I check on the The Herblings several times a day, much the way a mother checks a newborn baby. I monitor the dryness of the soil, water sparingly, and rotate them when I noticed their stems bending toward the sun. I even sing to The Herblings. Today it was Pearl Jam’s version of “Crazy Mary.” I’m pretty sure if The Herblings could speak they’d say, “Her hair is really greasy, she wears the same shirt three days in a row, and she can rock a mean Eddie Vedder.”
I worry over Oregano and what I have diagnosed as failure to thrive. I beam at Mustard and the leaves that sprout two inches over the lip of the pot. I think that perhaps Garlic Chives has something that is not Garlic Chives in its pot. I notice that at last there are signs of life in Lavender and Marjoram. I ponder Googling what the hell you make with Marjoram. My favorites are the ones that leave their seeds in the dirt — Savory, Sage, and Thyme.
Before my friend
Nimrod Hotrod turned herb-raising into a competitive sport I was only moderately curious about my ability to properly cultivate these things. Now, of course, I’m in it for the glory. I may not be many things, but I will most certainly be a better Herb Gardener than Hotrod. I will, of course, win easily because I have grown mine from seeds and he had to start from seedlings. We can all agree that growing from seeds makes one a far superior gardener, right?
Right now the biggest danger to The Herblings is Paco. I left a spot on the windowsill for him but he seems to prefer all the other spots on the windowsill. We had a moth stuck between the screen and the window situation last week that nearly killed us all. It involved a lot of shouting, and me holding back Paco while also using a sheet of paper to escort the moth outside to safety. Yeah, yeah. I escorted rather than squished. It seemed like less work with the extra-added bonus of not killing anything.