Green fingers is something of a myth in my household. A fable, a rumour, a fairytale. A condition, or a promise, that we’ve heard about, searched for, but have never been lucky enough to catch and capture.
Annuals, biennials and perennials* have been admired, purchased and welcomed in to our abode but have all met with the same fate … sudden death. Much as a groom carries his new bride over the threshold, we gently grasp our chosen
victims blooms and tentatively, nervously, admire their promise and hope they fill our lives with wonder and beauty on a daily basis. But really, after 35 years of slaughtering sunflowers and sweet peas, you’d think we’d know better by now.
Determined that our failings should skip a generation, or stop at ours, my husband and I have embarked on a planting project with CK. Starting simple (and because we live in an apartment without a garden) we’re attempting to grow three of our favourite herbs to cook with – basil, coriander and rosemary. Seeds, pots and compost have been purchased and despite CK’s keenness to throw the compost around the balcony rather than in the pots, they are now sitting happily on our kitchen window sill.
It’s still debatable whether they will actually germinate and make our plates but we are, maybe falsely so, hopeful. Apparently it can take up to eight weeks so breath-holding hasn’t started yet. Wish us luck, and if you have any tips they will be gratefully received.
*Impressed with my terminology? Wikipedia‘s a wonderful thing.