Between April and November, magazines likes Southern Living and Better Homes and Gardens have covers that make me feel as insecure now as fashion magazines did when I was in my teens.
Not because my body jiggles in all the places that most bodies jiggle, but because I seem to have sub-standard skills when it comes to “making my front porch look inviting” or “designing simple-and-easy fall displays!”
But now I fake it. Oh yes, I fake it like a pro. I buy the skinny jeans in fabrics that hide cellulite. I’ve semi-mastered the art of contour make-up. I buy pre-planted containers at obscene prices at hardware stores, and I don’t bat an eye at taking credit for it when people compliment my lovely displays.
And when they fail? I secretly throw them away. Only the cats know, and they don’t really care. Well, Jon knows, and he teases me, but I can take it.
A couple weeks ago, I blindly planted some pretty containers and pots. Did I know what I was doing?
No. Not really.
(Do I ever know what I am doing? No. Not really.)
But still, I keep doing. And here’s what happened. Those sweet little seeds came up, thank God. I would write, Can you believe it?! but I do believe it. The test isn’t coaxing that stuff out of the ground, but in keeping it alive long enough to actually get it to my dinner table.
So far so good. It’s growing. It’s starting to resemble salad leaves and bush beans and the tender vines that eventually release snow peas.
I’m a big fan of planting things densely and thinning as I go (how do you think you get baby greens?), so I’ve shamelessly inserted broccoli and cauliflower plugs as I go.
Now what? We pray, folks. Pray hard.