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Anti-Green Thumb

February 15, 2012

I can’t be trusted with plants, and I’ve known this from an early age. For a long time when I was growing up my chore list every other week was to water the plants in my parents’ atrium. Well, if it wasn’t for my mother sneaking in a misting behind me, I’m certain everything would’ve been dead by the time I graduated high school. Miraculously, that room, to this day still looks like a jungle of ferns, cactus, succulents, and the most gorgeous blossoms basking in the sunlight.

My current home has a dining room table in the kitchen, so I look at it daily and love nothing more than fresh cut flowers on it. When I don’t get those, I at least try to keep something alive on the table at all times, even if it’s just a bowl of fresh fruit. Lately I want something a bit more permanent. Something I can tend to and enjoy every day. But I know my limits. I mean, my brother’s family recently sent me the loveliest white orchid. Shortly thereafter, it had a burial ceremony complete with a proper humming of Taps to accompany its journey to the trash bin. I need help.

In a lot of Eastern cultures, plants balance the energy of a home. But, if we’re being honest, I feel like ever since I threw out the lucky bamboo that basically completely violated an innocent vase, our fortune has actually changed for the better. At any rate, I’ve commissioned a good friend who is an expert in flower arranging (he’s trusted with some of the top restaurants and retail storefronts in the city) to do something with this space on my table. If he can’t help me pull together something I can’t manage to murder, I don’t know who can. I’ll report back with the after-arrangement.

Image: Courtesy of Brian Woodcock