“I’ll just take this parsley then,” I say.
“No parsley today,” she corrects me. “That’s cilantro.”
“I could use some dill,” Charlie says, pawing through an herb basket of lavender, marjoram, lamb’s ear, lemon verbena—“I don’t think they have it.”
I turn again to Charlie: “So as usual, we have to go to the store.”
“Instead of ‘farm to table,’ ” he agrees, “it’s ‘farm to Von’s to table.’ ”
“Knowing us,” I amend, “more likely it will be ‘farm to Von’s to table, back quickly to Von’s, back quickly to table.’ ”
So we go to Trader Joe’s, where they are also out of basil. But they do have live basil plants for $3.99.
“I think that’s cool,” Charlie says. “Instead of buying dead basil leaves, why not buy a live basil plant, which will continue to make more basil?”
“I’ll tell you why,” I say. “Remember last year when, charmed by this very concept, I took a basil plant home, placed it as instructed in the half shade and watered it daily? For kind of a long time?”
He doesn’t remember—I complained about it so much he blocked it out. I continue: “No new basil leaves ever grew and the plant became rickety and woody and brown, but—the very morning I planned to throw it into the yard clippings bin it burst into flower! Like a ninety-year-old man flinging out giddy ‘jazz hands’ to fend off a lowering coffin lid. You can’t throw away a plant with flowers, so I kept watering it and moving it around and babying it because one day it might make leaves. I’ve been taking care of this basil plant for a year! It puts the pest into pesto!”
We now go to our third stop, Von’s, and they too are out of basil. Now truly vexed, losing my passion for ramps, passion for farmers, or passion for passion, I go back to Trader Joe’s and buy four potted basil plants. I take them home and, standing on the back porch, I hold each down by the neck and just brutally rip those leaves off. I rip and rip and rip. And then, like Scarlett O’Hara, I scream and hurl the little pots off the side of the deck.
But then I look down at the mutilated tangle of green and think, What have I done? These were living!—if annoying!—things.
So I collect the broken plants and apologize to them for murdering them and prop them back up again and now I have five fucking basil plants sunning themselves.
I’ve accepted it. I am running a small sanatorium—a health spa, really—for lazy basil plants. My house is where basil plants go to retire. Come on over, cilantro!
TRY NOT TO BE BLINDED BY MY WILDFLOWERS
Charlie and I just want a drought-resistant yard. We meet with a highly recommended Greenfield Heights “master gardener.” His estimate includes ten hours of design at $150 an hour and, even then, we will have to work with him. There is a lengthy questionnaire about our “aesthetic goals” and “plant preferences.” And I’m going, “I already went to college! Just plant something.” Where are Chip and Joanna Gaines when you need them? I should just get myself a throw pillow that says YARD.
I try to read online eco-gardening blogs. I fight off a rising sense of inadequacy. Truly mindful eco-gardeners are about more than just drought resistance: it’s all about contour maps of bee pollen and rebuilding endangered butterfly habitats by planting native milkweed. Too, I give you: “Viburnifolium is sometimes a bit capricious, so try symphoricarpos?” And Kelvin lumens.
Charlie and I go to nurseries and look at succulents, but we’re unable to formulate a plan. Charlie does a Hail Mary pass and buys wildflower seeds. When a gentle rain comes, I put on my Pema Bollywood pants and fling them about with goddess energy. While flinging, I’m hit in the head by one of Luz’s guavas. I think that’s what it was.
Stanford Swimming
PHIL ANDREWS IS a lawyer I dated briefly back in grad school (also known as like seven decades—another lifetime—ago).
We didn’t have romantic chemistry, but we’ve always had great friend chemistry. I’ve joked that I consider Phil my Third Husband. He is very good at adulting.
For instance, let’s take a financial meeting I had several years ago at Charles Schwab. Here’s what I’ve written on a notepad from some company called “Bio Water”:
“Retirement and write it off and something about medical.”
In my mind’s eye, a friendly thirtysomething man dressed in charcoal gray business casual (behind a desk and a plant) then says: “Sandra, by all means, you need to form a C corp! Not an S corp!” Although, to be honest, I also see a friendly woman, same age, navy blazer (different desk, different plant, facing a different direction) and she’s saying: “Sandra, by all means, you need to form an S corp! Not a C corp!”
To this day, I don’t remember which is right, but I know Phil knows because he sent me all these helpful Wall Street Journal articles and walked me through it.
His wife Gita, an extraordinarily beautiful Indian woman from London, is the head of a major philanthropic association. Gita is deeply intelligent and empathetic; she’s always e-mailing me thoughtful links of interest on menopause, technology, educating girls.
While Phil and Gita live in Upstate New York, they’re in town for the week with their son Liam.
So Charlie, the girls, and I are all going over for dinner. What could go wrong?
GITA’S PARENTS’ HOME in Hancock Park looks like a large villa you’d find in Europe, protected by lush non-native hedges.
“Wow—is that a tennis court?” Hannah asks, leaning forward in the Volvo I suddenly wished I’d washed.
“You know what,” I admit to my crew. “I forgot that Gita’s father is some famous surgeon with a bunch of patents who created the Cedars-Sinai Something Something Center. I guess this is what ‘arthroscopic knee surgery’ money looks like.”
The massive wooden front door swings open, almost like a castle’s, and Phil and Gita bound out to greet us. Philip looks like his same absurdly tall six foot three inch self. His temples are gray but his hair looks boyish and full as it always did. Gita’s dark glossy hair is in a Catherine Deneuve updo. She moves with the agility of a gymnast (which I think she once was).
We embrace one another with joyous exclamations.
“It’s so wonderful to see you!”
“You guys haven’t aged a day!”
“Look how tall and gorgeous the girls are!”
“Charlie! We’ve heard so much about you!”
“Can we look around?” Hannah asks.
“Of course!” says Gita.
“There’s a swing in the back, too,” says Phil.
“Phil,” Gita teases, “they’re not kids.” She turns back to the girls, nodding, emphatically. “But yes, absolutely, feel free.”
Hannah and Sally take off to explore the grounds. When Charlie turns to admire the house, I notice a band of lining hanging out below his jacket. A stylish guy, he loves to buy designer labels at thrift stores, but sometimes they’re not in the most perfect repair.
No matter. No one notices; indeed, it appears that Phil and Charlie have already bonded. Charlie has a friend who lives in Tivoli—the same town Phil and Gita do.