How To’s

I remember the exact moment the idea took root. It was a late-July afternoon, the kind where even the tomato vines look thirsty, and I was hauling my third hose-length trip from the outdoor spigot to the raised beds. As I twisted the nozzle shut, a neighbor shouted over the fence, “Funny how we pay […]

When my partner and I bought our 1950s ranch, the “patio” was a hodge-podge of cracked stepping-stones set in crabgrass. We dreamed of an outdoor dining space but balked at the cost, mess, and permanence of a concrete pour. One Saturday, after tripping over yet another wobbling stone, we declared, Enough and committed to a

The first chilly evening after my partner and I moved into our fixer-upper, we tried to roast marshmallows over a wobbly charcoal grill. Gusts of wind sent sparks flying, the grate kept tipping, and the only thing thoroughly toasted was my patience. I remember staring at the blank patch of lawn and thinking, There has

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

A few years ago, I stood in my backyard, staring at a patchy lawn, a couple of struggling rose bushes, and one very confused hydrangea. I’d spent more weekends than I’d like to admit trying to “beautify” the space, but nothing seemed to thrive. The bugs were either nonexistent or invasive, and the soil always