This must be the last frontier, the final conquest in a Washington where lawyers quit their jobs to churn ice cream and patrons of a Georgetown cafe pay $15 an hour to chill with cats.
Now, the District is one of those cities where wide-eyed young people look at empty lots next to AutoZones and think: This would be the perfect place for a farm.
Not a community garden. Not some group-house bonding exercise.
If you’ve ever tried to nurture tomatoes or even a few measly leaves of basil in the back yard of your Logan Circle rowhouse, you know something about the futility of this endeavor. After all, the District isn’t exactly known for its terroir.