This morning I walked through the wet grass in my tiny garden to pick a sprig of disobedient peppermint, growing everywhere but where I planted it. I took the peppermint back into the kitchen, put it into a chipped ceramic cup that was one of the wedding presents I salvaged from the divorce, and poured boiling water over it. Peppermint floats so beautifully in a spacious cup of hot water, and the water stays see-through clear as the smell rises to my nostrils. I carried my cup of peppermint tea into the garden and sat soaking up the sun, wriggling my toes in delight at the warmth. Peppermint tea tastes of summer and of autumn rain before the frost beats the last stalks of mint down into the wet earth.
The rose bush is huge and leering, half the buds rotten after so much rain, but the herbs are happy. The lavendar is just beginning to bloom, and the rosemary bush is celebrating its survival of an unwatered winter in the cellar by pushing out new little shoots. The oregano is a bright green bush of hair that hasn’t grown more than ten centimetres yet, and the thyme tickles my toes which poke out from the steps.
Most of the year I would much prefer a garden that had herbs growing in every month. But in June I’m happy here.