Curse of the Black Thumb

Some people are born with the ability to grow anything. They surround themselves with lush, happy foliage and can do so in any environment. If they put a plant in a dark, oxygen-deprived room, they could still make it worthy of Southern Homes and Gardens. I know people like that. And I hate them.


I hate them because I have the Curse of the Black Thumb. It runs in my family. There's nothing I can do about it, yet I fight it every year. You see, that which I love I also kill. And I really love herbs. Lemongrass, spearmint, chives, basil, you name it, I've tried to grow it. Each Spring I have visions of walking through my container herb garden like that scene in Gladiator when Dude is walking through the wheat field and he's touching the stalks with his fingertips, enjoying the sensation of having a meaningful exchange with the fruit of the Earth. Oh yes, I can smell the lemongrass now, as I brush past on my way out the door. I laugh gaily as I snip a fresh sprig of rosemary for my chicken dinner.






Eventually the fantasy dissipates, and I am left to face a harsh reality. I am a killer. And here's the proof. Yes, the brown, dry "sticks" you see here are the remains of a bergamot plant. It never even flowered.



And these gems, formerly known as spearmint (left) and chives (right), shuffled loose their mortal coils in the recent and yet ongoing drought. They made it through the winter when I rarely watered them. The chives actually thrived. And here they are, dead as doornails, but I won't throw them away. I guess I think I can resurrect them. Ah, but I know better. The curse will not release me. And apparently I don't even have the decency to remove the price tag from the chive pot. Man, that's classy.