Gardening Week on Ramshackle Glam continues, this time with my very first herb garden.
Well, second, actually. But I don't think we should count the thing that I stuck in the ground outside my house in Los Angeles, completely forgot about, and killed within about 72 hours.
As of this morning it's been nearly 146 hours since I planted the pots pictured here, and so far, so good.
My love for sangria is well-documented around these parts (I've previously posted recipes for Guava Sangria, Summery Red Sangria and Winter White Sangria), but this?
This is something special.
All weekend I wandered around in this sort of happiness-haze, wearing garden gloves and scooping dirt and saying things to Kendrick like "Who KNEW? I mean really...who knew?!" And he was sort of confused by my need to announce (over and over) how amazed I was by the fact that I was enjoying something that was way, way outside the realm of anything I would have ever thought I'd enjoy...but seriously.
WHO KNEW?
I never in a million years understood why people liked gardening. I was like, "OK...so you spend all weekend hunched over on your hands and knees digging in the dirt, probably encountering things like insects, and at the end you get...something that you could probably just go pick up over at CVS? Cool, guys."
But it's so satisfying. And the results are so gorgeous. And there's something really incredible about standing back, looking at your yard which was once one thing and is now another thing entirely, and thinking I did that.
I have a water pitcher. It's ten thousand years old and made of raffia, which isn't a great combo.
I've been meaning to pick up a new one in preparation for summer (I like to use pitchers to serve my BBQ guests homemade sangria), but how much prettier - and more fun - is this idea?
The key is to look for a jar - whether vintage or brand-new - with interesting details that make it anything but ordinary; I love the contrast between the rustic wood-and-twine stopper on this jar and my delicate gold-rimmed water glasses.
You know what one of the weirdest things about moving from a one-bedroom city apartment to a suburban house (a small one, but still) was? How instantly we expanded to fit our new space.
When we were packing up our stuff from our closet-free apartment (seriously, the place had one closet; it was the worst) I had this vision of how we'd move our things into our new home and wander from room to gloriously empty room, excitedly imagining the millions of possibilities for how we'd be able to fill all that spectacular space. I thought it would take months - years, maybe - for the house to stop echoing from emptiness.
And then we moved our stuff in, and every single room was somehow immediately filled to capacity. I continue to think that a magical furniture elf arrived in the night; I have no idea how this happened.
It's mostly because of the closet situation, I think. Our new house, house-like though it may be, you see, is also a 1900 colonial, which means it has closets the size of my pinkie. But clutter makes me crazy, so I've continued to employ the space-saving tactics that I used in our old place in our new one.
