Plant my own garden? Thank you, no.

I have a black thumb, which means I’ve killed spider plants, a tea rose plant, and my latest accomplishment, one half of a once-thriving rosebush.

So, when I go shopping for food, or research some ickiness I don’t want to be inside my food, I do not want any holier-than-thou bloggers telling me the best choice is to go grow my own food. Hey, there, uh-huh. Not in my line of work.

I choose to live in a civilization, which also means I’m not gonna make my own clothes, fix my own car, gin my own cotton, make my own Play-Doh, or tap my own well, either. Regardless of the benefits.

Back in the olden times, my grandparents nobly braved a somewhat long transatlantic flight just so they and their future offspring wouldn’t have to be farmers anymore.

And they presumably even knew that when you have instructions to water something “when it looks dead,” you better do that before it actually is dead.

In the Land of the Free, how did we get to the point where people are willing to tolerate the notion that they should be their own fruit and vegetable farmers in the front yard if they merely want decent food?

The whole chemical-free idea is nifty, but instead of slapping a sticker on stuff that has that smug organic label on it, shouldn’t we just call it “food”? The nasty factory-farmed stuff can henceforth be known as “not food.”

And I can go back to avoiding plants, and therefore, not killing them.

And maybe we can get some nice regulators to regulate, and farmers to farm. And let me do what I do best in this whole food-production scenario: Pushing a cart and swiping a card.

And seriously, don’t let me near those tomatoes in your garden.  I am death to plants. –Jillian O’Connor

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