As I inch incautiously, inevitably and irreversibly into the dark, woodsy hollows of middle age, I find myself pulled predictably to the same pursuits that have captivated countless generations before me: earthy interests like trees and plants, mushrooms and berries, both the wild and the disciplined sides of foraging and cultivation. “What,” I keep reading, “is more punk than producing your own food?” I spend time swinging lazily in a hammock in my overgrown garden, dreaming about what it might look like to produce enough edible fruits and vegetables to sustain myself and all the creatures in my household. I wonder aloud why our garden is not as nice as the neighbor’s. My husband chances an opportunity to suggest gently that it might be the hours she puts in, working hard to create the beautiful outdoor haven of my fantasies.
