Every year, without fail, I excitedly go to a local garden center on a super sunny day in spring and load up on plants for my stoop. Every year, without fail, I end up with a charred, crusty tangle of brown twigs within a month. It’s not like I choose bratty, difficult to maintain plants: I pick out the same stupid flowers as everyone else in my neighborhood. Impatiens. Geraniums. Pansies. Simple “you have to be a moron to kill” potted plants. Apparently I’m a moron. I even had to google the difference between perennial, biennial and annual (and I still don’t really understand what they mean, or what you’re supposed to do with the charred, crusty tangle of brown twigs).
Similar to my desire to pickle, sew and churn butter: I yearn to become some sort of kick-ass urban farmer/gardener. With no backyard, I obviously can’t get chickens. We do have a front yard that gets full sun, but when I think about planting veggies there, even in containers, I get skeeved. What about rats? I mean, I’ve never ever actually SEEN a rat in my neighborhood, but this is NYC. There HAVE to be rats lurking around somewhere, right? Who wants zucchini that may have been touched by RATS? Or, I don’t know, what if some drunk crazy person pees on them while stumbling down my block. Pissy rat zucchini. No, thanks.
Still steadfast in my quest, I decided to try planting herbs, in containers, for our walkway/stoop area. The lady at the garden center SWEARS they won’t die the second I touch them. Uh huh. We’ll see. At least I had some lovely company, even though LJ ate almost all the chives already.
(Please note the dead stubs in the planter.)
Sorry, dudes. I love you, but you don’t stand a chance.
stoopmama.wordpress.com 