Putting Out Fires with Almond Milk

Fire crews battle the Kenneth Fire in the West Hills section of Los Angeles, Thursday, Jan. 9, 2025. (AP Photo/Ethan Swope)

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Almonds drink like addicts, even when they’re on fire.

Every year, California allocates approximately 80% of its water to agriculture, and almonds are some of the thirstiest crops. It takes a staggering 1.1 gallons of water to grow a single almond. Pistachios aren’t far behind, gulping nearly 3.6 gallons of water per ounce.

Wildfires aren’t just fueled by dry brush. They’re fed by water shortages. Every gallon funneled into almond orchards could instead hydrate thirsty soil, dampen fire-prone areas, or sustain dwindling reservoirs.

When Lake Oroville dropped to historic lows in 2021, some of the state’s largest nut farms continued receiving water. Almond orchards weren’t rationed, but people were.

California grows about 80% of the world’s almonds. This isn’t just a local problem; it’s global. Almond exports rake in billions annually, but at what cost? While farmers ship nuts overseas, rivers dry up, wells fail, and forests burn.

California’s Central Valley, where most of these nuts are grown, isn’t naturally suited for farming. It’s an arid region transformed into fertile land by engineering miracles and unrelenting irrigation. Yet here we are, diverting precious water to support a crop that doesn’t belong.

Consider this: almond production uses more water annually than all the residents of Los Angeles and San Francisco combined.

For pistachios, it’s close. Nuts, in total, consume about 10% of California’s agricultural water. That’s enough to supply 75 million people with drinking water for a year.

Not all farming is created equal. California also produces tomatoes, lettuce, and strawberries, but these use significantly less water.

Meanwhile, almonds contribute just 0.6% to the state’s GDP. It’s not about feeding people; it’s about profit.

The wildfires of 2023 consumed more than 450,000 acres, destroying homes and wildlife habitats. Rebuilding those communities will require water—lots of it. Yet California remains stuck in a paradox: prioritizing water-intensive crops over public safety and environmental health.

The wildfires of this year will look, well, nuts in comparison.

Nuts are a luxury, not a necessity. There’s no world where almonds take priority over drinking water, firefighting resources, or ecological preservation.

California’s water crisis demands a rethink of agriculture. We can’t pour 4,000 gallons of water into a pound of pistachios while fires rage and reservoirs run dry.

Water is life, not profit. It’s time to decide which we value more.

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Cali jasmine does not beg,
nor bow—
its roots are veins
threading through scorched silence,
seeking nothing but the pull of water
whispering below.

Ash drapes its shoulders like memory,
and still,
it flowers.
Petals tilt to the absent sun,
white as a breath held too long,
fragile as the edges of a dream
that refuses to be forgotten.

This is not defiance,
but a quiet insistence—
a life that leans into endings,
and grows anyway.

Open Letter to An Organ Donor: Samuel Flegel (8/31/78-1/11/00)


“it is a serious thing,
just to be alive,
on this fresh morning,
in this broken world.”
— Mary Oliver, ‘Invitation’


My god, Samuel, we are here.

We had to tiptoe hell’s half-acre the past couple days, but by god we made it: A QUARTER CENTURY together! Twenty-five years, with you literally at the hips the whole ride.

Or was it I riding shotgun? After two-and-a-half decades, the lines begin to blur, the sutures blend, the scars become creases. We’ve been together longer than apart, keeping time in a rhythm that was never mine to claim.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve done together. The day we met, you taught: Life is brief as a whisper, and twice as faint.

And when we walked from the hospital that frigid Minnesota morning, I knew there was no turning round. I was through writing about crime, even if it meant quitting an occupation I loved. I was done asking the mothers of dead kids how they felt.

I knew how they felt. I was alive because of how they felt.

So we moved out West. And somehow got assigned to cover the movies, even appeared in one! We sat in Jack Nicholson’s living room!

And we rode our bikes for miles in the California sun.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve seen. We have lost fathers and father figures. We have buried some who should have long outlived us, including Sis. And Michael. And Richard. And Kevin. Ad infinitum.

But for nearly every of our 9,131 days together, you have represented life. We became ordained to officiate a magical wedding of a magical couple. We discovered the love of dogs, and they have loved us back seven-fold. We have taken up poetry.

My god Samuel, what you have taught me. Since you, I know that science is a faith; that time ticks up, not down; that hope resides not in grand gestures, but quiet choices.

Since you, my job has been simple: See tomorrow, sing your praises. So I do. Every. Single. Day. I’m as obnoxious about drivers licenses as a bouncer in a dank bar. But HAVUSGNDURLCNS2DAY? won’t fit on a vanity plate. Thus I harangue dog park passersby during the day.

At night, I think of immeasurables. How do you thank a man for curing your diabetes? What cost, ideal blood sugar? How do you make square the debt to a stranger who offers a kidney? Words could never capture your last morning becoming my first sunrise.

My god Samuel.

You are my second birthday, my courage incarnate, my love embodied. It took only a childhood of books and 25 years of your wisdom, but I finally get Seuss: Sam I am, and Guy am I. And I may be wrong, but I could swear I see a six and a zero in the not too far off. But you taught me to never assume health or time, and I will do neither.

So stand up, stretch your legs, admire the stratosphere. You’ve turned off the seat belt light; now chat up the first-class cabin about your unmatched flying skills.

And think of what you would like to see next. With you in the co-pilot seat, anywhere feels possible.