Kara gave me her potted calla lily (they are poisonous to cats? who knew.) and the blossoms are brown and crunchy. It wouldn't drink the water I gave it. It's terrible, because I love calla lilies. They are so fluted and solitary and pure.
However, the baby basil (named Larry by Vic) which I insisted on buying at a Nashville farmer's market, because I wanted to feel like I was really at a farmer's market, even though it was a March weekday, meaning cold-gray-drizzly-deserted, and drove through three states before I deposited it on the coffee table, is still green and bushy. It likes the water I give it when I remember to give it water. I pull leaves off every so often and throw them in vinaigrettes and chilis and salads and sauces, and am rewarded with a delicious smell and flavor and a feeling perhaps more delicious than either, that comes of reading too many books as a child about pioneers with vegetable gardens, which I still think is one of the most romantic things in the world. Showing conclusively that I have never had a vegetable garden.
Oh calla lily, you are so beautiful. why won't you let me feed you?
I need to go water the basil.
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