Basilcicles

For the past few days our corner of Wyoming experienced a warm front of 80° F (26.6° C). Usually warm fronts in the spring mean that summer is on its way and that soon we may be walking about in flip-flops and clam-diggers. On the edge of the Midwest, a warm front can also mean impending snow. This warmth turned out to be the latter.

80° to 27° F in 24 hours. That is quite a bit of math.

Yesterday my mother and I planted our yearly herbs. We knew that snow might happen from here until mid-May (though snow at any time of year is possible,) so we were prepared to bring them inside, even from the sheltered deck, if it got cold. Last night the basil started to curl in the icy wind after I left, and when I arrived back at the house this morning I found that my mother had carted all of the pots back in by herself.

I sighed and wished that she'd called me, because honestly, a seven minute drive to bring in heavy pots is far preferable than my mother bringing them in on her own. She has to have physical therapy from a recent fall, and her back is not quite up to snuff after surgery a year and a half ago.

She is so getting a talking to when she gets home from physical therapy! ...Though on the other hand, some lifting is good for her. I just wish I'd been here to supervise.

The living room now smells wonderful, like a mini summer garden. I am anticipating bringing the herbs down to Laramie and concocting some amazing sauces from the herbs. The only time I am interested in food preparation is when I can have a hand in it from harvest to cooking. This is also why I appreciate seeing the deer and antelope our friends hunt when they are brought back fresh from the woods or field. It feels more real to me to see the plant or animal I am eating; it makes me feel more grateful to God and nature when I have this food.

So far I planted:

• chives
• basil
• cilantro
• mint
• thyme
• rosemary

My mother went fancy and got two kinds of cilantro to make some spicy salsa. Since we both grew up in California we lived off of the stuff. Our family of gringas often ate the foods of our immigrant Mexican neighbours, and the smell of cilantro and tomatoes always takes us back. I remember the home garden of my friend Raoul and his mother Maria, whom I always visited when I was very small. Her cooking is one of the fondest memories of my childhood, and I remember the ropes of her strong brown arms as she plucked cilantro for the chunky salsa she made.