The New Yorker Radio Hour - Jill Lepore on the Joy of Gardening

Episode Date: May 23, 2023

It’s the time of year when many people feel an overpowering urge to dig—to plant their back yard or vegetable garden, or even the flowerpots on the fire escape. “I just love the whole process. I love the muck of it,” Jill Lepore tells David Remnick. “You’re kind of entrapped in a completely different rhythm, and it’s all so entirely out of your control. … It’s a never-ending process of education.” Lepore, a professor of history as well as a staff writer, wrote recently on her passion for seed catalogues, and shares a couple of things she’s excited about growing this year. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. Now, I'm reliably told it's that time of year when people feel that overpowering urge to dig, to get their hands in the dirt, whether it's in the backyard or the vegetable garden or in the flower pots that are legally teetering on the fire escape. They place their seeds or delicate little seedlings in the wildings. the soil, dreaming of the bounty to come. I have a confession to make. I'm not one of those people. I'm happy to buy vegetables in the supermarket, and maybe I'll keep some florists in business for all of us. But someone who goes in for all that dirty work is my colleague, Jill Lepore.

I'm a pretty terrible gardener. I love to plant things, but I'm terrible at actually growing anything. But I just love the whole process. I love the just muckold. of it. Jillipore is a staff writer as well as a professor of history at Harvard University. Jill, as you know, this is my area of least expertise imaginable. I think I once, do you grow a potato in a glass of water when you're a kid? Is that what you do? You stick a potato.

Yeah, or you put like electrodes on it and try to get potato electricity for the science fair. I might have done that. Yeah. Yeah, that seems more of your alley. Yeah. Well, I want to know what it does. for you. In other words, you have kids, you have dogs,

you write lots of books, you write for the New Yorker, you teach at Harvard. Where do you, A, where do you fit it in and why do you fit it in? What's it do for your soul? Oh, it it's therapy

for anxiety? Is that too embarrassing to admit? Not at all. I get, I really lose equilibrium if I'm not actively doing something. That's probably why I write so much. I become a pain in the neck to have around if I'm not engaged in something that's really stimulating, but also to the point of exhaustion. And gardening, gardening actually is that, but without the kind of manic stimulation, right? It's quite exhausting. Like, you have to really

think about it a lot. Like, I like, like, lying in bed at night. What are you going to think about when you're trying to get to sleep? Well, you can be thinking about how much you organize this essay, what would be a good lead, or what would be something to think about, what should you read next? But it's a little bit more pleasant when spring comes and you can think about, well, in that quadrant last year, I did the butternut squash, but it didn't do very well. I think if I put the tomatoes there and I really, really compost it, I think I might have more success. Like, that's just, oh, that part of your brain can kind of calm down. So it eases the motor a little bit. It brings down the RPMs. Yeah, I suspect that's a not uncommon reason that people like to garden. You're kind of trapped in a completely different rhythm. And it's also entirely out of your control. Well, I mean, maybe it is in your control. You actually are a good gardener. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I just keep trying things and it's interesting to see what works and what doesn't work and to feel like it's a never-ending process of education. It's like being in a library.

And you have read none of the books. Like, you will always be finding something out. It's always interesting. But you are reading the books. You recently wrote a piece for The New Yorker on your addiction to seed catalogs. For those who aren't familiar, what are seed catalogs and why do you love them so?

So they come in the winter. They usually start coming in December or January. This beautiful, colorful, often glossy, but sometimes kind of old-timey, newspaper-printy, black-and-white drawing. and they're from nurseries around the country, seed savers, seed preservers, seed developers, and you can place your order for seeds for spring. They're a little bit like, do you remember when Elaine worked for Jay Peterman on Seinfeld?

I do. Yeah, so the copy is a lot like Jay Peterman. Remember the guy who played Jay Peterman and he had that baritone voice? In a distance, I heard the Bulls. But I began running. fast as I could. Fortunately, I was wearing my Italian capto-Oxfix. Sophisticated yet different, we're not making a huge fuss about it.

Rich, dark brown, calf-skin leather. Vents hole in half sizes, seven through 13, price. So whenever I read the seed catalog copy, you're telling you about some plan. I always kind of hear it in that guy's voice. Because they're just, they're hilarious. Like, as if, you know, a rudibig is going to change your life. Well, a lot of these catalogs are selling what are called heirloom seeds or heirloom plants. I know that word when it's attached to the word tomato, but what does heirloom mean?

No, it just means a good tomato that you have to pay a lot of money for. And it's kind of gnarly looking. Yeah. Right. The heirloom seed movement really is, you don't really hear that phrase until the 1960s with kind of a back-to-the-land movement. when, you know, many people are no longer farming, but there's a kind of hippie kind of whole earth catalog passion. And a lot of those people are like, I want to grow the seeds that my great-grandfather grew, my great-grandmother told me about, and they go into attics and basements, and they find old seed stock.

And some of those people start seed banks, because what happens over the course of the 20th century is that basically big agribusiness consolidates the seed stock. the biodiversity is really lost. And so when people want to grow or buy or sell heirloom vegetables or other kinds of heirloom plants, it's a way of trying to contribute toward restoring biodiversity, but it's also a kind of screw you to, you know, big farm. Well, I'm sure big farm is falling over backwards in a faint because of our discussion. Rumor has it. Rumor has it, Jill, that you have a particular heirloom going in your garden, a kind of beet. What is it?

Yeah. So, well, I have it planted. It hasn't sprouted yet. So we'll see if I have this growing in my garden. So I did get these seeds from this place called Baker Creek, which is an heirloom seed company in Missouri. And they're called Keogia. It's an Italian airbag. of Garden Beat. They're first identified in print in, I think, the 1840s. But can I read you a little bit from the seed catalog description of this variety? Absolutely. Okay, but you got to, like, imagine that Jay Peterman guy or, I don't know, Phil Hartman or Vin Scully. Vin Scully. Vin Scully. This Vin Scully. Keogh Beatt is the most whimsical veggie in the patch. Slice the roots to reveal concentric rings of pink and white, and this fun variety adds pop to salads and pizzazz to pickles.

Chieogo beet was originated in the historic fishing town in Italy just across the lagoon from Venice, dubbed Little Venice for its canals and ancient charms. Local Venetians know that this is the town to visit for authentic family style. It just goes on. Pazazazazzoz. Pazzoz. Adding pizzazz to pickles. Well, what else are you growing in your garden?

Flowers, trees, vegetables, I'm curious. Okay, so I have a lot. of fruit trees. I have a blue paramein apple tree, which I got from Scott Farm in Dumbergton, Vermont. The blue parameen is famous because of Henry David Thoreau. That's the only reason I have this parameen apple, although my husband really loves these apples. They are actually really good. Thoreau wrote an essay in 1862 published in the Atlantic called Wild Apples. Well, it was in the Atlantic. It couldn't have been any good. If he had published in the New Yorker. Couldn't have been any good. You have to wait a few years.

But 1860, dude, here's the thing. It's the middle of a civil war. And the guy writes an essay about wild apples. I just love that. Like, life does go on. And so he talks about the apple is, this line where he says, surely the apple is the noblest of fruits. There's something about the kind of modesty. It's not a fancy fruit.

And apple trees grow wild all over New England. So he's feeding himself, right? He's trying to live on no money. He's sort of recollecting his Walden years, but just in general. He's trying to live on no money. So there's a blue paramein that he goes to visit on the edge of a swamp, and he says that the apples are crisp and lively. Jill Lippoor, thank you so much. And good luck with everything in your garden this season.

Yeah, thanks. I'll send you some beats. By the way, I've had those beats. You know, in a salad, they're delish. Okay, good. Good. I'm excited. The New Yorker's Jill Lepore.

Jill is the author of These Truths, A History of the United States. United States, and she'll be back on the program in a few weeks to unveil a big history project in time for the 4th of July. I'm David Remnick. Thanks so much for joining us today. Enjoy your time in the garden and see you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbess of Tune Arts with additional music by Louis Mitchell. This episode was produced by Max Walton, Breda Green, Adam Howard, Kalalia, Avery Keatley, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, and Gauphin and Putabwele, with guidance from Emily Boutin and assistance from Harrison Keithline, Michael May, David Gable, and Alejandra Decker. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.