spinach, mushrooms, olives, and roses
I'm not sure how or why tastes change, but this afternoon I was forced to admit I may love roses. Sure, I've smelled a fragrant rose or two in the past and thought, hey, that's not bad. But then I've wondered if it was worth the black spot and the pruning and the thorns and always decided that no, it was not.
Today I stepped out onto this Soho terrace and gasped.
In the month since my last visit the roses had exploded, producing long canes laden with absurdly lush and abundant flowers. Soft, pillowy, silky, fragrant, clichéd, irresistible.
As I weeded and deadheaded and swept I kept moving back to the roses, pushing my nose deep into the center of one flower, then another. I have been seduced.
Because I am a bad, bad gardener, I can't tell you what they are, only that they are both David Austen roses from Gowanus Nursery. When I'm back in the city I'll check my file for the names of these beauties, both perfectly perfumed, one only slightly more orange pink than pink.
In PA the deer would make short work of them, but on a New York City terrace where the air circulation is brisk and Bambi non-existent, these plants are heart-stoppers. Bestill.