You’ve just moved into a house. It’s in the neighborhood you want to live in, you did your research, you’ve just been through everything with realtors, insurance agents, your bank, your accountant, now you’re working with contractors to fix, tweak, and polish all the little things that aren’t right about the building.

But besides all that, you also find yourself staring at the land around the house. The green strip that decorates the property, provides a buffer, a sense of space for the architecture to stand within. There’s probably grass, maybe a patio, a tree here and there, roses perhaps, and a handful of plants, some with flowers and some without, that you recognize from all over the city but you could never in your life attach to a name.

This is your land. These are your nameless plants. These are your resources--your water, your soil, your nitrogen--and what you do with them is your choice alone. You are not only a homeowner, but also a land owner. You own and administer California real estate, some of the priciest square footage in the world. What should you do with it? Your strip that used to be ranchero, and then it was an orchard or farm, before it was claimed by the city, parceled into a home.

But eight decades later, the question: “what should I do with this land I now control?” can be paralyzing. It’s as deep a question as: “how should I live?” or “what do I care about?” or “who am I and what do I stand for?”

Grass lawns are probably still the most common choice. They declare: “tradition,” “luxury,” and “the American Dream” loudly, all at once, but lately they are falling out of vogue. Lawns are rather dull. For all the external pressure to keep the yard looking “appropriate to the neighborhood” (read: grassy) turf ends up being a heavy resource sink, both in terms of hazardous lawn care chemicals, petroleum-based turf fertilizers, water, the labor of mowing and weeding, and the final price tag. 

It is often said that nothing is sacred. In my curmudgeonly ways, I wholeheartedly agree. If something is pure and good, it will soon be scarred or marred; for the world tolerates little in the way of beauty.

I vividly remember my visit to the Sistine Chapel. I was awestruck by the magnitude and overwhelming beauty of the ceiling above me. As I looked up, the murmur of the crowd grew to a dull roar. I was no longer immersed in an ageless work of art, but a swarm of chit-chatty nincompoops snip-snapping photos. Even though I could see them directly in front of me, I still had to ask, “Who are these people?”         

I know who “these people” are in the gardening sphere. They are the army of aphids that delight in turning the beautiful into the horrific. The best example of this is their treatment of the broccoli head, as Sean documented on this blog in January.

Full and lovely it tantalizingly sits nestled among its grey-blue leaves. My heart races at the sight of such pristine elegance. It is the sacred pay off from months of work and waiting. I carefully cut the stalk and hold the glorious weight of nutritious delight in my hands. I turn it over to inspect, and my awe turns to agony.
Inside the cluster of buds, a pack of grey bullies writhe. The aphids have decided that in this perfect head of broccoli, they will graffiti, litter, and talk loudly on their cell phones. This discovery is crushing and devastating to my very soul. Anger consumes serenity, and I must work to rid this broccoli of such a plague.

Luckily, a directed hard jet of water usually returns the head to a delightfully edible state. But I still hate the aphid for marring the beauty of the broccoli. They are everywhere, defiling almost every crop together with their colorful cousins. I battle them on lettuce, swiss chard, bok choy, spinach, and cauliflower. Sometimes I win, and sometimes to them go the spoils.

But beyond destroying a chard or two, aphids have tarnished my faith in the possibility of an unspoiled garden. Trepidation accompanies me with each approaching harvest. I cut the stalks with a heavy heart, expecting an infestation of unlimited proportions. Joy has been replaced with melancholy, faith with doubt, sacred with profane.

But then I find one. I cut the stalk, turn the head over, and my heart begins to race. Could this be an untouched wilderness of broccoli? With disbelief I scour the nooks and crannies looking for the presence of “these people.” And try as I might, I find not a single aphid. This one is pure, untouched, and finally is sacred. And for a moment, I stand completely alone, looking up at the ceiling, in absolute silence.

Over the past few months, Farmscape has been working to build partnerships with restaurants in Los Angeles. Already, we are growing produce for the fabulous n/naka restaurant in Palms and the Jonathan Club restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. We continue to look for other restaurants that are interested in growing their own produce, as well as for unused space for off-site restaurant gardens.

With restaurant gardens on my mind, I spent last weekend in New York City. During my trip I wanted to see how other urban farming projects are establishing partnerships with chefs and restaurateurs. On Monday, I visited Riverpark Farm in Manhattan, an urban farming project that grows thousands of pounds of produce for Riverpark Restaurant on the East River.

Riverpark Farm is unique in several respects. While many urban farming projects operate as independent businesses or non-profits, the employees of Riverpark Restaurant run this farm. Riverpark’s partners located the farm in a vacant space adjacent to the restaurant, the future site of the currently stalled Alexandria Center for Life Science West Tower. After the recession began in 2008, developers halted construction of the tower, leaving behind an unsightly vacant lot. Conveniently, Riverpark restaurant, located in the Alexandria Center East Tower, had an idea for how to put the space to use, and Riverpark Farm was born.

Farm manager Zach Pickens grows food for the restaurant in a portable container system built out of milk crates. When construction eventually resumes, Riverpark hopes to move the milk crates to an alternate location on the Alexandria Center site. When I visited, Zach lamented the difficulties of growing during the cold New York winters. To combat the cold, he built a system of hoop houses that allowed the farm to extend the growing season into December and January; it was certainly a novelty to see cabbage and collards growing amidst drifted snow. Not surprisingly, Zach’s bible this winter has been Elliot Coleman’s book on four season farming.
After touring the farm, I headed over to the restaurant to escape the rain and sample the farm’s produce. Although the menu featured less produce last weekend than during the peak harvest months of summer, I was able to enjoy basil cardamom tea and lettuces grown less than 1000 feet away. It was delicious.

One of my favorite aspects of working for Farmscape is getting the chance to meet other individuals in the urban farming community. Both in the non-profit and business sectors, the leaders of the movement are smart, ambitious, creative, and friendly. Because urban farming is a relatively new concept, it’s easy to feel a bit crazy about your work. I feel out of place as I carry 40 pound boxes of Sluggo past the cafe tables of Little Dom’s, and I’m sure that Riverpark felt similarly when they received a shipment of thousands of milk crates on East 29th Street. Visiting projects like Riverpark is reassuring--urban farming isn’t crazy, it’s a vibrant movement that’s rapidly growing in cities across the country.

Over the holidays, my family traveled to Europe to see my sister who works in Copenhagen. While we visited many places during our trip, Barcelona’s public landscaping was a major highlight. On our last day there, I split off from my family and ended up walking near the coast. I came upon a large park overflowing with joggers and bicyclists. The park’s landscaping felt a lot like Los Angeles, featuring decomposed granite pathways and even palm trees, but there was one key difference: orange trees.

Many Angelenos argue against the inclusion of orange trees in publicly landscaped areas based upon concerns about fallen fruit. Would it be a nuisance? Would it attract homeless people? Providing sustenance to the homeless is undoubtedly a good thing, yet most municipalities would rather it happen elsewhere.  Somehow other nuisance trees make the cut. Los Angeles grows a bumper crop of liquid ambers that litter our sidewalks with spikey fruit nicknamed “ankle breakers” for the hazard they pose to pedestrians.

Orange trees benefit the city in numerous ways besides the utilitarian value of their fruit. Tourists flock to Seville to smell the citrus scent that permeates the city throughout March and April when its 14,000 bitter oranges are in bloom. While the bitter oranges aren’t particularly pleasant to eat directly off the tree, they make terrific marmalade.  

In addition to their scent, orange trees can contribute to a landscape’s visual appeal. The Spanish tradition of incorporating citrus into the country’s public landscapes dates back several centuries. The Mezquita, a mosque turned cathedral that UNESCO designated a World Heritage Site, grew oranges in its courtyard at least as far back as the 15th century.

serves 2

Combine the arugula, lime juice, and agave nectar in a cocktail shaker. Muddle with a pestle or long-handled wooden spoon for about a minute, until the arugula is wilted and has released its juices. Pour in the gin and add a few ice cubes. Shake until the drink is chilled, about 10-20 seconds. Strain into two chilled martini glasses. Garnish with a few arugula leaves, and serve.

Cheers!

When the Farmscape dame first stepped in to my office, all jingle-brained over this so-called botanical nightmare, I thought it would be a real swift job. But when she held out her trembling hands, and I caught a glimpse of the light powder coating her paws, I shivered. I was no stranger to this sight. I guess I thought that the gardening world had decided to leave this mystery unsolved. I’m no Nancy, but perhaps that was for the best; some cases are better left alone. Problem is, a green gum-shoe in the city of Angels can’t just give a farmer in need the slip. And so, rather reluctantly, Sean Williams, PD was on the case.

Minuscule white dots were mysteriously appearing on the city’s spinach plants, and the garden beat was starting to talk. When I finally got my mitts on the old things, they felt as gritty as a grifter, sandier than the Santa Monica pier. I scanned through my mental list of the usual suspects. I was pretty sure that the dust wasn’t a pest or even an insect egg, because those thugs are sure to move or hatch. It couldn’t be a disease; when that bad news sets in, the plants are lucky enough not to get the big one, if you know what I mean.

I decided to reach out to my informants. Turning to Google, I quickly found that my fellow gardeners were in the same jam. I talked turkey with my fellow Farmscape farmers--they had visited numerous similar crime scenes, but filed the cases as unsolved. This was a well-known crime, but the perpetrator was a total question mark.

This case went deep. Perhaps I was in over my head. If I’m going to be on the square, I’m more a Martin Freeman than a Benedict Cumberbatch, if you want to get all 2010 Sherlock on me. After all, it’s my job to get the Farmscape blog up to scratch .

While I didn’t have a detective’s magnifying glass, I did have the modern day equivalent, my cell phone macro lens. Using my camera, I snagged a few close-ups of the white dust. I sent the picture to the Sherlock of Plant Pathology, UC Cooperative Extension Vegetable Crops Specialist and Plant Physiologist, Milt McGiffen.

Milt’s instincts were the same as mine--he suspected aphids, the most notorious of gang of spinach hatchetmen, dead ringers for the white dust. Too bad the photographs I sent provided aphids with a perfect alibi. Looking closely, you can see that pale soot up next to an aphid, and it’s clear that the dust particles are something else entirely. It was looking like this whodunit would forever stay that way.
Milt chinned it over with his UC Riverside colleagues, and together they fingered the culprit: guttation. The word conjures up positively brutal imagery, but the real scoop is disappointingly mundane. At night, plants generally close their stomata and stop transpiring moisture. If the soil contains excess water, the water pressure pushes xylem sap out of the plant leaves. When this sap dries, it feels....well, straight up dusty.

Spinach is one of those plants that tries its hardest to do right, but always seems to get the brush-off. Sure, you may think that spinach doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, but I’ll catch some more shut-eye knowing that the case of the spinach dust is closed. For once, I stumbled upon a spinach caper with no foul play. And for what it’s worth, I think spinach with capers would make a damn good meal.