Just Look at That Stupid Hat!

The New York Times ran an alarming article last week on hipsters moving out of Brooklyn to small farms, and I've been stewing about it ever since. Apparently, the rising popularity of greenmarkets, locavore-ism, and eating organic has made operating small-scale farming enterprises not only possible, but profitable, for the first time in a long while. So now hipsters, once doomed to a life of urban desperation, are donning overalls and heading for the boonies (well, if, according to your definition, the boonies are accessible via the LIRR) to make an honest living scratching around in the dirt.

Like many transplants to New York City, I loudly praise the virtues of urban living while secretly longing for a return to the Little House on the Prairie lifestyle that I admired throughout my formative years. These subjugated desires are alleviated by visits to the Union Square farmer's market and hours poring over my Simply in Season cookbook (two activities that my Man Friend cannot understand or relate to), but deep down in my heart, I know that growing herbs in pots in my sunless kitchen just doesn't cut the mustard. There are days when I feel like I've missed my true calling in life and I should be driving a tractor somewhere. And then there are the days when I feel like what I MUST do is try my hand at home cheesemaking (when I suggested this to the Man Friend, he looked at me as though I'd suggested whipping up a batch of napalm in the kitchen. On second thought, he'd probably be all for the napalm).

So I'm a little nervous about these developments. How am I supposed to romantically idealize a rural, Thoreau-esque lifestyle if the wilderness is filling up with ironic-hair-metal-trivia-night-attending jerks?? OK, I'm not going to panic about this, but all I have to say is that if I even catch the tiniest whiff of a rumor that the East Village crowd is moving in on the goat farm scene, I can't be held responsible for my actions.