My Black Thumb

While we're kind of on the subject of Birmingham's Food Summit, I think it's only fair to own up to the fact that I don't really belong at any Food Summit. When it comes to farming, eating local and anything related to agriculture, I am little more than an impostor.

During the storytelling hour I mentioned in my last post, someone told a story about slaughtering pigs because he wanted to get back in touch with the source of his food and not just think about it as something that came wrapped in cellophane at the Piggly Wiggly. (If I can work the Piggly Wiggly into a story, I will.)

Now, unless my adventure at the stocked catfish pond counts as getting back to the source of my childhood fish sticks, I can hardly claim anything as bold and dedicated as that.

When a friend of mine gave me fresh beef and told me that it had come from his cow, Nacho, I couldn't eat it. I have never knowingly ingested venison. I don't do wild game. If I came from any sort of you eat what you kill culture, I'd be the Calista Flockhart of the group or dead.

Maybe you're thinking this makes me the perfect candidate for vegetarianism. If knowing that something was once alive makes it impossible for me to eat it, of course I should be a vegetarian. It makes perfect sense.

I, however, do not make perfect sense. So, I've chosen denial and Five Guys over more obvious conclusions.

I also have a black thumb. I have killed every plant I've ever bought. The only items that bloom at my house are the ones that were hearty enough to survive five months of neglect and four years of renters before I moved in. In short, I have rosemary.

I don't even have grass. I have very green weeds that when cropped close enough to the ground appear to be grass. When the SO proposed astro turf for his backyard, I pretended to object, but I really thought it was kind of awesome. Plus, with the backyard, I figured no one would know how lazy/incapable of gardening we really are. I'm not willing to put our collective failings out on the front lawn for all of the neighbors to see just yet.

So, you can see why an 11th grade biology project that involved growing and tending your own garden plot would pose a problem.

For six weeks, my partner and I were supposed to plant, tend and maintain garden plots. The success of our gardens determined the majority of our grade for that trimester. (My high school was on trimesters, not semesters. I'm not confusing pregnancy and school, really.)

The great part about this project was that hanging out outside counted as class time. The downside was the fact that your garden was supposed to not only survive, but thrive.

My partner and I planted cucumbers, squash and some other kind of vegetable. (I'd probably remember it better if anything had actually bloomed.)

One week before we were supposed to be graded, I can remember staring at my plot with my partner. It looked a lot like it had before we'd planted anything. I think the cucumbers took, but they seemed to keep to themselves unaware that they could have taken over rather than sticking to their solitary little spot in the back of the "garden."

"This doesn't look good," I said.

"No, it doesn't."

"This isn't an "A" project."

"Nope."

Being a little obsessed with college and something of an overachiever, I couldn't let a little thing like Mother Nature stand between me and a decent grade.

"Meet me back here on Sunday?" I said. 

That weekend I drove to Wal-Mart, where for a small sum, I picked out some lovely pansies to line the edges of our garden as well as something else that was green to fill out the plot. Then, we drove back to our school, dug up anything that was dead and replaced it with our recent purchases from Wal-Mart. (Hey, there was no clause in the project description that said your original plants had to make it through the entire six weeks.)

For a few days, we diligently tended to those plants. (I have a very good track record with keeping plants alive for a week. It's after those first seven days that everything seems to go awry. Sorry recently-purchased mums.) Four days later, I kept my fingers crossed as our biology teacher walked the perimeter of our garden. 

"I wish you'd gotten a little more out of those cukes," he said, "but I'm giving you an "A.'"

I was quite relieved. I had saved my biology grade and my GPA, but I never learned how to keep plants alive. Although, given the choice between a GPA and plants, I still think I'd pick the GPA, and hence, why I have no real place at the Food Summit. I hope all of the real foodies can show me a little mercy. Just please don't ask me any questions about high fructose corn syrup. You don't want to hear the answer ...