A year ago I had two house plants. Two – and one of those died spectacularly. (Spider mites, though I didn’t know at the time what it was.)
I have a wee bit more than two house plants now. If I counted right I’m up to 34, not counting a few in propagation vases. Some of these will be going to the Midwest with my daughter-in-law in October, if all goes well – but it won’t be a big change in numbers. (Incidentally, I don’t count it as a plant until it’s in a pot and its roots are in dirt or moss. Otherwise I’d be comfortably over 40)
Despite the nominal work of keeping 30-odd houseplants happy, being surrounded by greenery truly is my happy place. God knows I’ve got my share of stress, and I don’t foresee it going anywhere in the near future. With so much plant life around me, though, I’m trying to convince my body I’m in a forest, or maybe back in the Midwest where you know – stuff actually grows.
It’s sort of working, I think.
Besides the decidedly inedible garden in the living room, I did indeed start a couple of culinary options.
The basil leaves in the kitchen window don’t look terribly happy at the moment. The roots, on the other hand, are doing a happy dance. I’ll be potting them up in a bit and all dead and dying leaves will be trimmed away.
The little blue bottle contains sprigs of thyme. They’ve sprouted a few straggly roots but not nearly to the level of Sir Basil, not yet. I’m perfectly content to let them grow at their own speed.
Leaf lettuce is in the plan, too. That, however, will require a bigger home than my assortment of 4″ starter pots. I want salads again, and don’t trust much of anything fresh and green from the grocery store.