My Relationship with Gardening: It’s Complicated

Like many confused souls during the pandemic, I decided it was my time to grow food. What else was there to do while homeschooling a first grader and trying not to cry into my coffee?

With my husband and some helpful friends, we built a couple of raised garden beds and kicked off my new era: Angela, the Grower of Things. Tomatoes, melons, herbs — they all sprouted. It was like watching magic happen, but with dirt and way more YouTube.

I actually learned a lot that year. I invested in a real irrigation system (no more dragging hoses like a pioneer). I studied companion planting (apparently, basil and tomatoes are besties). I followed every gardener on the internet like they were spiritual leaders. I even asked questions—and they answered! I felt like a teenager getting a DM from Michael J. Fox.

My tomatoes were thriving — juicy, gorgeous, centerfold-worthy. Naturally, I made every trendy social media recipe that featured them. Tomato pie, feta-and-tomato pasta, fresh salsa... it was a tomato fiesta with mucha salsa. I was living my best #GardenTok life.

Then came Year Three.

One sunny morning, while lovingly admiring my tomato jungle, I stepped into a garden bed and felt… squish. A hollow squish. A portal to the underworld.

Turns out? Moles. They had converted my garden into a five-star underground resort. And they brought guests: bugs. Lots of bugs. Any size, color, or form—stuff I’d never seen before. I screamed during every encounter. I’m pretty sure the neighbors hated my high-pitched shrieks (which were, unfortunately, very frequent). I was devastated. I barely got a handful of tomatoes. No cantaloupes. No peppers. Nothing.

Since I try to be kind to the planet (on my better days), I went all in on the organic solutions. Google, YouTube, Home Depot — I tried it all. Sonic spikes. Castor oil. Neem oil. Garden pinwheels. More companion plants. Even the bizarre internet tip about Juicy Fruit gum. (Don’t do it. It’s trash.) I TRIED. IT. ALL.

Year Four…

I went down the rabbit hole of straw bale gardening (yes, that’s a thing). And at first, it was glorious. Strong, lush plants. My garden looked like a Better Homes & Gardens spread. Once again, I became the walking cliché: checking my plants every morning, coffee in hand, still in my pajamas. (Not sure why that’s a thing, but apparently it is. And yes, I did it. With pride.)

But... don’t be fooled by the green, promising cantaloupes in the photos. They all died.

Everything that managed to grow was eaten before I could even fake a harvest photo.

So for 2025? Flowers!

I said: “Forget food — I just want pretty.” I planted sunflowers from seed. They’re thriving (so far). Low stakes. No drama.

Meanwhile, a few rogue tomatoes and a mystery pumpkin sprouted from the compost pile. I didn’t plant them. I didn’t ask for them. But they’re growing. And I respect that.

They’re on their own now. No support. No expectations. No love. Just vibes. Stay posted — we’ll see what happens by fall.

Lastly, huge respect to the souls who do this for a living. I cannot imagine how hard it is to keep nature alive while battling the weather, bugs, and neighbors spraying chemicals next door. This is not an easy gig. Thank you to the people who feed us — small farms, organic farms, even big farms with undocumented workers just trying to build a better life.

Thank you. Growing food is no joke.

Big shout-out to Gaby, Phil, my husband, and Noah for the support and help during this growing phase of my life. Couldn't have done it without you and I love you!