• First and foremost, make sure you give a safety talk on working with sharp knives and hot stoves.
• Let the kids help pick the menu. Start with simple recipes featuring ingredients that they like.
• Have everything out and ready before you start.
• Create a kid-friendly work space. If the counter is too tall, bring in a step stool for them to stand on, or perhaps try working at the kitchen table - it may be the perfect counter height for a little person.
• Talk about the ingredients. Where they come from, what they taste like, etc. This is particularly easy with a garden!
• Taste the food, a lot! Kids will love to share their opinion on if they like vegetables better raw or cooked, or if the dressing needs more oil or vinegar, or if the soup needs a touch more salt. 
• Be delighted in the results, no matter what! 

Here in Southern California, we have the distinct experience of the annual onslaught of the Santa Ana winds. This is perhaps my least favorite phenomenon of the natural elements. I would much rather work in the rain or the heat of summer than a strong and relentless wind.

I live and garden mainly in the Pasadena area, which was especially hard hit during the recent destructive windstorm. Every street here was littered with leaves, broken limbs, and shattered trees. On my runs I saw enormous trees pulled up by their roots, concrete traffic signals snapped in half, cars crushed beneath toppled giant trees, houses with smashed roofs, and countless fences lain asunder. On top of that, the many power outages shut down entire cities, closing schools, businesses, and leaving residents in the dark in some cases for nearly a week. The L.A. Times reported that the estimated damages were at least $40 million.

Along with my duties at Farmscape, I manage an apartment building. On Thursday morning after the storm, I was greeted not only with palm fronds and patio furniture strewn about, but also a parking lot chock full of roof. The majority of the carport roofing had been ripped off in the night. Every car had severe scratches and a few were badly dented. My three plus hours of clearing huge chunks of thick-asphalted tarpaper only reinforced my utter repulsion of the wind. The spiteful element simply returned my ire by gusting flecks of fiberglass and asphalt into my eyes. 

The wind is perhaps the most difficult element to control or guard against. When working in the rain, good waterproof gear keeps you warm and dry. In the heat of summer, light fabric and plenty of water help one get through the day. The wind however mocks most attempts to stave it off. The wind slaps your face around, sucking the moisture from eyes, lips and nose while chapping cheeks. Any attempt at spraying insect-killing soap is laughed at as the wind carries it swiftly to futile destinations. Broadcasting seeds becomes an act of seeding an entire yard instead of a small square of prepared garden. Watching the wind whip a tender lettuce head around or snap off the upright colorful stems of a Swiss chard is heart breaking, and there is little you can do but watch.

It is a fruitless endeavor trying to right leaning crops or assist climbing peas only to become undone the moment you let go. This futility was exemplified perfectly as I watched a landscaper use a backpack blower to corral leaves into a neat pile for a split second, only to have the wind explode the debris back into chaos across the lawn.

I do not understand the point of gale force wind. It seems mainly destructive, snapping gorgeous trees, spreading weed seeds, and sucking the moisture from soil and skin. When compared to its lovely cousin, the gentle breeze, a strong wind seems to only have derision for the earth and its occupants. Working out in the wind truly gives one an understanding of its relentless and brutal quality. Along with the strange exhaustion that a day in the wind delivers, there is a subtle sense of loneliness that creeps in. It is the isolation of desolation, and of being powerless against an invisible foe. I think perhaps this lonely wind sensation is universal, for why else would expanses of empty desert be emphasized by a whistling wind in films. The wind is a harbinger of doom.  

With the destruction of the recent storm it is hard to find a positive aspect. But if there is one, it is that of perspective. It is quite rare that we feel so small and helpless in the confines of our modern comforts. Rarely do we feel powerless, figuratively or literally. But to wake up and look out at enormous elderly trees ripped from the ground, or a manmade structure torn to shreds by an invisible and uncontrollable natural force can be truly awe-inspiring. I am not speaking of the awesome beauty of a pristine waterfall, or a jagged granite peak rising to the clouds, but rather the dark ominous destruction of nature that allows a deep fear and trembling to enter our bones. For as big as we feel, every once in a while nature will remind us, that in fact we are infinitesimally small. 

A gardener or farmer’s relationship with a tool goes well beyond practical utility. If a tool lasts long enough and has accompanied you through enough laborious jobs, trust and adoration begins. Perhaps it is because there are so many poorly made tools out there. One certainly comes to expect short-term relationships; in the world of horticulture, the peaceful stepping stone paths are paved with broken and shattered handles.

My first love affair was with a Razorback trenching shovel. The v-shaped spade was red, with a 5” wide blade that cut the soil with truth and beauty. The pointed tip expertly slashed through hard ground, tough tree roots, and bound sod. The wooden handle could withstand amazing amounts of torque and offered me all the leverage I could ask for. This shovel spoke to me so much so that I etched “trust me” at the base of the wooden shaft. My love for Old Trusty grew as my use of him diversified. I began using him for jobs normally undertaken by rakes, pitchforks, and pick axes. He was never far from reach. I took him camping, not for practicality, but because he loved the mountain air.

His simple assurance of “trust me” never failed in the 5 years that he was with me. As I ended my time at the university I worked at, I was faced with a brutal decision. Technically Old Trusty was not my property. I contemplated smuggling him out, with visions of the two of us striking out across the country, on the lam and in love. But I detest thievery, and I knew I could not implicate him in my crime. Then I thought that as a final act, we would dig a trench and I would lay him in and gently push the soil over him. The calluses he tenderly gave me would be the last to touch his well-worn handle. I didn’t do this. It seemed too extreme, even for true love, and I realized the selfishness of taking his love of hard work away. Instead I said an emotional goodbye, placed him in his proper place in the shed and walked away, never to look back.

I now have another Razorback 5” v-shaped red spaded trenching shovel, but I don’t feel the spark. This one doesn’t speak to me. It is practical and useful and a good shovel, but the emotional connection isn’t there, partly because I could never make a cuckold out of Old Trusty.

If Old Trusty was my first love, my Felco #2 hand bypass pruners are the love of my life, my soul mate. They are the tool I want to grow old with. They’ve been with me for almost nine years. Like most relationships, at first I took them for granted and thought them little more than a well-made tool. As the years passed, the slow burn of respectful love grew. They hang at my right side, ready for action as I pull them from their leather holster. They selflessly perform any task I require, many times outside of their job description. They are simply and elegantly designed. Their craftsmanship and strength is unmatched.

One of the simple pleasures in my life is to completely dissemble, meticulously clean, grease, sharpen, and reassemble my snips. I did not realize how deeply intimate this act was to me until I demonstrated this ceremony in front of my Farmscape colleagues. My voice quavered with nervous emotion as I described the process for the first time. I said I liked to put some music on, maybe have a nice glass of beer, and really spend some time on them. A chuckle arose; they thought I was joking. I was not.

My snips still have the original blade, and it has been whittled down a 1/8” slimmer than when new. A new blade sits waiting in my desk drawer, but I have not been able to part with the original yet. I know my snips so intimately that I make minor alignment adjustments to the cutting and anvil blades by putting them up to my ear and listening to the sound. They speak to me, and I try my best to listen.

We all experience intimacy with objects that help us perform good work. Like a author’s fondness for their typewriter, a baseball player’s care for their glove, or a seamstress’ adoration of a timeless sewing machine, so goes our love for any lasting tool that performs gracefully.

It is becoming harder and harder however to form these relationships; so many things are built without longevity in mind. I am grateful for my MacBook and the convenience it provides, but I can’t imagine loving it. Too often it betrays me with erratic behavior, and I know as it continues to slow and pinwheels itself through simple tasks that its days are numbered.

In the end, it might be craftsmanship that I admire. Well made items that last afford the time that one needs to fall in love. As I show my appreciation through proper care and respect, in return I am given the selfless and elegant execution of the tasks I request. If you are fortunate enough to come across a tool that selflessly gives you unquestionable performance, be grateful, pay attention and listen as they sing their song of love.

This is part II of a series of posts. Part I is here.

I enlisted some help from my friends and colleagues to make my garden a reality. After several months of lobbying and grassroots activism with my neighbors, at last I persuaded my landlord to let me build a garden on the eastern half of the front lawn for our building. But before I could feel too smug with my accomplishment it dawned on me that I now faced an even more formidable oppontent: nut sedge. The particular species of grass that grows in my front yard is a mass of weeds, an incredibly resilient variety. One of the reasons my landlord gave in to my garden request was that he was tired of maintaining the vigorous, cowlicked tangle of a lawn. Three weeks out of four, the front was an overgrown thicket, useful mostly as a dog toilet during the day and a skunk warren by night. With help from Farmscape's landscaping partner, we tore up the chunks of grass. It took a whole morning just to tame the nut sedge on the plot -- about 300 square feet in total.

The next step was to build the Farmscape raised beds for the vegetables. My colleagues and I built three 4’x12’ boxes ourselves in just one day. At this point several of my neighbors emerged from their homes and came over to see what was going on. I explained that this would be a vegetable garden and their faces lit up. They introduced themselves, revealed that they had always hated “that grass” and told me about their experiences with gardening. I had been living in my apartment for a year and never met any one of my neighbors. Suddenly while building a garden I was surrounded by people eager to help, share their knowledge, or keep me company while I worked outside.

I am from Iowa where a sense of community comes automatic and is deeply ingrained -- the strong bond shared in our rural towns also spreads into our cities. I love Los Angeles, but since moving here I have realized it’s a city that does not always feel like home in this way. It’s a city of commuters, busy people, sprawl. Community is something you go looking for, something you spend years trying to build, and here I was on the hottest day of summer setting up my vegetable garden surrounded by new friends.

My front yard was to serve as a demonstration of what our template landscapes could be -- a raised bed garden surrounded by drought tolerant succulents. So next we laid landscaper cloth to keep the grass from coming through and poured decomposed granite around the beds. Because my garden is in the front yard and there is quite a bit of foot traffic, we decided to put a row of succulent curbside as a subtle suggestion of a fence, hopefully to deter people from wandering into the garden too casually. 
The entire project took us about a week to complete. Now it was time to pick out my winter crops.  

Check back later this week for part III of Rachel's My Urban Farm posts.

Aphids are tiny insects that feed on a variety of different garden vegetables by sucking the sap out of their leaves. They come in a variety of colors, including red, green, grey, white, brown, and black. Aphids are both extremely common and difficult to control, due to their symbiotic relationship with ants and their astonishing ability to reproduce. Even worse, according to the UC Cooperative Extension’s excellent book on pest control, Pests of the Garden and Small Farm, “nearly every vegetable plant and fruit tree has one or more aphid species that occasionally feed on it.”

Incredible aphid photo from Flickr user Eran Finkle. Creative Commons.

Ladybug larvae photo form Flickr user Gilles San Martin. Creative Commons.

• The usual suspects - broccoli (81%), carrots (77%), snap peas (70%), and red/green salad mix (63%) - were selected by a majority of members and frequently identified as favorite crops. 
• The staples - garlic (77%), bunching onions (56%), cilantro (56%), parsley (51%), red (60%) and golden (65%) beets -  were almost no one's favorite but were still selected by a majority of members. 
• The polarizing crops - bok choy (33%), green curly kale (37%) and collard greens (19%) - were not the most popular crops but those members who selected them were likely to identify them as favorites. 
• The newcomers - radicchio (19%), daikon radish (7%) and napa cabbage (23%) - do not have large followings yet. 

We were also able to glean favorites within each type of crop: 

• Orange carrots were requested more frequently than colorful carrots, although I have sampled the purple haze variety we are growing this year, and I wager those who requested colorful carrots will be pleasantly surprised.  
• Snap peas beat out snow and yellow peas. 
• Golden beets were slightly more popular than the red beets. Perhaps others, like myself, have been enjoying them on Julia's beetza recipe. 
• Purple cauliflower was selected more than cheddar or white cauliflower. 
• Red onions beat out white onions, although it's really hard to go wrong with any of the aromatics. Our members who are gourmet chefs raved about the flavor of these crops, so it's no surprise that they were so popular.

In the garden, the most tension-relieving form of destruction comes in ripping a plant and its roots from the soil. A tight grip on the base of the stem is necessary as the long roots resist at first, straining in an attempt to cling to the life giving soil it has dwelled in for months. The elastic feeders begin to reach their breaking point, first with creaks and moans. I pull more, and am rewarded with the satisfying pops and snaps of mortality. The cathartic feeling from this multilayered wresting is akin to a much-needed back cracking, or the great relief in stretching your legs after a trans-Atlantic flight.  Finally the roots lift out of the crumbling soil, and I hold them up victoriously for the sun to see. Like Perseus lifting high the severed head of Medusa, I shudder with primal satisfaction.

I partially derive this pleasure from the fact that I have been nurturing this plant for a whole season. I have protected it from intruders. I have fed and watered it, cared deeply for it, and thanked it as it selflessly gave food from its leafy arms. Then, I turn on it in an ultimate act of ungratefulness. I chop its limbs off and rip it viciously out of its snug home. In some ways it the manifestation of a god complex: as the biblical God derides Job when after years of dedication through unspeakable suffering he finally asks a simple “why?” So too do I let this puny insignificant plant know who is in charge.

There is therapy in destruction, but ruination is just the beginning. In nature, desolation is not the point, but rather the impetus for new opportunities. For as much as we love to destroy, we need to create. The havoc that I wreak allows for new life to take root and flourish. I think the noble poet Jimi Hendrix said it best:

Well I stand up next to a mountain
And I chop it down with the edge of my hand
I pick up all the pieces and raise an island
Might even raise a little sand.