Sean Baker

I grew up in a desert suburb where the only tree on our block was a spindly ash kept alive by a battleship-gray drip emitter. When my partner and I bought our own place years later, I swore our yard would host a forest—however tiny its footprint. The first sapling I planted was a five-gallon

The first summer after we bought our fixer-upper, the patio was little more than a cracked slab and a picnic table we’d inherited from the previous owners. By noon, the concrete radiated so much heat that our dog refused to step outside, and every family meal became a frantic race against the sun. That’s when

I used to think “decorating” meant draping a few string lights and hoping for the best. Then, one humid July evening, my guests milled around my sparsely lit patio, shuffling between a blinding floodlight and a mosquito-ridden dark corner while the lone speaker blared in one direction like a megaphone. After that cringe-worthy night I

I still remember the first backyard picnic BBQ I tried to host on my own. I’d just bought my starter home—barely enough grass to justify a mower—and I was determined to inaugurate it with burgers, friends, and a thrift-store picnic table I’d power-washed the night before. The food was tasty enough, but I underestimated the

I used to think composting was only for people with sprawling country gardens and time to spare. When my partner and I moved into our 600-square-foot bungalow in the city—complete with a postage-stamp backyard and a single sunny balcony—we were hauling a full trash bag of food scraps to the curb every week. The guilt

When my partner and I bought our first home, the backyard was a blank slate—just a patch of overgrown grass and a rickety old fence. We were dreaming of garden beds, cozy seating areas, and winding paths. But like most new homeowners, our budget was tight. We had to get creative. Over the next few