There are certain phrases I never expected to utter in my lifetime. Things like, "Excuse me if I don't shake your hand. Mine's covered in horse urine." Or, to my son, "When you're finished with dinner, clear your plate and feed the scraps to the worms." Yet those are exactly the sorts of things I've found myself saying in the months I've been an urban farmer.
A year ago, I didn't have a vegetable garden. I had a couple of lemon trees, but I'd given up on potted plants, having killed every rooted thing I'd attempted to nurture on my back deck. I didn't just have a black thumb. I had a black hand.
But last year I began to think that my little postage stamp of a property could do more than just look pretty. Ideally, it could be put to work too. I just needed to learn how.
It's kind of shocking how little I know about plants and soil, given that my mom grew up on a farm and one of my uncles still works major acreage growing corn. In a single generation, the information chain that had passed through my family for centuries was broken. In L.A., I did as so many others did: I bought my food at the supermarket, and my landscape was professionally designed and maintained. I rarely, if ever, touched the dirt.
I needed an expert who specialized in small-scale city farming. That person was Tara Kolla. She has been running Silver Lake Farms from her double lot in the hip L.A. neighborhood since 2004. Kolla teaches gardening workshops ($48 each) and is also available for one-on-one property consultations ($65 an hour). I hired her for both last September, and she dug into my project with gusto.
She pawed into my soil with her bare hands, scooping out samples to send to a lab so she could see what we were working with. A couple days later we found out. It was poison, basically. Like a lot of L.A. dirt, mine was a victim of our car culture, containing high, unhealthful levels of zinc (from brake dust) and lead (from leaded gasoline).
If I was going to farm my property, I had two options: Build raised beds or remediate the soil by growing a cover crop that would suck up the metals. I chose option No. 2. At that time, my property was a thriving xeriscaped paradise, which meant I needed to get rid of all my plants. The idea of throwing them away sickened me, so I threw a dig party, inviting my friends to come over with their shovels and take away the flax, hibiscus and any other plants they wanted. In exchange, I gave them beer. That cleared about two-thirds of what needed to be removed. The rest required professionals.
At Kolla's suggestion, I planned to grow vegetables in my frontyard, because that's where I had good sun. The side of my house, which got morning light, would be transformed into a berry patch. My backyard: an orchard of citrus and stone fruit trees, as well as flowers.
For the front and side yards, Kolla suggested something that seriously upset my street's landscape status quo. The scraggly mess of sweet peas, hairy vetch and beans looked like weeds. But I let them grow. For months. I pulled them out in May so I could plant my first summer crop with the seedlings I'd successfully grown from scratch, thanks to Kolla's seedling and soil workshops.
Before planting, I sent another round of soil samples to the lab to see if the cover crop had helped. It did, but not nearly as much as I needed. The lead level had dropped by half and the zinc by about 40%, but according to Garn Wallace, the scientist who was doing my soil testing, I would need to do the same cover crop regimen for 10 years before I could eat vegetables that grew in that dirt. (Berries and fruits would be fine, he said, because their roots drill down to better soil, and because most soil toxins end up in stems and leaves, not the fruit.)
This sobering lab report meant I had to replace the soil in my front yard or build raised beds. My yard isn't that big -- just 70 square feet -- so I decided to dig. I needed to excavate 2 feet. That's as far down in the top soil as the airborne toxins from cars tend to go and as deep as the roots of most vegetables tend to extend. But I underestimated exactly how much dirt that was. Hiring three day laborers for two days had gotten rid of only six inches. I had spent $600 and hadn't even purchased my replacement dirt.
So I bailed on my original plan and went with raised beds, which, like everything else, was problematic, time-consuming and expensive. I needed to use untreated wood so chemicals wouldn't leach into the soil, and I wanted a hearty wood. That meant expensive redwood, which, in the 14-foot lengths I needed, cost more than I've spent on grocery-store vegetables for, oh, at least three years. But at this point I was deep into the project and determined to see it through. A friend and I built the boxes, I bought a load of dirt from a nursery and a load of horse manure from the guru of doo-doo, Tim Dundon, and I was in business. I repurposed my sprinklers to drip line and planted my seedlings in the boxes.