I'm no glutton for punishment. Now I
know that may sound disingenuous given my choice of vocation, hobby,
and decision to sire children, but believe it or not it's mostly
true. That's why I'm not about to look askance at the obscene bounty
drooping along every roadside ditch this time of year just because it
didn't come from my own garden.
Make no mistake, given the choice, I
would much rather avail myself
of existing produce rather than spend all that time and energy
growing it myself. Trust me, if, say, tomatoes just popped up every
Summer along sidewalks everywhere—to such ridiculous convenience
that one must actually go out of one's way to
not be assailed by a fruit that would normally flirt at $5.99 a pound
from a farmer's market table—then I would immediately rededicate
their prime Fencebroke real-estate to a new pickleball court. As it
is though, there remains, to date, only one crop so brash as to defy
cultivation by mere fact of its ubiquity.
C'mon, Nature, this is too easy. |
I'm talking, of course, about
blackberries, which—sure they're a noxious ecological disaster and
all that—but jeez, if mother nature has a cheat code, this is
certainly it. A rampant weed that gives you buckets of delicious
fruit; it's like a thief who steals your car but takes you out to a
fancy dinner several times a year (although to complete the metaphor,
said thief would probably jab you with his steak knife at regular
intervals throughout the meal). I always feel vaguely guilty when
picking a good berry patch, like someone's going to jump out of the
briar and close this blackberry loophole once and for all.
I suppose it's a good thing for my
career and pastime that more produce doesn't flail
at you from every vacant lot and fence-line the land over. If morning
glory vines dropped hazelnuts and horsetails sported Brussels
sprouts; if dandelion roots were baby carrots and knotweed could be
pressed for a passable apple cider—the backyard gardener might soon
go the way of the Walkman.
You
know what? That's okay. I'd take one for the team and find a new path
through life if it meant broccoli could be picked from sidewalk
cracks. Now, who's going to get on that and make it happen? Anyone?
Monsanto—I'm looking at you. Come on, don't let me down; I really
want that pickleball court.