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Confession: I have a tendency to kill living things. Things that happen to be green.
When I was in grad school, I had a roommate who traveled for an entire summer. She had a few houseplants scattered 'round our apartment, on tables near windows and such. She left for the summer and upon her return walked into the apartment and gasped. Her houseplants were all brown, dried and dejected -- as well they should've been, after not being watered for three months. In my defense (a weak one) -- she never actually asked me to care for the plants; she just assumed I would do it, since I lived there and was supposedly her friend. When she asked, in confusion, why I didn't do that, I answered her honestly: I just didn't notice them. If it didn't meow or in some other way alert me of its need, I could effectively ignore it.
How I wish I could say I've changed. And maybe I have improved just a smidgeon -- but I still repeatedly kill a maidenhair fern that I bought for our first house in Athens, eight years ago (maidenhairs are known for their hardiness -- so when mine turns completely brown, I just cut off all the foliage and start watering it again; it miraculously begins to show tiny green shoots, and eventually returns to a state of growth). I'm not sure what my problem is -- part of me thinks I should have a greener thumb, what with being married to a guy who does ecology stuff (though he's admittedly more of a policy man than biologist) and being into other domestic-like ventures, such as cooking. I'm a pragmatist to my very bones, however; and while I love art and things of beauty, I tend toward items that have function as well as form. Perhaps that's why I'm better at taking care of my potted herbs.
My first experience with live herbs dates back to our first house in Georgia. We plowed up a plot of grass that lined the fence outside the kitchen door and on one end saved a spot for about seven herb plants. I knew absolutely nothing about growing things, so I stuck them in the ground, paying no mind to the eventual size and height of the mature plant. Most of them grew, but I ended up with a giant oregano bush that blocked all access to a creeping thyme. Eventually I tried to dig things up and move them around, but you can probably guess how that went.
Early last summer, we knew we'd be moving to Indianapolis. So, thinking ahead, I planted most of my herbs in pots (excepting a couple basil plants that I knew would do much better in the ground and would provide us with plenty of herb before we left). I tended them all summer, they grew like well-behaved greenery, and were ready to make the trip with us -- I imagined the first few meals in our new place would be all the more welcoming with fresh herbs cut from pots we brought from The South. But then the moving van came, and they refused to load any live plants onto the truck, saying they'd never live to see the other side. Our two cars were already packed to the brim with items I didn't trust the movers to take; so my pots stayed behind, and I encouraged neighbors and friends to take what they desired.
So last August, I bought four new terra cotta pots and a couple bags of potting soil. I purchased three herbs that I hoped would make it through the winter: thyme, sage, and rosemary. I also "appropriated" one of the 20 or so overgrown Italian parsleys from the community garden around the corner (I didn't do it until after the frost -- and they were all going to die! Really!). I planted them, let them get a little sunshine and rain, and brought them into our unheated mudroom for the winter. A little sunlight, and a little water (I managed to water my herbs, but again forgot the maidenhair, which was sitting in the very same mudroom), and here we are in April. They are still alive and happy outside, already having doubled their size in the past two weeks (except the rosemary, who is still looking a bit scrawny).
Why in the world am I telling you this story of herbs and
