Sweet basil

Last winter, while I was in Dallas with my father during his last two weeks, M very tenderly and kindly started tomato and basil seeds for me. He's not much into gardening, but seed-starting actually suits his meticulous, detail-oriented nature. I'd tried to start some before I left, but Coco the Wonder Pup got into them. So, while I was at the hospital, M started the seeds anew. He even sent me a digital photo with the tiny baby seedlings, all carefully lined up and labelled in his typically careful way. When the seedlings got big enough to put out, we ended up with about eight basil plants. I was so touched by his thoughtfulness, I could only be persuaded to let a few of them go. All summer long, we had ridiculous amounts of basil. Those little seedlings grew into HUGE plants, waist-high. We whacked them down, took in armloads to M's office, gave bundles to friends, and they just kept growing the way they do. We made pesto and caprese salad for days. Every time I'd go near the herb bed, I'd have to chuckle them under their little basil chins, remembering how they came to be and how lucky I am to have such a wonderful guy. In the midst of devastating loss and horribly surreal hospital corridors, M showed me there were still growing, living, loving things in the world. The first big cold front has come through, and our first frost of the season is just around the corner. The basil is destined to turn black and die, and it makes me feel sadder than I usually do about losing tender plants. These were more tender than any others. Hopefully, I'll get out there for one last big harvest, so we can put up lots of pesto in the freezer for the wintertime. I'll miss those little basil guys. I know I can buy more next year, but I think I'll ask M to plant the seeds for me instead. I'll say they just taste sweeter.