Today’s special guest post was written by Mrs. Grubbycup: happy Valentine’s day to all!

I once made the faux pas of referring to the area of land adjacent to the back of our house as the backyard. A British horticulturalist acquaintance of Mr. Grubbycup looked down his nose at me and, with a tone dripping of vitriol, informed me that I don’t have a backyard, I have a garden. Hmm, I mused, he knows my husband better than I thought. He was right. We haven’t had a backyard in years.

Most Californians have closely clipped grass, a smattering of flowering plants, wooden decks, gaily painted concrete, maybe a tree, and often a swimming pool. We do have wooden decks, but they are covered in potted plants. We used to have two 5′ deep splash pools, but they were converted to fish ponds. We have three citrus trees (our property used to be part of a grove), two large walnut trees, and two massive slippery elms. The grass slowly disappeared as hedges, exotic plants, seasonal flowers, various bushes and hydroponic barrels of water-plants took over. My husband sees an open space or a patch of dirt as an opportunity to do something “interesting.” Even the spare room, which I foolishly thought would make a nice den, is subject to his creativity.

The den contains no fancy, tuck-and-roll leather chair or antique oak desk. Mr. Grubbycup’s chair is a  backless swivel stool and the tables are made from old doors held up by black, metal filing cabinets. I know there was once beige carpeting and an earth-tone, Indian-print area rug on the floor, but if they are still there, they are hidden beneath stacks of books, blue plastic tarps and various gadgetry. The armoire no longer contains antique hats and clothing but now houses large Italian, blown-glass jugs of aging honey wine, seasoned with cuttings from the garden. Except for a small space reserved for a Felix the Cat clock and a Galileo thermometer, the walls are covered in shelves and the shelves are stacked with test tubes, index files, reference books, journals, measuring equipment (many absconded from my kitchen), various sizes of beakers, and a variety of uniquely-blended, aromatic soils and fertilizers. The closet is a cornucopia of tubing, bubbling cauldrons of temperature-controlled water, perfect lighting, electronics, timers, fans, vents and lush greenery.

Mr. Grubbycup’s current endeavors include cloning catnip. He tried growing it in our back-… uh, I mean … garden, but the neighborhood cats were too helpful and the great outdoors doesn’t provide for the climate control he required for his research. He soon moved his nepeta experiment to the great indoors. His small clowder of rescue cats were thrilled. They soon became as responsive to the sound of the closet door sliding open as they were to the sound of the electric can opener. They dash through the house, sliding on tile, regaining traction on carpeting and bouncing off walls to get to him. My person is but an obstacle to their destination. They know he’s checking “their” garden and they may get a sample. He sits on the floor, in front of the closet, gazing intently into the depths like Golum searching for a fish, and carefully nips a few leaves to test their reactions to each group. They could care less that he keeps a journal. Like greedy little beggars, they only care about the handout.

His cats aren’t the only test subjects. No one gets out of our house without trying the stevia. Like a mad scientist, he meets friends at the door, pops a few leaves in their mouths and asks, “Wouldn’t that make a nice tea?” He presses leaves between his fingers, puts them under my nose and asks, “What does that remind you of?” He carefully washes heirloom tomatoes, slices them with the precision of a heart surgeon, serves them to guests and hovers with anticipation waiting for a reaction.

Some men take pictures of well equipped blondes with dark roots. My husband takes pictures of hydroponic equipment and measures roots.

Most husbands run away like their hair’s on fire if their wives ask them to go to a garden show. My husband’s on the mailing list.

Most wives ask their husbands, “What are you thinking?” and huff when their husbands say, “Huh?” I have learned, if I ask my urban gardener that question, I’ll get an answer. One-sided conversations about cloning techniques, venting ideas, new water timers, plastic verses glass, and jargon that may well be Greek and most certainly contains Latin, fills an otherwise comfortably quiet evening at home.

Thus is the life of living with an urban gardener.

But this is in no way a complaint. There’s something endearing about a man who can lose himself so completely in seed and soil. And, of course, I get to reap what Mr. Grubbycup sows.