Well! I was adopted when I was 8 months old. Chicago to Florida, raised in the sun. I grew up briefly knowing my biological Grandpa, Don. A sun kissed Italian man who facilitated getting me from his daughter to my amazing mother. Don was absent from the majority of my life, and having this one little piece of my puzzle always nagged at me. It called me to Italy and filled my head with questions and wonder about where I came from. It filled my belly with familiar flavors and a strong distaste for American living. 

Around that same time, I was living in California, taking photos and growing fruits and veggies in pots. Just a few things in the small corners of outdoor space I could afford. It thrilled me! Tending to my little babies, loving them and them in return nourishing me. Each move meant more space, more pots, more babies. Now here I am in Texas, where my love of growing has started to eclipse the other passions in my life.  Down a rabbit hole I went and found myself on a farm, calling myself a farmer. “I’m still a photographer, too,” I always reassure people (myself most of all).

This is my first season growing to feed others. My very first season! When figuring out what to root in these brutal Texas summers, I thought of nothing but warm-blooded mediterranean staples. Imagining myself having a bowl of pomodoro in Florence, feeling that faint tug to someone somewhere that came before me, raised in the sun.

So Tomato Peddler was born. 

This is my way of connecting to the parts of me I’m still learning. It’s a petition for more brown girls with their hands in the dirt, growing the medicine that will heal our communities.

I really hope you like it.