Logging Off

The summer settles in, then wanes. It’s stone fruit season. On Sundays you stop by the farmer’s market, say hello to the mushroom vendor, and fill your tote bag with nectarines and pluots. You eat them in unceremoniously large quantities: in salads with foraged greens, baked into tarts, and on their own. Sometimes you bite into a pluot right after washing it, standing by the sink and letting the juice trace a line down your arm.

It’s also fig season, and on your walk home in the evenings you pass by a palatial front garden with a number of fig trees. The figs slip from green to purple, and one evening, when you are alone on the street, you reach up and tug one off a branch. You slip the fig into your pocket and make your way home.

From: chaparral

To: seed_historian

Finally worked up the courage to pick a fig from my neighbors today. There are so many falling over the fence— that’s OK, right??

You get a response almost immediately.

From: seed_historian

To: chaparral

I’m pretty sure fruit that hangs over a sidewalk is public property (and should the best parts of nature be behind a fence anyway?) Take the figs!

Your tentative, incipient friendship has become an actual one. You message each other every day or two, and the broader context of your lives begins to fill in.

You’re starting to resent work, and you’ve started posting more as a result. seed_historian has never mentioned a job, but sometimes there are references to a supervisor, grant applications, and conferences. They’re less forthcoming than you about their personal life. But you learn quite a bit about their foraging routines, their political concerns, their environmental angst. Isn’t it wild how close we are to environmental collapse? they write. Will we have anything to forage in 2050? But the next day you’ll receive a message brimming with new nature photos and new facts, their cynicism briefly suspended.

When you mention the quiz you took — What were the primary subsistence techniques of the people that lived in your area before you? — they respond in detail..

From: seed_historian

To: chaparral

Some of the foraging books I’ve read discuss this a bit. Prior to colonization and European settlement, the Ohlone lived off of mussels, clams, various roots and berries, acorns…

They cared for the land in such a different way, probably a lot more sustainably than what we’re doing now. I can send you some readings if you’re interested!

She sends you a PDF of a 182-page book, which you make an effort to read. It describes an environment of incredible abundance, but in a somber, elegiac tone. Some birds and animals, the book reports, are now totally exterminated, while others survived by greatly increasing the distance between themselves and people. Today we are the heirs of that distance, and we take it entirely for granted.

You are trying to close this distance — imperfectly, sometimes indulgently. You find yourself sinking deeper into the hobby: linen bags to store pickings in, glossy-handled secateurs from Japan (they’ve become something of a cult object on the forum). The same walking boots that seed_historian has.

You begin to think your friendship with seed_historian might be purely online, which feels fine: a separation of spheres, where your online life feels distinct and separable from your offline one. You’re surprised when they message you one day and ask:

From: seed_historian

To: chaparral

Hey, you bake, right? I found a recipe book in the library for making traditional acorn bread. I’m thinking of foraging for acorns and trying it out. It might be a fun project if you’re interested?

You wait a minute or two (a small, demure delay) and then respond:

From: chaparral

To: seed_historian

Definitely interested. When are you going?

This is exciting. You settle into the evening with a small plate of neighborhood figs, feeling content. Alice texts you: Can I drag you out tonight?? You wait a few minutes to respond, Not this evening, sorry! But have fun!

It’s urgent that you read up on acorns tonight.

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