Posts Tagged ‘kitchens’

I did not think the petunias would grow indoors.  I thought they’d bloom for a short while and then fade away, but somehow they have lasted the summer and now bloom confidently into the fall.

They have outlasted the basil, thyme and mints.

They soak up the sun near the hardier herbs – the oregano, sage and rosemary.  The plant’s white flowers shade the poinsettia that is still bright green and the stellar red garden mum, a hostess gift still hanging on.

I think I have tried to grow petunias indoors before with little luck.  They are a complex flower for me, not my favorite and yet I can’t help but think of them as my mother’s plant.

She grew them in wooden boxes and converted tires that my father made and arranged in the yard for her.  We shall see if this plant thrives into the winter months.  Not to rush time, but I can’t wait to see the white blooms against the window with snow falling down.

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I have written of Steve’s kitchen quite often and in various ways, from the dishes he prepares to the memories evoked by his simple act of making coffee.  This autumn, I have found that even with that cup of coffee in hand, I like to sit in the quiet of his warming kitchen.  Like ritual, I watch the remaining leaves on the towering oak tree flutter in a morning breeze, and then … it happens.  I look across the table at Steve and I say, “The sun is coming around the corner on its sled.”  He says, “Mmmmhmm.”

It does not flood the room, this autumn light.  It moves slowly like honey or light maple syrup across a plate.  My favorite part?  How light pours upon the pot of sage.

It soaks into dusty leaves, alive and dead, and runs along unruly stems.

Truth be told, there are other herbs in the room, on the same little table, buckets of basil, rosemary stalks and more.  But my favorite sight in the morning light, this autumn so far anyway, remains the sage …

…even when its leaves are not green.

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Steve has two tables in his kitchen.  There is the larger central table where meals are served, but against the wall near a window there is a smaller table and that’s the one that holds my attention at this moment.  Sunlight pours through the window.  A variety of plants bask in the warmth.  Steve’s rosemary bushes.   A mug of basil. A rather mutant African Violet, a gift from a friend, that he refuses to replant … he’s hoping it will break free of its clay pot, and like the plant in the Rocky Horror Picture Show, start shouting, “Feed me!” Then there’s a clear glass vase of lemon yellow mums and a red pot of soon-to-bloom paperwhites.  Tucked here and there beneath the foliage small jewel-colored glass votives, a green bowl filled with oranges, and an empty mason jar that held  sliced strawberries just yesterday.

Above the plants, through the window, the sky is the lightest blue.  Seagulls fly all around, as do flocks of sparrows and pigeons.  The hawks are not nearby.  A gentle wind rocks the branches of the oak tree next to the house, and those of the maples across the street.  It is still winter, of course, so far too soon, the sun will set spectacularly, casting a warm golden light across the kitchen walls.  And then, even before I can race to grab my camera, everything will disappear into shadow.  For a little while.

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