And Now for Something Totally Different: Blowing the Stink Off

I saw him again today. He always appears just as CoCo and I pass his house. I become aware that a whirring apparition is trailing behind us on our walk. Such stalking should give me the creeps. But I have come to accept it, to welcome it even. For the stalker is not another walker, but a senior citizen on a mobility scooter.

CoCo and I make a habit of walking a mile or two each day--always the same route, but never at the same time. That's why it occurred to me this morning that perhaps our uninvited shadow watches and waits for us. I wonder why a disabled man would choose to go for such a destinationless spin.

For CoCo and me, our walks serve a definite purpose--we both need the exercise. The young pup runs off boundless energy. The old dog works out the kinks and aches of middle age. But more than that, puppy and human delight in the simple joy of being outdoors--of "blowing the stink off." Does our scooter stalker not deserve the same pleasure?

So we walk. Spring has brought heavy rains to the Southwest, and the desert is bursting with renewed life and fragrance. CoCo stops at every bush and flower. Creosote fills the air with a heady licorice. The cut-lobed spurge exudes its toe-jam stench. We move on. And I am aware that our senior companion has paused with us.

Should I speak to him? I am usually an uber-social individual, but this is the one time of the day when I savor my solitude. So I do not speak. Instead, CoCo and I proceed to the top of the street, where we part ways with our silent shadow. As he U-turns for home, I catch his eye. I nod. He tips a slight, silent salute.

And I know that tomorrow, should CoCo and I decide to walk, no matter what time of day, our silent companion will follow us along the way, just to blow the stink off. I think I will call him "Tonto."

The Rosemary Sleeps With the Fishes

My rosemary finally met its demise. And it was no slow malingering death, either. (Although it has been hanging on by a mere sprig for weeks.) No, in the end, it suffered a violent slaughter--death by drowning.

It all started with the dog. Is it possible that a puppy can be jealous of plants? I'll admit I've shown a lot of attention to that little herb garden lately, but I didn't think I was neglecting the pooch.

I've been talking to my plants a lot, cooing and fawning over every new sprout. Years ago, in college, I served for a summer as a governess to a family in the Chicago suburbs. The father of said family was a psychotherapist in the city. He had planted a huge vegetable garden in the backyard that he visited every night after his commute. Around 6:00 pm you could spot him out among the rows, talking to his plants. Mrs. psychotherapist would say, "You can't blame him--he talks to nuts all day."

It occurred to me back then that those plants were the only living things who responded to him without rejoinder or needy expectation.

Recently, I had fallen into that same pattern with my little herb garden. I'd also made a routine of taking my repotted herbs outside on the patio on sunny days to harden them off a bit. My husband referred to this exercise as "taking the plants for a walk."

One particularly pleasant afternoon this week, I carried my tray of little seedlings out to the patio, lining the pots up in sun. Then I set about starting some new seed in my windowsill greenhouse. Everytime I looked up, I would catch our puppy, sniffing those baby plants. More than once I caught her opening her mouth for a nibble. Was this canine jealousy at play. Or maybe it was nature's way of telling me she needs more fiber in her diet. Hmmm...

After several hours of sun I carried my little tray of herb pots back to their perch on the kitchen windowsill. My intention was to return the rosemary, my tiniest specimen, to the safety of its greenhouse incubator. But as I picked up the little egg carton planter--I dropped it! Right into the dog's dish, where she was munching on kibble. Before I could react, the rosemary was in her mouth.

"CoCo Chanel, no!"

Was she actually obeying? I doubt it. More likely she decided she wasn't all that fond of this new culinary discovery. At any rate, she did indeed spit out the rosemary--directly into her water dish. There it lay, doing the dead man's float, roots up. Two months of nurture, down the drain.

The irony of it all is that the first of my herbs were not to be savored by their sower, this wannabe foody, but by a canine cretin. Kibble soup, anyone?

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Gung Hay Fat Choy, friends!

Be honest, now. You thought I would be wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day, didn't you? My hubby is more focused on The Daytona 500 today--a new season for Nascar. And let's not forget President's Day tomorrow. Or Fat Tuesday the day after. There is a plethora of possibilities for celebration this weekend. Me--I'm celebrating Chinese New Year.

What could be more appropriate than the Kitchen Garden Novice, celebrating the Lunar New Year. A Chinese proverb declares that all creation is reborn on New Years Day. And this is the Year of the Tiger, a particularly auspicious alignment of the heavens. It will be a year of resilience, redemption, and rededication. Of course I was born in the Year of the Horse. Those of us born under the sign of the Horse are eternal optimists. (We are also prone to unfinished projects, dirty dishes in the sink, and laundry awaiting folding. That resilience, redemption, and rededication stuff seems particularly targeted to us.)

My little kitchen herb garden could definitely use a bit of rebirth. The new seedlings I started two weeks ago are flourishing. The seedlings I transplanted to pots are not. My dill is droopy, my cilantro, sparse. And don't even ask about that reticent rosemary. Maybe I was a bit over eager to repot. Maybe I rushed the cultivation before the sprouts were ready.

Therefore, I resolve in this Year of the Tiger to germinate patience, to nurture joy, and to cultivate commitment. And because it's the Year of the Tiger, I know that my little kitchen garden won't hold my shortcomings against me. Tigers never hold a grudge.

Best wishes and congratulations! Have a prosperous and good year!

The Kitchen Garden Novice

The Kitchen Garden Novice Germinates

My hubby will tell you that I'm not a morning person. He rises every morning, without fail, at 5:00 am. Has for years. I languish in bed for another two hours, not quite awake, yet not really asleep. And I absolutely cherish that time.

It is then, between the netherworld of dreams and awakedness, that I have my most creative flashes of brilliance. An idea for a story or poem. A shot I just have to capture on camera. These are my own personal germinating seeds. Sparks that percolate...brew.

Maybe it's because my dreams are so recent, those vivid creations of my subconscious. Maybe it's because my mind is still--no day to day cacophony. No lists...no shoulds...no musts. The day holds endless possibilities, yet I am in no rush to address them.

I breathe. I float. I pray. All of my blessings arise to the top of my cognizance, each joy, each loved one, each expectation. It is then that I am most in tune with the Divine. I am. A human being. One small part of the Whole.

And then, like clockwork, my hubby comes in at 7:00, turns on the television and makes breakfast, shattering my Zen. I must confess, some days I resent the intrusion. But usually by then my connection to the ethereal has begun to fade. Arthritic joints and scratchy throat scream for attention. I stumble to the kitchen for java. My husband laughs at my disarray.

Not a morning person? If he only knew. We'll just keep that our own little secret. Coffee anyone?

Thyme After Thyme

Who knew that thyme was a super germinator? Not I. After transplanting some of my herbs to pots to give my sprouting rosemary some room, I decided to use the vacated space in my little greenhouse to start some more seed. This time I planted thyme and lavender, along with second batches of some of the previous herbs. And I admit I seeded liberally. What the heck—if tiny seeds produced tiny shoots, wouldn’t more seed yield more sprouts?

And how! Within two days, I had a lush outcropping of plants in “double thyme.”

“What’s that one?” queried my hubby.

“It’s thyme,” I said.

“Time for what?”

“Not that kind of time,” I explained. “You know—‘parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.’”

He stared blankly.

“Like in Scarborough Fair,” I expounded. At this point I launched into singing a few bars of Simon and Garfunkel.

Hubby, who is quite accustomed to and unimpressed by my vocal impromptus, finally said, “Whatever. It looks just like the oregano. What do you use it for?”

“To flavor fish and eggs.”

“Who eats fish with eggs?” he wise-cracked.

“It’s to season fish or eggs,” I corrected.

His nose wrinkled. “Not my eggs.”

Hubby only eats his eggs sunny side up or scrambled—never with anything remotely green mixed in.

“You use it to season quiche,” I said.

“I thought you couldn’t eat quiche.”

He had a point—my low cholesterol/ semi-vegetarian diet left little room for
eggs—or cheese—or butter. Why had I planted thyme?

And it seems that I may have a bumper crop of this hearty little herb. Anyone need some extra thyme? It seems I have “too much thyme on my hands.” And that, my friends, is a problem I’ve never before experienced. Oh, the irony.

The Kitchen Garden Novice