As you can see in our previous post, my mom’s flowers are the prettiest things outside the Kensington Gardens. Maybe even more so. Perusing our backyard is like taking a stroll through the Secret Garden. But even better, because we aren’t recovering from Cholera and didn’t need to sneak past anyone’s cranky uncle or dig up a key to get there (I’m talking about the book here). It’s the serene palace of plants back there...until a hungry doe takes the head off a hydrangea, of course. Mom will flip her lid if a deer or other ambitious animal messes with her foliage, and there’s an elaborate system of netting, repellant and flower tents in place to prevent this from happening. It usually takes place at night, in the dark, with the assistance of Cottage Guy, and is highly entertaining. Though as evidenced by her photos, it is beyond worth the effort .
While my mom has the magic touch when it comes to flowers, I, in contrast, was born with a complete lack of green thumb. My hydrangeas die within three hours of purchasing, my vases are never the appropriate shape for their contents, and every time I get within five meters of a rosebush I manage to prick myself. I would make a terrible Bachelor contestant; the Rose Ceremony would be disastrous. So gardening is clearly out of the question for me. I also don’t have a balcony, fire escape or significant windowsill to grow anything on here in New York, so that’s also a deterrent. Instead, I pop on down to my local Bodega to snap up a pretty little bouquet and hope I don’t mess up the floral arrangement too much by the time I get home. And that’s what I did here:
Shade coverage for the pretty little lilies that are under there somewhere.
My bodega man who was nice enough the allow me to take a snap while he prepped my bouquet.
