The Clueless Urban Farm Chick

Last Christmas, I decided 2009 is my year to plant a rooftop garden. Maybe it was reading the Blue Zones book, which told that me that planting any garden is one of the healthiest things a homo sapien can do to grow old gracefully. Maybe Mayor Daley (aka Mayor Flowerpot) and his Green Mafia finally got to me. But more than likely it was the crap tomatoes at the grocery store. That, and the fact that I have a 900 square foot rooftop deck that I share with only my husband and a Chihuahua. I'm a lucky girl, and there's definitely room up there for a few veggies to take root.

I definitely want herbs. I definitely want tomatoes. I know there's going to be some big containers with some nice, happy dirt. Aside from that, I'm clueless. Ironically, my family has owned a company that has sold horticultural products to garden centers for over 20 years, so...it seems like some knowledge by osmosis should kick in. But there's something that feels so different about an urban rooftop environment at the 41st North latitude. It's not a greenhouse in the Rocky Mountains.

What I have learned from the past two summers on the roof is that it's exposed to blazing hot sun and some occasionally fierce wind over the relatively short Chicago growing season. I need hearty stuff that can take full sun.

All forms of advice are welcome. So far, I'm starting to study up with the Mayor's green roof guide. I can just picture him sleeping with a copy of it under his pillow, dreams of radishes dancing in his sweaty head.