A few steps beyond my backdoor, a large and prosperous vegetable garden would give one the impression I’m a fantastic gardener.
Don’t be fooled by the abundance.
I. am. a. plant. killer.
There have been times, I’ve heard a poor dear whimper, take one last shaky breath, and die to prevent further torture.
So there’s no misunderstanding: I love the beauty and color and diversity of plants and am quite certain the world would be a dreary place without them.
But for some reason I have this brain block and forget to tend them. Turns out plants require water, regularly. Needy buggers.
My list of victims includes the cockroach of the plant family—an aloe vera—who decided it’d had enough and threw itself off the of the fridge when I opened the freezer. The rascal splattered and oozed across my kitchen floor, cloning a CSI crime scene.
Too bad about the plant.
But the ice cream was good.