From the bench
Notes from this house.
The garden, the wrap, and the wax. Written from the October pages. Not a catalog, and not another house.
Mint has its own pot
The bed is for what stays put. Mint does not. It goes in a pot by the step, where you can see it trying to leave. Parsley, sage, thyme, and rosemary can share a row if you give rosemary the wider space, about eighteen inches. Bay likes a pot and a prune. Cilantro bolts when the St. Louis heat arrives, so it is a spring plant here, not a summer one.
What October holds
The fall row is chrysanthemum, aster, and sedum, then ornamental kale, celosia, and cosmos, with pumpkin and squash at the end of the bed. The five wooden frames stay simpler: pepper, lettuce, watermelon, squash, and corn. None of that is a listing. It is the week the table is set from.
Paper before the stem
A wrap starts with the paper. Kraft, then jute or raffia, then the glass if the piece is a candle or an oil. The flower is the last decision, because a rose that is not cut yet is not a price. The Wrap Book is the longer version of this, twenty-eight dollars for the notes. The file is not on this page.
Five smells, still on the bench
Summer citrus is lemon, orange, and grapefruit. Autumn spice is cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg. Winter is pine, peppermint, and vanilla. Rose keeps sandalwood close. Spring is lavender, lilac, and jasmine. Soy or beeswax, cotton or wood wick, no paraffin. They are named. They are not poured.
A box instead of a vase
Some weeks the stems are too short for a pedestal and too many for a jar. They go in a box with a lid, tissue or a liner, then moss or shredded paper. Roses and lilies for a soft box. Bird of paradise or protea when the room can take a louder one. A care card rides inside: fresh water, a trim, pull what wilts, and keep the box out of a hot window.