Posted on 6/7/2017
IT IS A MARK OF MY PRIVILEGE that I have gentleman-farmer pretenses. Only someone who doesn’t produce food for a living could so fetishize the attendant paraphernalia—steel bucket as design object, say, or shovel as Instagram prop.
Here’s my agricultural résumé: When I was a kid, I’d take the leftover roots of green onions, plant them in the backyard, and use the harvest in fried rice. I helped my mom pluck mangoes from our five trees, then tagged along to the Chinese grocery, where she bartered the fruit for bok choy and tofu. More recently, I’ve killed the following in terra-cotta pots: rosemary,...