Family & Home

Even though we belong to a CSA, even though we visit our local farmer’s market most weeks, and even though we buy much of our produce at the local co-op…we still have a garden. Our garden is a 20’ x 20’ space in the Parks Department’s community garden, out on the edge of town. (How far on the edge? If we get there before 9am, we can drive across the road and watch horses and cows sharing a stream and fields.) We started our garden in mid-June, which felt criminally late to me, and thanks to a cold spring, the vegetables have taken their time getting settled in and producing. 

Mo-pin-a (n.)  Italian slang for a dish cloth or napkin used at the dinner table .  

My first generation Italian mother grew up in Cleveland’s Little Italy during the World War II era. My mother often describes her childhood years as a struggle to get ahead. Each family member worked formidable jobs in order to put food on the table and to buy the items necessary in order to keep the household thriving. I’m quite sure “disposable” was not a word ever used during these times. The stories that are most pervasive and memorable are those of love born out of that shared struggle. The family came together and helped one another out in times of need. My mom recounts a story about how she didn’t have her own bed and bedroom until she was 18 years old because her aunt and uncle and three kids lived in her parents’ dining room.

I had a potato convergence last week. There were potatoes in my community-supported agriculture (CSA) box; we have a share at Foxtail Farm. A friend gave me some potatoes from her grandmother's farm. We visited our CSA farm and got to dig potatoes. All of a sudden, I had a LOT of potatoes. Fortunately, I also had a potluck to attend, and a potato salad would be perfect to bring.

Signs that summer is in full swing: temperatures in the upper 80s and beyond, swimming lessons, ballet camp, road trip plans, gulping down novels, the constant whirr of fans at night, ice cream appearing at an alarming frequency, and an aversion to meals that require heating up the kitchen with excessive oven or stove use. 

Urban gardens and even urban farms are on the rise. All you have to do is look around and you start to notice food growing everywhere: abandoned lots, flower pots, next to bike paths, on roofs and right next to major highways. People seem to love the challenge of producing food, not to mention the peace of mind that comes with working a garden. Even those of us who at times seem to be in constant battle with weeds, bugs, rabbits and other pests can forget about all of that struggle when it comes time to pick a ripe tomato or harvest green beans.

Grandma Lucy died Saturday night, 94 years old. Her story needs to be told. It is about community, about hope and all about living. The importance of what I am about to share cannot be overstated. In a world where we seldom seem to know what to do with our elders and where there are more stories about abuse and neglect, this is one to give us hope in the power of sharing.

Did you look at the header image for this post? I mean, did you really, really look at it? Did you notice the 3-inch pea plant poking up in the back? The tiny little green strawberries? The radishes and greens? That's my organic garden, friends. My garden.

I know, I know -- it's not cool to brag, and I don't mean to boast (but "I'm intercontinental..."), but of all the life challenges I've taken on in the past two years, growing a successful organic garden has always seemed like the one I was least likely to achieve. It's still early, you're probably thinking, don't take that victory lap quite yet. 

And still, looking at my garden makes me a little bit giddy. Here's a little bit of back story:

As the farmers markets begin to roll and my garden grows among the weeds I am given the wonderful reminder of why we should always enjoy these events with friends, family and children. I can't quite say why exactly, but when we share the process of growing and obtaining our food with people we love, the food itself becomes more enjoyable.  
 

Last week, I was granted three more reasons to be glad I moved to Minneapolis seven years ago.

(Full disclosure: I don’t live in Minneapolis proper, but in a suburb 15 minutes west of the city. But when I travel and people ask me where I’m from, I always proudly proclaim “Minneapolis.” )

“Pesto only tastes good when my friends are here!”

That’s what my daughter said one night when she turned up her nose at a plate of pesto spaghetti -- the same food she and her friend each ate two helpings of the night before. Our visiting friends had just left, and while I argued that the pesto still tasted good, I couldn’t argue with the feeling behind my daughter’s words.