My buddy Isaac has known I’m into rooftop gardens for well… as long as I’ve known him. So I’m not sure why he neglected to show me the goddamn enchanted oasis on the roof of his parent’s place in the West Village. I’ve only been over there a thousand times, practically high-fiving the doorman, using the bathroom and sitting in his dad’s very comfortable lounge chair, but was never invited to see the roof garden. No big whoop Isaac. 

Finally, we made our way up there, garden-rule-compliant Solo cups in hand. Experience has taught me that roof gardens are best enjoyed with a drink. Wild Turkey 101 was maybe overkill.

The garden is funded by the residents of the building, and maintained by garden nuts like myself who live there. It was pretty obvious that they were not new to this game. Dude, look at this place.

My friend Heather tried out one of the enchanted nooks. 

I stood mesmerized by one of the many cartoon topiary bushes.

I may have also sampled some of the berries. 

They had it all up there. Even some U.S. of A. solar powered lights. 

The child-proofing could use some work, but peep the water manifold! The entire garden was set up for drip irrigation, which dutifully watered everything in sight.

I suspect they could sport some sub-irrigated planters but like I said, they know what they’re doing. See these flowers?

When you’re in such an amazing garden it’s easy to look down (literally and figuratively) on the surrounding roof decks. With prime location, the use of rooftops, or lack thereof makes judgement swift.

This roofdeck gets a D + (and only because a D+ is slightly more hurtful than an F). The only thing you’re doing with your massive, finished deck, is drying your gross bath robe? Shame on you.

This spot, however, gets an A.

Two workers at this office have sourced just enough junky chairs to really utilize this illegal space without drawing too much attention. I suspect the City of New York is somehow paying for this, but let’s focus on the positive: they got chairs out there for chilling and they’re awesome for doing it. 

My pal Jonah pointed out a clear example of the current economic disparity happening in our country. WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?! He did point out that the 99%er garden on the right had a microwave. What’s up now 1%?!

There are a million roofdecks in this town and only a few are really being used well. You’ve got a roof on your place right? Get up there!

You’ve decided to follow this dumb blog and now you’re gonna pay for it, starting with this brief tale: I grew this tomato, from seed, and ate it for breakfast this morning.

I’m no hero for doing it, just stating the facts. It’s bruised, looks like it may have lost a fight to a stray cat, but when I had Gordon Ramsay slice it and plate it up it looked pretty damn good, and it tasted pretty damn good too.

In a season of tomatoes mostly destroyed by blossom end rot and/or biblical rain, I was happy to have a single, halfway-decent, edible tomato. 

It was certainly not on the level with these monsters I found at my local pretentious food market. Though it’s hard to tell from the photo, these heirlooms were the size of two fused together man fists.

I have no idea how to grow tomatoes this amazing. I can’t remember what they were called but if I farmed these suckers, I’d name them Cat’s Ass tomatoes for two reasons. The first of which is that they’re awesome. 

Not long after my market trip, I ran across this tomato plant in a West Village parking lot catching supplementary rays from a street lamp. It was tiny, and I’m fairly sure no fruit will be coming off its branches. But like my tomato plants, it was undaunted by inevitable failure, straining to grow taller even if home was the top of a rusty gas pump in a parking lot. Maybe it will prove me wrong and surprise its owner with a single, man-fist sized beauty that will be ripe just in time for breakfast. I sure hope so, tomatoes for breakfast are good.