I’ve never fancied myself much of a gardener. My grandmother? Yes. My mother? Hell yes.
… but me? Even the paper flowers are afraid to set up shop in my pots.
We’ve had some success, in years past, with tomatoes. Even so much so that last year we managed to win ourselves an angry warning from the HOA. (Our giant potted plants had, at some point, managed to piss off a pesky neighbor…)
But I can’t take much, if any, of the credit for their health… the poor things would’ve dried up at week two if they’d been left in my hands.
… and really, let’s be honest… though our garden may have grown, that simple fact hasn’t changed. During the week, I’m usually on the run. Especially in the mornings, when I revert back to my teenage self just long enough to put the time crunch on my commute, and poor Mark is stuck with the plants, the kid, the dog… he even makes me coffee and sends me off with a bite to eat.
… I’m completely spoiled. And so are our – very healthy – plants.
