Roddy and I are trying something new this season.

Last autumn WWOOFing was on high on our list (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms). We dreamt of heading to the land of milk and honey – strolling through orchards in the dry California heat is intensely appealing during the damp West coast winter. We’ve also considered volunteering on organic farms north of the border. But for now, we’ve settled on a simpler option: I call it LOUFing, Local Opportunities on Urban Farms.

Jenny and Philip at Backyard Farm two doors down are our friendly hosts. We helped clean their 8X10 foot greenhouse and had a lesson in fruit tree pruning today. They must be impressed with our work ethic. We warmed up by their fire with tea and biscuits, followed by beers, a curry and wine. And we didn’t leave empty handed either – Jenny insisted we take a dozen eggs and a celeriac home, plus a couple of reference books on permaculture and pruning.

Don’t tell our hosts, but this LOUFing gig is a good deal!

Paper Valentines? So 20th century.

Greener options exist for your red-letter day. Send one of our three environmentally erogenous efforts!

Squeeze the object of your affection and hug the trees you’ll save by adding a splash of green to the traditional Valentines Day red.

http://www.davidsuzuki.org/Valentine/

Names. They’ve always played a prominent role in my life. I hate my name, which is no secret to those who know me well. From a young age I took to naming everything in sight. When I ran out of stuffed toys, I named my teeth.

This penchant for nomenclature is still alive in me. And seed catalogues have exposed a dreamland. Now I’m swimming in an endless supply of wonderfully descriptive names. I couldn’t resist creating my own categories for these varieties:

BIZARRE, for the fun gardener: Superschmeltz, Ping Pong, Conquistador, Walla Walla, Starship, Eight Ball, Graffiti, Super Fantastic, Snack Face, Gladiator, Michelle

FAIRYTALE, for the whimsical gardener: Dragon Tongue, Pixie, Redwing, Jack Be Little, Fairy, Esmerelda, Golden Jubilee, Jolly Elf, Goblin Eggs

and, in the spirit of Valentines Day,

ROMANTIC, for the deep, quixotic gardener: Brocade, Sultan, Dusky, Red Jewel, Tenderheart, Merlot, Rouge D’Hiver, Sugar Lace, Chocolate Beauty

SMUTTY, for the dirty gardener: Big Moon, Sweet Meat, Red Beacon, Sasha’s Pride, Big Beef, Small Wonder, Moneymaker, Purple Softneck, Super Italian Paste

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to get a snack face.

We’ve been busy little garden elves this weekend. After lots of muscle - mostly Roddy’s - our plot is clear of the heavy grass carpet, weeds, hideous monster plants, and young kitchen compost. We transplanted perennials too, which will hopefully reveal themselves in warmer weather.

Our plot is 2 metres deep and 20 metres long. We used a long piece of wood as a marker of distance from the fence to the outer edges, and twine and branches to mark the border. Very low tech.

It hasn’t taken long for me to feel peaceful and quite content working away with a shovel. On my own, I catch myself smiling constantly. With Roddy, laughter erupts. I don’t notice the passage of time and when I finish up, other tasks I’ve put off for months are suddenly attractive. A few hours in the garden seems to buy me more time in other pursuits! Roddy has also observed that when he’s working in the yard, he could be anywhere. Geography becomes obsolete.

And I especially love trundling out to the garden in my pajamas and Roddy’s shoes to bring him still-warm-from-the-oven-tea biscuits. Yummy morsels that were made while chatting with my Grandma and listening to 1930’s jazz - in my pajamas, of course.

Already I can’t imagine life without gardening.

Last weekend was all about Tim. The celebration kicked off on the eve of his birthday and continued from breakfast ‘til dinner the next day. It was birthday excess in it’s finest form. Kind of like the birthdays you dream of having as a kid: more, more, more!

When I was a kid Tim walked on water. More than a cousin, he was my stand-in big brother. I still look up to him, but not because he can pop wheelies, burp the alphabet, or snort spaghetti up his nose and make it come out his mouth.

Now I’m just glad we’re living in the same city again after 19 years. He gets to harass me about the old days and I can give him a kick in the ass to stop waffling. We offer insight on the secret ways of men and women. We share breakfast once a week in our hood. I donate my homemade soup and tea biscuits. He gifts me with his homemade jam.

A few months ago, I witnessed part of this recipe unfold in Tim’s kitchen. He and a friend dressed up in black and raided plum trees at night in Fernwood. I hope he’s still here this summer to pass on his secrets (of plum-thievery and jam-making). His illicit jam goes down too easily!

Meet Carlo Petrini - passionate founder of the Slow Food movement. Doesn’t he have great hands? I think they’re still field-dirty. And that relaxed pose! It looks like all that beautiful food came running to him, like little children following Jesus! I want to hang out with this chilled old guy. After reading this article in today’s Guardian, I’ve got yet another reason to dream of a pilgrimage to Italy.

I LOVE Italy. The food, the weathered architecture, the pace, the passione! I love films set in the country, and I’ve even endured the slightly annoying Jamie Oliver in his Italian escapades - just to see him loose a pasta making contest. I traveled back vicariously with Barbara Kingslover in her new book. There is so much more to this complex place than I could take in during one fleeting visit - like the tradition of city folk escaping to host farms to work the fields and experience the good earth. Hmm - B,B&F?

The biennial Slow Food Movement party, Salone del Gusto is on right now. That leaves me two years to stash funds in a Mason jar and brush up on my conversational Italian. There are big plans on the horizon that will likely divert those pennies, but a woman can dream!

Photo credit: Barry Lewis/© Barry Lewis/Corbis - The Guardian

Lately I’m drawn to all things feminine. The list is long and delicious: incense and essential oils, bracelets and arm-warmers, lace, candle-lit baths, flower blossom tea, Rembrandt’s nudes, and black and white Paris. I could go on and on.

A purely feminine escape was what I was after last weekend. Bubby Rose’s pain au chocolate in one hand and Friday Americano in the other, I would ease into my long weekend with a leisurely stroll through public gardens, followed by an entirely indulgent afternoon of reading. But there was digging and exploring to be done, a Film Festival, and boisterous birthday celebrations.

It’s taken me three days, but I made it. I’m all tucked in. My feet are toasty on a hot water bottle. I have a cup of Asha’s ‘wise woman tea’ in my favourite mug, with my favourite teaspoon. And I have fabulous company: my scrumptious new Nigella Lawson cookbook and a weathered copy of one of the greatest love stories of all time.

Aside: Roddy is next to me in the bed. He just interrupted my frilly bliss with a report that his new digital Casio wristwatch will now automatically reset from UK to North Ameeeeeeerican time. He tells me: “you don’t understand how cool it is to have a watch that’s set to EXACTLY the right time. You probably wish you had a watch just like mine.”

Yes. Time to loose myself in Tolstoy.