Environment

WA I T I N G F O R A S PA R A G U S

A question was nagging at our family now, and it was no longer, “When do

we get there?” It was, “When do we start?”

We had come to the farmland to eat deliberately. We’d discussed for

several years what that would actually mean. We only knew, somewhat

abstractly, we were going to spend a year integrating our food choices

with our family values, which include both “love your neighbor” and “try

not to wreck every blooming thing on the planet while you’re here.”

We’d given ourselves nearly a year to settle in at the farm and address

some priorities imposed by our hundred- year- old farmhouse, such as

hundred-year- old plumbing. After some drastic remodeling, we’d moved

into a house that still lacked some finishing touches, like doorknobs. And

a back door. We nailed plywood over the opening so forest mammals

wouldn’t wander into the kitchen.

Between home improvement projects, we did find time that fi rst summer to grow a modest garden and can some tomatoes. In October the sober forests around us suddenly revealed their proclivity for cross- dressing.

(Trees in Tucson didn’t just throw on scarlet and orange like this.) Then

came the series of snowfalls that comprised the first inclement winter of

the kids’ lives. One of our Tucson- bred girls was so dismayed by the cold,

she adopted fl eece- lined boots as orthodoxy, even indoors; the other was

so thrilled with the concept of third grade canceled on account of snow she kept her sled parked on the porch and developed rituals to enhance

the odds.

With our local- food project still ahead of us, we spent time getting to

know our farming neighbors and what they grew, but did our grocery

shopping in fairly standard fashion. We relied as much as possible on the

organic section and skipped the junk, but were getting our food mostly

from elsewhere. At some point we meant to let go of the food pipeline.

Our plan was to spend one whole year in genuine acquaintance with our

food sources. If something in our diets came from outside our county or

state, we’d need an extraordinary reason for buying it. (“I want it” is not

extraordinary.) Others before us have publicized local food experiments: a

Vancouver couple had announced the same intention just ahead of us,

and were now reported to be eating dandelions. Our friend Gary Nabhan,

in Tucson, had written an upbeat book on his local- food adventures, even

after he poisoned himself with moldy mesquite flour and ate some roadkill. We were thinking of a different scenario. We hoped to establish that

a normal- ish American family could be content on the fruits of our local

woodshed.

It seemed unwise to start on January 1. February, when it came, looked

just as bleak. When March arrived, the question started to nag: What are

we waiting for? We needed an official start date to begin our 365-day experiment. It seemed sensible to start with the growing season, but what

did that mean, exactly? When wild onions and creasy greens started to

pop up along the roadsides? I drew the line at our family gleaning the

ditches in the style of Les Miserableness. Our neighborhood already saw us as

objects of charity, I’m pretty sure. The cabin where we lived before moving into the farmhouse was extremely primitive quarters for a family of

four. One summer when Lily was a toddler I’d gone to the hardware store

to buy a big bucket in which to bathe her outdoors, because we didn’t

have a bathtub or large sink.