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One cozy evening several months ago, I heard incredulous muttering coming from my husband’s study.
“You’re kidding me,” Evan said to himself. “Typical Victoria.”
I was about 25 summers into Elin Hilderbrand’s 28 Summers, and so was slow to empathize—until I heard my favorite cousin-in-law’s name.
“What’s up?” I called out from the couch. I love Vicky. She’s beautiful, has great taste in all aspects of life, and works as a sought-after trial attorney. She’ll soon marry a handsome ER doctor named Jay—a perfect match I brilliantly orchestrated at our wedding by seating them at the same table.
“Cate! Come look at this!” Evan said.
“Text it to me?” I suggested hopefully.
When a judgmental silence greeted my reply, I reluctantly set aside my blanket and ambled over, book still in hand.
“Look at this,” Evan tilted his laptop toward me. “Who puts a one-thousand-dollar item on their wedding registry? The audacity.”
I couldn’t help letting an appreciative Oooh escape my lips. His screen displayed what looked like an elegant designer piece, except it had three levels of lush vegetables, like a private oasis.
“I love it!” I declared. “What is it?”
“A hydroponic garden,” Evan replied dismissively. “It claims it grows forty pounds of vegetables a month. Yeah, right!”
“I think it looks nice,” I said, scrolling through the photos. “Looks really healthy, too… Hey, we should go to the farmers market tomorrow.”
As summer arrived, a seed began to germinate in my mind.
It’s like learning a new word and suddenly seeing it everywhere (pareidolia, anyone?). I went from never hearing the term hydroponic to noticing influencers raving about their indoor gardens. Then, as if it’s preordained, our neighbors happened to reveal themselves as secret, part-time homesteaders with two green thumbs.
“Are we missing out?”
I asked Evan one July evening, savoring the best arugula I’ve ever tasted, courtesy of the lovely Rutgers two doors down. They’d almost sounded apologetic when they explained how their indoor gardens had been a bit too productive this month as they handed us a pound of leafy excellence.
Evan, already finished with his plate, aimed his fork at mine. I graciously surrendered a single leaf and offered a bonus pointed look. He savored the former and ignored the latter.
“Where did they buy their garden from again?” I asked.
“Rise Gardens. It’s based in Chicago,” Evan replied quickly. “Can you believe they have two of them in their dining room now? What crazy kooks. We should just buy their extras. How much is produce these days? Four bucks a pound? If these things really grow forty pounds…”
His voice trailed off as he seemed busy working out some calculus in his head.
I didn’t bring up Rise again for weeks. A thousand dollars is no small purchase. I was also leaving soon for a multi-week executive training program in Boston for a new position, and I didn’t want to make Evan figure out a whole new system by himself.
Meanwhile, the Rutgers refused to even entertain the idea of taking any payment for their produce, and instead intensified their gifting. They left at our door half a pound of sweet basil here and a pound of heirloom tomatoes there, and always did so unannounced and at an almost aggressively early hour.
By the time I had to depart for my long work trip, my dear husband had been fully classically conditioned into checking the front door first thing in the morning for visits from the neighborhood plant Santa. At the airport, missing him (Evan, not Santa) already, I signed up for Rise’s newsletter. With Evan’s annual golf weekend coming up, I planned to surprise him with a thoughtful gift upon his return.
Except he beat me to it. Dang it!
“For me?” I asked, surprised and thrilled to come home weeks later to a Rise Garden flourishing in our living room. The first level was already full of happy looking plants.
“Congrats on the new job, Cate,” Evan said, giving me a quick kiss. “It’s for you, for us—a celebration for your completing training. I missed you.”
I hugged him, feeling emotional, but then he moved onto congratulating himself.
“I bet you didn’t know you married a green thumb,” he said, gesturing proudly at the plant nursery. Four sprouting seed pods sat inside, labeled Red Romaine Lettuce, Kohlrabi Purple Microgreens, Scarlet Kale, and Red Pac Choi.
“I’m basically a plant scientist now,” he said. “I know exactly how long it takes for each of these to sprout, when to transfer them from the nursery to the garden, how much and what nutrients to add. It’s all in their app! I’m learning so much!”
Before I could inquire from which accredited institution of higher learning he received his newly minted Ph.D., he plucked a leaf of Mizuna Mustard and fed it to me.
“Bursting with flavor, isn’t it?” He tried one himself and nodded approvingly. “Spicy and sweet. It’s way more nutritious, too. I think the app said–”
Just a week later, Vicky and Jay arrived for a visit.
At the door, Vicky and I hugged while Jay handed Evan a gift-wrapped box.
“Cate, I’m starving,” Vicky whispered as I led her inside. “But I forbade Jay from buying us food at the airport, because Evan had promised quite a feast—”
She stopped mid-sentence when she spotted our Rise Garden and began laughing.
Jay smiled at us sheepishly.
“Oh, well, we got you a second one,” he referred to the box Evan was holding. “Well, not the family-sized garden, obviously. It’s their countertop version. Vicky told me that Cate liked all of her social media posts about ours, so she thought we ought to ease you into our little cult.”
Vicky grinned. “Who knew you’re both converts already!”
…and that’s how we joined our kooky neighbors to become the owners of not one, but two indoor hydroponic gardens, one big and one small, from both of which we grow fresh, tasty, and nutritious produce year-round.
And tonight, Evan is especially giddy about his scheme to wake up at an ungodly hour tomorrow to leave our very first Mini Snackable Strawberries harvest at the Rutgers’ door.
He only let me eat three from our bounty. I’m starting to think he’d lied about this gift being just for me or us, after all.
Learn more at risegardens.com.
