Have you ever done anything knowing that it’s going to be pointless and futile? And I’m not talking about having children.
The other night, after a glass (or two) of wine, I was overcome with a burning desire to buy some seeds online and actually grow stuff. From scratch. This was fed by the alluring seduction of free shipping, which is the most evil invention I can recall.
“Do I actually need an electric hot dog maker when I don’t eat hot dogs? Because it’s on flash sale right now for half price. Well, what the hell. The shipping is free.”
This is the curse of my life, and it struck me again when I found myself on a popular website buying a large “assortment of 12 premium heirloom seed packets” for culinary herbs. I actually do use a lot of herbs in my cooking, and I’d love to have fresh ones. Occasionally, I empty out my wallet and buy some.
But sadly, you can’t just buy the seeds and, presto chango, instantly get large bushy plants that provide endless delicious results. Well, at least I can’t. My late mother could have done it. She was one of those people who would pinch a few leaves off a tree while we were walking past, and a month later there would be a Giant Sequoia growing on her patio.
Unfortunately, while I inherited my mother’s nose, I did not get her gardening genes. The only plants I’ve ever been able to keep alive are cactus, and that’s somewhat by accident. I think that explains my love of the desert, where I can watch plants growing all around me that no one has tenderly watered or fertilized.
Many years ago, I lived in an old bungalow where I used to empty my cat box into an unused and hidden flower bed in the backyard. As usual, I had managed to kill my latest houseplant, which actually happened to be a cactus. Due to sheer laziness, I took it out and dumped it into the pile of kitty litter discards. A while later, I happened to see the pile of kitty litter and – greatly to my astonishment – the cactus had come back to life and was happily growing away. This was clearly because I wasn’t trying.
So I bought my packs of culinary herbs, including basil, dill, cilantro, oregano and more. Yummy, right? I’m staring at it right now. My fantasy is that I’ll grow a beautiful herb garden off my back deck, and skip happily out there every time I cook, like Martha Stewart, to grab a few fresh sprigs. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? (Although Martha Stewart probably has serfs who do this sort of thing for her.)
To facilitate this happening, of course, I had to buy a bunch of other stuff, like seed-starting peat pots, something called “super growing pellets” and I’m sure I’ll be investing even more into this project before it’s done.
Those of you who garden as a verb know that growing stuff can cost a fortune. Each year, growing a few fresh tomatoes usually costs me at least one paycheck, what with the plants and the cages and the fertilizer and so forth. I wish my friend still had her rabbit, because rabbit poop actually makes a fabulous fertilizer and it’s free. (And, no, I don’t want you to show up at my house with bags of your rabbit’s excrement.)
Meanwhile, I’m trying to get up the courage to actually plant some of these costly seeds into the costly “super growing pellets.” To be completely honest, I know what will happen, which is that I should just throw the seeds down the garbage disposal now, because that will be a quicker and less painful way of disposing of them.
Here’s a summary of all the ways that I have killed growing things over the years: 1. Forgetting to water them. 2. Overwatering them. 3. Buying fertilizer and forgetting to use it. 4. Buying fertilizer and using too much. 5. Letting my cat knock over the pots and destroy them. 6. Putting them in my windowsill next to a bowl of fruit, allowing them to get attacked by evil fruit flies. 7. Ignoring the weird fungus growing on them until it’s too late. 8. Letting them get attacked by snails because they gross me out too much to remove them. 9. Planting them in the shade when they need full sun. 10. Planting them in the sun when they need shade. 11. Forgetting they exist until I come out and discover one shriveled brown little mass that used to be alive, making me feel like a murderer.
I could probably continue for three or four more pages, but you get the idea.
The only way I managed to raise children to adulthood and keep my pets alive is because they let me know in no uncertain terms when they are hungry or thirsty. It’s hard to forget to feed a kid when he’s standing next to you whining for dinner.
So, the fact that plants are silent is my downfall, and their fault, really. I take no personal responsibility. Still, I’m willing to stick these seeds into their peat pots and see what happens. And then, when I kill them, I’ll just go back to buying herbs at the grocery store. Let’s see how long that takes. We could start a betting pool.
