Just raw, local honey and sweet-smelling, pesticide-free rose petals. There’s not much to say in this post, other than the obvious: yum.
Oh, the hedge.
The old lady who used to live here might shudder to see the way I’ve “unboxed” her boxwood. I’ve let the bush become, well, bushy.
One day, I’ll take it all out and plant something fabulous, something more “me,” which in the realm of gardening means something wild, but showy and definitely useful or at least meaningful, if not edible or having medicinal properties outright, then certainly poetic. Like the Birch out front bringing a little bit of Bjork to the neighborhood.
I’m not talking about the pop musician.
Until then, I’m enjoying a slow, quiet takeover. It’s the covert operation of a lovely little heirloom rose, dainty thorns at the ready.
Yin power. In this case, a triumph of the delicate. Uncontrolled pastel frill. Sweet, cooling, pitta-reducing, and pink. Girl stuff. Girl stuff that even guys will enjoy on a crispy hunk of buttered toast or stirred into hot tea.