I really lucked out when it comes to parents. Not only are they hilarious, kind, and genius in the kitchen, they've always been proud of me no matter what path I choose. Which is fortunate, because the odds of my following in their footsteps have been slim from the beginning. You see, they're both botany professors. Plants are their thing. And when it comes to plants, killing them is my thing.
Example: last week I bought a basil plant. 'Fresh pesto year 'round!' I thought as I nestled the seedling in my shopping cart. Five days later, it's dead. Not just wilted. Not just dry. Deceased. I placed it in the sun, I watered it a little but not a lot, named it, talked to it, and told it I loved it. Yet in spite of my best efforts, my dreams of impromptu pesto fests have gone the way of the grim reaper.
It's a real shame that I can't keep anything alive, because this year's crop of planters, stands, and herb kits have me longing to get my green on. For now I'll settle for mooching off friends who have flourishing yards—hey, everyone always needs spare hands no matter what color their thumbs—and hope that some of their prowess rubs off on me. I'm not optimistic considering that I was raised by botanists. But hey, a wannabe garden guru can dream!