My Herb Garden

Ten years ago, newly divorced with two young children, I bought a nice house on a corner lot with a large yard. It was there that I discovered I could actually keep plants alive. The key for me was to grow the plants outside, not indoors in pots. (I had a 100% kill rate for indoor plants.)

I dug in the soil: Some plants came out, other plants went in, soil was amended with Black Kow. When I needed muscle, helpful neighbors pitched in. The whole place looked better.

My favorite plants were, and still are, herbs. Thanks to the robust soil with its cow manure, they grew lush and fragrant in two large beds outside my backdoor. I cooked with freshly harvested sage, rosemary, basil, tarragon and thyme - after a time, even my children knew which was what and could snip sprigs for me while I cooked. Because I planted herbs more for their appearance and scent than for my ability to cook with them (e.g., tarragon), I sought out new recipes that featured them (did you know tarragon is delicious with mushrooms or chicken? and the blooms on tarragon plants are edible?).

I also used my herbs around the house; in my bath (rosemary sprigs and lemon slices are refreshing, while lavender is soothing) or floral arrangements. They were so plentiful that I could share them with friends. I sold the house and moved three years ago, but still have memories of that wonderful herb garden and the joy it brought me.

I haven't had time for gardening at our new place, except for a large pot outside our front door that I change several times a year. A recent cold snap . killed a poinsettia that I planted in the pot two months ago, but the dusty miller I planted along with it survived. Earlier today I removed the dead plant and began pondering what to do now. Maybe some trailing plants (or an herb like thyme) in between the dusty miller and a tall herb in the center? Rosemary might not be exactly right. Not certain about lavender, either. Tarragon? Hmmm.

I'll noodle this over for a bit, but not too long. Herbs will start appearing in nurseries soon and the memory of my old herb garden inspires me to give it a go. Looks like Spring fever is catching me early this year.

Photos by Zsuzsanna Kilián; top - thyme; bottom - tarragon

It's on the Tip of My Tongue... Oops! Not Anymore

My memory. Where did it go?

No, I didn't join Michael Phelps at a frat party.

On the other hand, I had five major surgeries in 2006 and 2007 and lingering chronic illness that have taken a tremendous toll on my memory. Add to that some menopausal symptoms and the fact that I'm not getting any younger (yeah, I know, I've whined about that already) and, well, here's what happened:

I forgot what I was going to blog about today. I'm serious! A thought-provoking topic evaporated from my gray matter without leaving any impression whatsoever. It happens often.

And don't even bother telling me your name - at least, not if you expect me to remember it. I'm sorry, but I'm going to forget your name; I'll probably remember who you are but that's about it. I might even forget your face - how pathetic is that?! For crying out loud - I was a bartender for years and remembering people (and especially, remembering what they drank) was the foundation of my earnings (drinkers don't tip much if you can't remember what they're pounding down at the bar). I'd go broke today.

Instead of blogging about, well, whatever it was, let me tell you about Dooce, one of my favorite blogs. Heather Armstrong, the author, has a razor-like wit and makes me laugh out loud. The fodder for her dialy musings? Daughter Leta, who is testament to the adage that "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Moreover, Heather is a terrific photographer and showcases some of her photos ("Daily Photo") on her blog. You'll also appreciate commentaries about her dog ("Daily Chuck") and the stylish items she profiles ("Daily Style"). And be sure to peruse the archives.

Enjoy Dooce - it will be good for you. And next time I have a good blogging idea, I'll write it down (if I can remember).

Top photo by Alistair Williamson

What?! They Still Make Bongs?

Michael Phelps, dude, what happened to YOU?

Are you kidding me? You win a gajillion Olympic gold medals, your family watching from their seats and Mom was crying and so thrilled, then you became a super-human superhero role model, the idol of children (and adults) around the world - and you go and toke on a bong at a party. Did you forget that every cell phone in the world has a camera these days? Did no one tell you to watch out because celebrities (and you're one of them) get caught exhibiting inappropriate behavior all the time (scandals are about the only thing that can sell newspapers and magazines anymore; getting a story and photo evidence mean big money for the person selling it AND the media that gets the scoop); sadly, people are watching you like a hawk. You're going to be under a microscope so you have to be squeaky clean all the time. It's the cost of that ol' double-edged blessing, fame.

I'm shaking my head, wondering how to discuss this with my kids. How believable is it to say that drugs are bad for you, then try to use an Olympic record setter as evidence ("oh yeah, Mom, pot turned him into a slacker"). The only thing it did to you was make you stupid (the munchies aren't the only thing pot does to ya). Speaking of which - how many people, teens included, will blow off the "don't do drugs" message by retorting that "it was only bad because he got caught, 'cause almost everybody does drugs, especially the cool people." Bad choice, Michael, but you know that now and you're paying the price, with people screaming at you, sponsors wailing and endorsements on the line.

In a related matter... people still have bongs? Really? I imagined that they surely would be extinct by now, but I obviously don't monitor the world of drugs and drug paraphernalia. But bongs? The last time I saw a bong it was probably in the possession of some long-haired, mustached hippy guy (maybe similar to the guy in this photo). So these guys still exist, too?

Damn, I'm old.

Photo credit: Kris Krüg

Bruce, Dude, What Happened to Ya?

Say it ain't so, Bruce.

You got old, dude. Last night's performance at the Super Bowl halftime was pretty good, as halftimes go. You're obviously still in good physical shape; actually, great physical shape, given that you'll turn 60 later this year. But dude, you got all breathless.

I saw you live, in concert, 23 years ago in Miami during your "Born in the USA" tour. It was spectacular. You were at the top of your game; selling out every venue, always on the radio, an average guy from New Jersey who made it big. My roommate at the time was from New Jersey and although I thought I was a huge fan, Colleen REALLY loved you. Bruce Springsteen was God in our apartment (and Colleen was Catholic, so she really knew how to worship). Being at that show was a highlight from my concert-going days.

But you got old. So, that means that I got old. Damn.

And anyway, would a regular guy from Jersey like Bruce Springsteen really play at a Super Bowl halftime? It's not that you don't have the chops (in spite of your breathlessness), but considering the cost of admission to the gig, isn't it a bit elitist to be performing there when hundreds of thousands of people are losing their jobs? At least it was televised so we could watch from home.

Ah - who am I kidding. Elitism isn't the issue. I'm just hacked to think we're getting old. You're turning 60. I'm turning 50. Damn.