Years ago my mother grew African violets. They thrived in her family room. They were healthy. They were beautiful. Even though most of my attempts at growing plants were failures, I thought perhaps I had inherited the African violet gene. So I bought a plant, put it near the window in my bathroom, nurtured it tenderly, fed it African violet food, and watched it shrivel and die. I bought another violet and another. They died, too. I felt like the Dr. Kevorkian of the African violet line. Lest I murder any more lovely violets, I quit buying them.
Last week I had lunch at a friend's house and admired the lovely orchid on her window sill. "They're so delicate, they must be hard to grow," I said. "Not at all," she answered. "I just put four ice cubs in the soil every Friday. That's it."
Now I have a yen for an orchid. Wouldn't it look charming in my bathroom window? Even I could put ice cubes in the soil once a week. I saw a stunner at the supermarket this afternoon, a glorious deep purple, not unlike the color of the African violets I destroyed so long ago. I craved that plant. It cost $34. I looked at the other orchids, which cost less, but none of them could compare. I wandered around the display, mulling over the prospect of buying it. I worried that I might kill it and thought of how I would feel as it gradually....or quickly turned brown and died. I worried that my cat would try to eat it. Are orchids poisonous? I decided $34 was too much to spend on a plant that had no future. But I've been thinking about it all day, all evening. Maybe. On the other hand, maybe not.
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