Silver Bells and Cockle Shells

To say I planted a garden would be a stretch of the imagination. Last year I made grandiose plans for a garden on my parents' farm and set out to conquer a patch of the side yard. I built up some beds, planted 7 kinds of seed, and paved my plants' way to Hell with my intentions. I started taking night classes, and they all withered and died when I didn't come back to see them.

So this year I kept my expectations low, nearly statistically insignificant. I bought four baby herb plants from Rural King and plopped them into containers with potting soil. Because they are in containers I get to skip the war of mythic proportions with the Bermuda grass, a plant as lovable as a cockroach. Watering hasn't been much of a problem because it won't stop raining here. I walk past almost daily, and sometimes I even stop to check the turgor pressure and pull tiny little weeds. Despite my avoidance towards doing actual work to make my herbs thrive, I might someday rally to cultivate upwards of TEN plants. That's right, ten. That's more than double my current garden! That's like someone who farms an acre declaring they'll eventually farm two and a half acres! But not really!

My marjoram is doing very well while the rosemary and oregano have yet to hit a growth spurt. What I really care about is the basil, which has finally started to put forth some effort in leafing out. Every time I look at it I have visions of fettuccine drenched in pesto about to enter my maw. It's enough to make me all aquiver.