Hi.
Hello. Hey there. Stay with me now, this is literally the first thing
I’ve ever done on tumblr. I’m scared, you’re scared, let’s pour
ourselves a big glass of wine and get through this together.
I live in Brooklyn, in a pre-war apartment that though it is blessed with space and closet space, is a bit short on the whole sunlight thing. Now, it isn’t dark by any means, don’t let me mislead you. I can grow a whole slew of houseplants, at points, my bathroom and bedroom have looked less like living spaces and more like an overgrown rainforest. I know, poor me, first world problems, party of me, humor me here though.
I grew up in suburbia on land that only one generation ago was virgin land. My father planted what seemed like acres and acres of tomatoes and cucumbers and bush beans, you name it, enough to feed us all summer and still we chased most of the neighbors around with surplus tomatoes and zucchini. What this meant is when I moved to Brooklyn I suffered from extreme shock. Do you know what they try to pass off as fresh produce in this town? It’s criminal.
Now, of course I get it, part of the deal we make in exchange for living in such a great city is we give up some of the luxuries in life: being able to sleep soundly every night, not knowing about the certain hot wet urine smell scent that permeates the subway, and paying less than $6.99 for a pint of ice cream. We accept these things for the greatness of New York. We do so gladly, or at least a scoff and a grumble and perhaps a sigh. There’s no place like New York and I love it, but a fella needs a tomato that doesn’t taste like plastic. What does he have to do, to have a nice sliced tomato sandwich that tastes like the garden? So far it seems, a lot.
That’s it. That was my first post. We made it! Now, pour yourself another glass of wine for a job well done, we earned it. Next time we’ll probably need shots though, we’ll be talking about the saga of joining my community garden.
I live in Brooklyn, in a pre-war apartment that though it is blessed with space and closet space, is a bit short on the whole sunlight thing. Now, it isn’t dark by any means, don’t let me mislead you. I can grow a whole slew of houseplants, at points, my bathroom and bedroom have looked less like living spaces and more like an overgrown rainforest. I know, poor me, first world problems, party of me, humor me here though.
I grew up in suburbia on land that only one generation ago was virgin land. My father planted what seemed like acres and acres of tomatoes and cucumbers and bush beans, you name it, enough to feed us all summer and still we chased most of the neighbors around with surplus tomatoes and zucchini. What this meant is when I moved to Brooklyn I suffered from extreme shock. Do you know what they try to pass off as fresh produce in this town? It’s criminal.
Now, of course I get it, part of the deal we make in exchange for living in such a great city is we give up some of the luxuries in life: being able to sleep soundly every night, not knowing about the certain hot wet urine smell scent that permeates the subway, and paying less than $6.99 for a pint of ice cream. We accept these things for the greatness of New York. We do so gladly, or at least a scoff and a grumble and perhaps a sigh. There’s no place like New York and I love it, but a fella needs a tomato that doesn’t taste like plastic. What does he have to do, to have a nice sliced tomato sandwich that tastes like the garden? So far it seems, a lot.
That’s it. That was my first post. We made it! Now, pour yourself another glass of wine for a job well done, we earned it. Next time we’ll probably need shots though, we’ll be talking about the saga of joining my community garden.
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