In 2002 I wrote the following, as an introduction to an essay inspired by a visit to France, and about eating off the land in a modest way:
I want to corrupt the American lawn.
I want to take the strait-laced lawn of the suburbs and wet its lips with Martini-juice. I want to run my fingers through the middle-parted, morning-combed turf of the Long Island mansions and stir a longing in its loins. I want to take the working class grass square of backyards everywhere and drag silk lingerie across its stiff shoulders.
I want to introduce weeds.
And today in the City Room of the NYTimes I read this, a great little story.