Picture me at 3am alone in my garden clutching a flashlight between my teeth. I hadn’t slept in 24 hours and three fire trucks had just left our property. So had a cop car. I had just returned home from a wonderful trip to a surreal emergency that led me, ultimately, to the garden. What I found there was so alarming that I had to resort to extreme measures that required immediate action. Friends, welcome to a feminine-coded hobby so absorbing and stressful that only sexism could make us think of it as relaxing, even boring. Welcome to my garden—and a feminist analysis of gardening and other so-called grandma hobbies.
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