why the heck do we call ourselves a "farmily"

Family: an exclusive group of people who share a close relationship


Okay, so there is:
myself 
and there is Chris
then there is closet kitty (Cinder)
alpha kitty (Ganoushie)
adopted kitty (Claudia)
a little energetic Papillion named Malomar
and 2 fish (Oscar de la Redfish, and The Law Offices of d'Oliveria and Morgan) 

That's the family...and don't try to argue with me based on some crappy Wikipedia definition that I copy and pasted into this blog.  Animals COUNT!

Farm: a tract of land cultivated for the purpose of agricultural production


Okay, so we already see a flaw here.  I don't have even a tract of land, let along one that is solely devoted to agricultural production.  


I do have a deck on the 3rd floor of a South Providence building, off of the apartment that we rent.   Last summer I had a pretty successful run with 2 small raised beds on the West End, but our new place has no sunny spots for such luxury: our landlord has beautifully landscaped the whole place.   This is my first year trying my hand at container gardening: for the purpose of growing food. 


It is not going well. 


Currently, the tomatoes are rotting on the bottoms, the heirloom lettuces I grew from seed taste bitter and are getting wilted and hating life in response to the recent heat wave that has run through New England.  But man is the morning glory kicking butt.  Too bad I can't eat it...can I? 


Ganoushie ate the peas.  Good riddance, they were a shade of white I can only describe as albino.  


Chris has begun to get so serious about the garden, that when things go astray he stands out on the deck and says "oh my god, oh my god" until I run out there and ask him...and I see that that a leaf or two is wilted.  


He is off watering duty.  I just can't take it.  The garden, I tell him, is supposed to be FUN, supposed to be the one thing that is not stressful.  I wonder if I have set up this "fun" block so that when the tomatoes all get tomato rot, and the peas are sun burnt to a crisp, that I don't weep into my unemployment check that I have failed.  It is SO much easier to just call it recreation than to admit that I need these god damn things to grow.