A tale of shame and seedlings

GROWING HERBS HAS GIVEN JAMES COLLEY A GUILT COMPLEX.

Keeping things alive has never been my forte. It’s one of many reasons why becoming a doctor wasn’t an option for me. (See also: doesn’t like blood, doesn’t like other people, not very smart.)

I’m not cruel, but I am forgetful. I’ve owned two plants in my lifetime. The first was a cactus I bought from a market at age six. This species has evolved for millions of years to survive even the harshest conditions on Earth – on day two, I dropped it behind a cupboard and it died. The second was a peace lily named Dirk that I bought in my early 20s and had to leave behind when moving interstate. I’d love to believe Dirk is out there somewhere, thriving, but I know even if that were true, he’d probably never want to see me again.

But this year, I decided to dust myself off and try again. I’d start small and make my own herb garden. There were early missteps, yes. The scary man in the garden section of Bunnings shook his head when I asked if I’d made good herb choices. It seems I’d picked the wrong plants, too many of them, not enough pots, and had failed to read the little piece of cardboard in the front of the pot that had all the plant information. I thought it was just for decoration.

From there, I became obsessive. My morning routine began with watering the plants. Before I had my breakfast, they had to have their breakfast. This was a point of contention in my household, as my wife noticed I gave the outside plants water from the hose, whereas the inside plants got filter-jug water. I’d already created a class system for my greenery. Troubling signs, indeed.

This wasn’t helped by the world being in a crisis state that required me to be home all day. Now, I could wander out onto the balcony three or four times a day to check in on the little dears and demand they grow faster. Slowly but surely, it worked. The parsley, the mint, the rosemary, the thyme, and even the cheeky little chilli plant grew strong. And so did my sense of pride. I took a great deal of comfort in knowing that, should society completely collapse, I might not be able to make my own food, but at least I could season the heck out of the scraps of cardboard I’d be forced to eat.

I wasn’t prepared for the dark side of having a herb garden, though: the harvesting. Some would say it’s the sole point of growing herbs, which I suppose is true, but I didn’t expect to feel so emotional. To take the plants I’d raised so carefully and rip them apart to feed myself seemed monstrous. It’s how I imagine young parents must feel the first time they have to pop their child in a stew to bulk it up.

Nevertheless, I tore leaves off my precious children. The whole time, I imagined their voices in my head. “Father!” they cried, “What have we done to deserve such horror?” (It’s tempting to think the isolation had gotten to me, but the truth is, I was barely sane before it.) I wish I could say that dinner tasted ashen in my mouth, that my terrible crime meant no enjoyment could come from the meal, but instead, I was cursed with the knowledge that my dear children were delicious.

My loving morning routine has become a sick ritual. The garden has expanded as I, a Machiavellian puppetmaster, choose which of my faithful subjects shall be plucked from their friends and roasted on high at 180 degrees (160 fan-forced). Save for the indoor plants. They aren’t for eating. They’re my precious little angels. Particularly the one I forgot this week that has started to turn brown.