We have fruit rotting on the vine in two gardens.

Bo and I planted an ambitious vegetable garden in the front yard of our Seattle home two years ago. Since then it's been a joy to behold, the envy of neighbors, and a source, in the classic sense of the word, of gluttony. Tonight, Bo called me from his busy job to tell me he'd pick something up for dinner. Neither of us thought to look in our garden for inspiration. We happen to have onions, carrots, beets, lettuce, strawberries, blueberries and strawberries ready for the picking right outside our front door, but Red Mill Burgers is on the way home.

We're really good at starting things, in our jobs, in our gardens, but not so great at enjoying the fruits of our labor. Instead of looking within, 'm going to blame that squarely on our culture. Why not? I wasn't raised to plant a garden, nurture it, harvest it, cook with it, store it and begin it all again with saved seed - even though my great grandparents on both sides were farmers. This is just not a cycle that we learn anymore. Now we're trying, in fits and starts, to rediscover it.

At first I thought we just didn't have enough time. We were too busy making money, hanging out with friends, volunteering, whatever, to nurture a garden, to see it through. So I started to focus, to make more room in my life to pick the blueberries, to bake them into a pie. But here I sit writing as those blueberries get bluer.  I have never baked a pie.

Around the time we planted a veggie garden in Seattle we decided to buy a little cabin in the San Juans near Bo's parent's place. This was a great decision, and one that dove us ever deeper into that cycle of busy-ness to pay for that place, furnish it, visit it, and, of course, tend a garden there too. We did the sensible thing, knowing that we'd not be able to care for veggies in a place we only saw every few weeks. We planted ten fruit trees instead, and blueberries, and other sensible fruits.



A few weeks ago Bo and I attended a wedding in the Skagit Valley, on the mainland  a short distance across the strait from our cabin. The wedding was attended by hip, young, ex-Seattleites who'd moved to the valley to grow berries, bake bread, keep bees. The wedding was small town charm without small mindedness. Bo said to me on the way home, flush from laughter, whole foods and handcrafted beer, "we should move to the valley and become farmers." Despite my wide-eyed idealism, I replied, "First you should eat all of those veggies that are rotting in our front yard." Which isn't totally fair since Bo has dished up strawberry pie, beet salad, snowpeas and other delights many times to my few attempts to make magic with my fava beans.

I don't rule out the possibility of agrarian bliss, not entirely. Bo would be the hottest farmer you've ever laid eyes on. We're just not in the practice of farming. Somewhere along the way we all left the farm, moved to the city and became specialists, and then, we specialized some more. I make a living migrating legacy logistics software to newer, service oriented architecture software. To make things sexier, I dabble in green supply chains on the side. Bo sells online "search media" advertising. Our jobs are so specific (and let's face it, nerdy), that it's not automatic for us to plant a seed and watch it grow. It's not like us to generalize from growing things to harvesting them, to selling them, to eating them, to... It's just  too mind boggling. Who does this? Oh yeah, small family farmers.

So before we quit the corporate jobs that allow us to entertain the idea of farming. We'll take the small step of preferring, and making, dinner at home to ordering pho. We'll eat more of what we grow, or at least give it to friends. I'm self aware enough to know that canning is completely out of the question for the time being.  We'll practice being sensible fruits for another season. Maybe I'll even cook tonight - if Bo has time to check his messages before he stops for burgers.