Manny’s totally animal-friendly garden consisted of five beds in the backyard. Manny filled each bed with compost from a pile consisting of spent coffee grounds, eggshells and every errant scrap of organic food he hadn’t consumed in over a year. He got the more vulnerable seedlings, like certain tomatoes and bell peppers, started in wet paper towels until they sprouted, after which he moved them into little plastic pots of soil. From there, they went into the beds, which were outfitted with the compost and almost ready to go. Having done most of the dirty work, there remained only one deed, perhaps the dirtiest of all.

Manny and I set about how we’d do this part of the equation with the utmost care and sanitation. We figured if we lined our toilet with triple-reinforced plastic bags and dropped our respective deuces into the toilet as usual, we’d be fine. Once the pooping was over, we’d tie the bag up and get it out of the house as quickly as possible with obvious attention to holding our breath and looking away from the shopping bag full of our own shit.

I would like to say that, in that moment, I told myself the same thing I told myself when I was on the other side of the country, amongst junkies in Brooklyn, waiting for a drug dealer to show up: “When in Rome ...” or perhaps “YOLO!” But in truth, I didn’t tell myself anything because I was too busy giggling hysterically. Self sufficiency! Fuck you cows! Or, no, I guess thank you, cows, but no thanks. We got this one.

We emptied the bags into the beds and covered them with soil like a pair of overgrown feral cats. Then we waited. The next stage was almost entirely boring, and I felt what I imagine cannibalistic serial killers must feel after they have horribly murdered and eaten their victims, which is that clean up is lame, regardless of how gruesome the act. The gross parts end up being the most exciting, and once they are over, you’re just waiting for the next thing.

We waited. Time passed. Normal food was consumed. Toilets in our home flushed with a special echo of wasted potential. The sprouts grew into whatever you call plants that are starting to produce the little infant versions of fruit and vegetables (baby fruits?), then that stuff got bigger.

Finally, it was time to harvest. Manny wanted to invite friends over to celebrate the occasion, but I thought this was not something that was meant to be shared amongst those we knew, who thus far had held us in high esteem. “Let’s keep this to ourselves,” I said. “We did the work, we took the shits, let’s just us eat the food.” He reluctantly agreed. We decided to keep the meal simple so as to accentuate the flavors and subtlety of this supremely natural, organic grub.

We had two different kinds of salad: one with kale and pine nuts, one with cucumbers, tomatoes and a few different kinds of squash. There was a sort of medley of root vegetables, like carrots and turnips, but we were pickling most of that stuff as a sort of experiment along with some peppers.

The actual food we made was decent — not particularly amazing, but not bad at all. In the end, I only really learned that true self-sufficiency doesn’t matter all that much to me. Like most things, I end up not being able to stick with it when there’s much easier, though less efficient, ways to live. I’m like anyone: apathetic and wasteful, jaded and lazy. And for all the ideas I’ve had, I’ve flushed a whole lot more shit than I’ve planted.