seems to add a certain romance to it. He sits on the iron bed and runs his hand over my quilt.
“I’ve imagined you sleeping here.” He leans over and smells the pillow. “It smells like you.”
I sit next to him on the bed and we swing our legs in unison like children. Forest puts his arm around my shoulders. We both laugh. I hope he can’t tell how nervous I am. I’ve
Jane is in the kitchen boiling baby potatoes fresh out of the ground and chopping dill to make a potato salad. She sees Forest arriving and walks out onto the porch for an introduction, wiping her hands on her jeans. She takes his hand in hers and I probably should have warned him that she has superhuman strength. Luckily she doesn’t hug him. Her hugs can collapse your lungs. Steve has a tent all set up on a small stretch of grass just inside the apricot orchard and he’s built a fire pit out of stones so they can pretend to camp. Jane even brought all the stuff to make s’mores. I introduce Forest to Steve and then I take him on a tour of the place. I’m not sure if he’s even interested but I soon realize that he most definitely is, and he asks a million questions. I can’t believe how little he knows about food, let alone growing food. I walk him over to the fig trees and pluck a ripe fig. I pull it apart with my fingers and give half to him. He puts it in his mouth and his eyes open wide.
“Wow. I’ve never tasted a fig before. It sort of tastes like sweet dirt.”
“I know.” I smile and eat the other half.
By the time we’re finished, he’s tasted most of the food we grow. His hands are black with dirt and his shoes are caked with mud. I’ve explained composting in full detail. It blows his mind that we take all of our weeds and vegetable trimmings and eggshells and coffee grounds and even newspapers and pile them up, and that pile magically turns into the rich soil that we grow the vegetables in. Once he’s got the hang of composting, I explain companion planting (planting a variety of herbs, flowers, and vegetables that attract good pests and repel bad pests from our main crop), and rainwater reservoirs (catching the winter rain in underground tanks to use for summer irrigation). I’m starting to feel like a museum docent. I show him the greenhouse and the barn and the chicken coop and my darkroom, which interests him more than anything. The photo he took of me at the diner is clipped to the clothesline. He looks at it carefully and nods.
“Can I have that?”
“Of course.” I unclip it from the clothesline and hand it to him.
He holds it carefully by the edges with his dirty hands. He looks at it so long that I ask him if he wants me to sign it.
It’s weird how I sometimes resent being here on the farm and living the opposite of the life I’d imagined for myself, but when I show the farm to Forest, an unexpected sense of pride swells in me. I’ve helped create so much of what stands here today and it feels pretty cool right now.
I save the house for last. I’m not sure what he’ll think of it. Surely it looks nothing like the houses he lives in. We walk into the kitchen, which is now filled with the aroma of fresh dill and onions and vinegar. Jane is chopping small red onions and singing along to an old Cat Stevens record she found in my dad’s collection. A glass of red wine sits on the counter next to her. She found the case that Reynaldo left behind for us on his last visit.
Forest strolls from room to room as though the house were a farm museum, one of those places you can visit to see how the early pioneers lived without electricity or running water.
“Wow. This place is so cool,” he says quietly, the floorboards creaking under his feet.
All I can see is that this place could really use a coat of paint.
“Come on. I’ll show you my room.” I lead the way upstairs. I’m not about to waste all the tidying up I did. The sun is dipping and my room is filled with a pre-dusk light that seems to add a certain romance to it. He sits on the iron bed and runs his hand over my quilt.
“I’ve imagined you sleeping here.” He leans over and smells the pillow. “It smells like you.”
I sit next to him on the bed and we swing our legs in unison like children. Forest puts his arm around my shoulders. We both laugh. I hope he can’t tell how nervous I am. I’ve
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