Many times I have admitted it. I cannot grow anything. Nothing. My thumbs are anything but green. Both of them. But I have owned this persistent little ivy plant for years. I know… it should trailing all over the kitchen, living room and at least two bedrooms by now. But this plant has been abused. It has never ever been fed and has received only smidgets of water, mostly whenever someone left behind a half full water bottle that all humans in the household were afraid to consume due to insufficient knowledge as to whose lips may have touched that bottle. It survived a change of environment at least twice, but always in the same pot. And then all of a sudden, a few days ago, the leaves were withered up and dropping to the floor. Once I got tired of scrunching on dead leaves on my nightly jaunt to the potty, I transported it to the outdoors, thinking perhaps a bit of fresh air and a good shower might revive the poor thing. I questioned all members of the household and frequent visitors about it’s demise. No one wanted to fess up. Of course my suspicions turned the direction of the cats but I determined not one of our cats would be agile enough to perform that kind of litter box maneuver and, I’ll admit, I did give it the sniff test. Finally the culprit, only out of concern that I might take drastic measures (like cooking) to extract the inevitable truth, came forward. Meekly he said, “I read somewhere that fish oil might help sickly plants, so the other night when I fried that fish… well hmmmm, I thought just maybe, if I poured the grease in the flower pot...” Hubby ran for cover as I reached for the cast iron fish frying pan and I haven’t seen him since. OK OK that’s a lie, I wouldn’t do that. I might not take care of my plants but I don’t want to be the cook either.
Many times I have admitted it. I cannot grow anything. Nothing. My thumbs are anything but green. Both of them. But I have owned this persistent little ivy plant for years. I know… it should trailing all over the kitchen, living room and at least two bedrooms by now. But this plant has been abused. It has never ever been fed and has received only smidgets of water, mostly whenever someone left behind a half full water bottle that all humans in the household were afraid to consume due to insufficient knowledge as to whose lips may have touched that bottle. It survived a change of environment at least twice, but always in the same pot. And then all of a sudden, a few days ago, the leaves were withered up and dropping to the floor. Once I got tired of scrunching on dead leaves on my nightly jaunt to the potty, I transported it to the outdoors, thinking perhaps a bit of fresh air and a good shower might revive the poor thing. I questioned all members of the household and frequent visitors about it’s demise. No one wanted to fess up. Of course my suspicions turned the direction of the cats but I determined not one of our cats would be agile enough to perform that kind of litter box maneuver and, I’ll admit, I did give it the sniff test. Finally the culprit, only out of concern that I might take drastic measures (like cooking) to extract the inevitable truth, came forward. Meekly he said, “I read somewhere that fish oil might help sickly plants, so the other night when I fried that fish… well hmmmm, I thought just maybe, if I poured the grease in the flower pot...” Hubby ran for cover as I reached for the cast iron fish frying pan and I haven’t seen him since. OK OK that’s a lie, I wouldn’t do that. I might not take care of my plants but I don’t want to be the cook either.
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