I often tease my husband, telling him that he's skipped over "conservation" and gone right to homesteading.
One of the first things he did when we moved in to our current home is rig up a massive composting station out back, at the edge of the woods. A year later, he built raised beds and planted a garden (and I learned how to can and make jam and pickles).
A couple of years ago, we set out fruit trees and expanded our garden -- or, rather, he did, given that I kill plants just by looking at them. We both plan out which vegetables to buy, but he plants and tends them and I pick, cook, and can. He runs his Suburban on a combination of diesel and waste vegetable oil (no, it doesn't smell like french fries) and fantasizes about having a wind turbine on our property. (Not going to happen, though. Two reasons: We don't get that much wind, and we don't particularly want to piss off our lovely neighbors.) And, this year, he's rebuilding the old chicken coop out back, with an eye toward raising up his own flock of dinner. I've assured our lovely neighbors that we won't have roosters (they crow all day, not just in the morning, you know), and I've vowed to name each chick after a different recipe. ("Heeeeeeere, Homemade Stock! Bok bok, Sweet-Potato Curry! Where'd you hide your eggs this time, General Tso?") While I kill plants effortlessly, I'm not sure I could kill a chicken, but I'm positive I could cook it up just fine.
And that pretty much sums up the disparity in our crunchy granola green-ness as well. He'll bike 40 or so miles to work to save on gas; I'll roll down the windows and turn off the AC. He spent years as a vegetarian; I'll buy organic milk but let the kids stir Strawberry Quik into it as a treat. "You're not crunchy, so much as you're just a little crispy, aren't you?" he asked, laughing as I wrecked the wholesome nature of the homemade, corn-syrup-free lemonade by stirring Red No. 40-laden grenadine syrup into it (to make it pink! It tastes better when it's pink!)
He knows me so well.
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