Issue 18, containing: The Things that I Have Learned about Plants, Small, Nice Things, The Realizations of Adulthood, Letters, Commonplaces, &c.

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SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

For me this month has been strangely harder than any in many years. Harder, because of numerous things of which we are all aware, but also because there is a chance at a better life ahead — but only, perhaps, a chance. 

I’ve been practicing at this concept of a gentler life — how it will be to live as if disaster isn’t always imminent — for ages, as a kind of coping mechanism. The idea that these tactics might now come into practice not as a way of meeting the bare necessities, but as a way of elevating above the lowest level of Maslow’s hierarchy, is a dream and a wonder and an uncertainty that feels almost cruel. It sometimes feels easier to churn my way through garbage, head down and trudging onward, than it is to succumb to the hope of a chance out.

But that, I think, is my next task. To accept that hope can be offered. To accept that I don’t have to just survive, but can someday thrive. To accept that the world might be, can be, better than it was. 

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THE THINGS THAT I HAVE LEARNED ABOUT PLANTS

At this time last year, I had in my possession three plants: an English ivy that I had managed to mostly kill once but which had since rallied beautifully, a thing that I identify as a pothos but which is mostly just Leg, and the oldest of all, a chive that had been dug out of a friend’s garden and handed to me unceremoniously a few years back.

These plants survived my mostly benign neglect because my chives wilt like a fainting maiden in a Gothic novel when they need water, and I discovered that both the ivy and the pothos liked being watered on the chives’s fainting schedule.

Then, of course, came March of last year. With more time at home, less time outdoors, and Pinterest a willing accomplice in my downfall, I started acquiring more plants. The first new members of the garden — a sweet mint and a German thyme — integrated well. Genius! I thought. Look at the majesty of my indoor plantings! Look at this kitchen table that I have devoted to my plants and, secondarily, my laptop and work supplies. See the majestic mirror placed in the corner like a reflective illusionist, bouncing light and leaves and the slight suggestion that I might know what I’m doing.

It is at this point that I went A Bit Mad. I decided that I was, in fact, doing so well with this plant thing that I should go forth and commit further flora upon my apartment. I hit up a gardening center and returned with lavender, French thyme, lemon balm, a Hobbit jade, a showy sedum, a parlor palm, and catmint.

The catmint would prove my undoing.

Unbeknownst to me, the catmint had brought with it what I have come to assume were spider mites. The plant died and then, because I had placed it with the others — not realizing, in a glory of irony, that one must quarantine new plants for a period before adding them to the collection — the others started dying off as well. And, further, because I didn’t realize what was occurring, and also perhaps because I should’ve read a book or something, the plants met their makers in a variety of ways: root rot, over-pruning, under-watering, more mites, grubs??, poor weather, and possibly mange.

Of the plants that have survived since summer, I have the Hobbit jade, which I believe I’m under-watering, the sedum, which is down to two wee leggy stalks, the sweet mint (one wee leggy stalk), the possibly dead but possibly just underwatered (or maybe fine??) French thyme, the lavender (which had a jump of growth that promptly died off again, so god knows), the parlor palm (which I suspect is trying to die from chill), the pothos which continues leggy, and the chives that apparently are made of sterner stuff than all the rest of them, again much like Gothic heroines.

One theory is that due to weather and whatnot, some of the plants that appear dead or dying are just hibernating until the spring — my hope, in fact, for the lavender, which may have gotten ahead of itself on a warm week. I don’t have a lot of faith in this particular theory, but again, perhaps reading a book on the subject would be Helpful. (Recommendations would be vastly appreciated.)

But despite the setbacks and the very sad appearance of my kitchen table at the moment, I have learned some important things, which I am happy to share with you now:

1. Purchasing a small binder and converting it into a plant diary was, in fact, helpful and not just an excuse to use multiple highlighters. While some data points did not prove useful (a watering chart is just not in the cards for me), the diary aspect proved extremely helpful as a method of marking the time and care spent on each plant. I also created sections both for the scientific information regarding each plant, and for the behaviors of my plants, because–

2. It was very startling to me to discover that every plant is an individual, outside of the commonly expressed needs of their species. I’m not certain, for instance, that chives are naturally fainters– but mine is, and it’s good to learn that about it.

3. Not least because, as it turns out, I am terrible about over-attending my plants. My original plants did well because I only really paid attention to them when I noticed my chives had fainted — what I now call my “canary” plant for watering certain other ones. The diary here is helpful again, to remind me to care for my plants on a reasonable schedule, but I also benefit from developing little plant communities that help inform me of one another’s needs. 

4. While I can feel sad that a plant has not survived my clumsy care, it is apparently in the nature of gardening to make these mistakes. What I learn this time prevents me from doing the same thing in future– and, in very plain terms, the cost of error is not prohibitive. Even my most expensive plant, the parlor palm, cost less than a good Grubhub delivery, and it has provided months of joy and air purification. This leads, however, to my most important discovery to date, which is:

5. Quarantining! Apparently useful in more than one circumstance? Shocking, but true.

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SMALL, NICE THINGS

Thanks to a holiday gift from my office, a timely sale on Amazon, and the alignment of the stars, I was able to subsidize the purchase of a home robot — specifically, the Yeedi K700, a vacuum/mop plate bebe who I have, naturally, named Florian.

If you have the opportunity, I heartily recommend house robots. They’re like pets who clean up after themselves. I haven’t tested out the mop function yet, even though that was technically why I bought this model, but the vacuum alone has led to a general uptick in the quality of my living space. Every morning I pick Florian up, turn him over, and gently clean his brushes and empty his decently spacious dust compartment. It takes less than five minutes, but it’s always astonishing how much he’s picked up (astonishing… and somewhat eye-twitching, because my god, if this is what he’s picking up daily, then…). 

After setting him back at his station, I then clear the way for him: pick up cords, tuck away drapes, and generally tidy. A click of a button, and his female-coded voice pipes up that he’s starting his cleaning cycle, which takes about an hour in total. With the exception of the butler’s pantry (which is raised about an inch above the rest of the floor, and so beyond Florian’s reach), my house robot can get to every room in the apartment before he has to go back to his charge station. He can get under most furniture, and has only gotten stuck once (though he has eaten a sock and attempted to make off with my youngest child’s bed curtain).

Having  a daily-cleaned house is, obviously, an enormously wonderful thing in and of itself, but I also love seeing Florian just making his way around, reminding me of the place robots have not just as replacements for humans in dangerous situations, but as collaborative workers, assistive devices, and, frankly, Metal Doggos Just Trying Their Best. When I found Florian stuck under my bed, I instantly went into the soft cajoling voice I use for sick children and sad pets, murmuring pidgin German while gently extracting him from his position. 

He had lost all his battery power under there; I couldn’t even pretend that he “heard” me. But I’m glad it was my immediate response, that I didn’t even think to do otherwise. The care of others should not be dependent on their reaction to it, I think. It’s a little hard to articulate, and I’m pretty sure others have done so more adroitly, but: I don’t want to be the kind of person who wouldn’t seek to assist and comfort the hurt and helpless, and I’m glad I got to experience a tiny proof that maybe I’m not.

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THE REALIZATIONS OF ADULTHOOD

One of the interesting parts of growing up is discovering that the aesthetics that I craved as a Youth have unexpected downsides. One of my most treasured mental pictures was of rooms filled with shelves of interesting things, books everywhere, things hanging from the ceiling, etc.

I have, to a degree, accomplished some of these goals. Which is how I discovered what those movie sets, photography still-lives, and Instagram posts apparently never had to deal with: dust.

Dust, as we all know, comes from leaks in the spectral Hourglass of Time, and it particularly likes to cling to tiny figurines, corners that befuddle your plate-shaped robot, and the tops of books. Dusting can be a very meditative act, but it can also become, shall we say, annoying to continually have to clean things that were only there to make your shelves look interesting.

All this to say, I am coming to an appreciation of clear plastic or glass storage containers. I need to be able to see things, so that I can remember that they exist, but a single flat surface, rather than an English muffin’s worth of a crannies, is eminently more approachable for a single person maintaining a house. Hiring a cleaner would, I suppose, be another option, but it seems a much more expensive solution than just investing in some nice lidded storage options.

Besides… apothecary jars are very within that beloved aesthetic. I can still make it work.

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A NOTE TO GENTLE READERS

One of the other gifts given to me by my work was a bottle of champagne. The question now is: Can I cook with it? Should I cook with it? Dear readers, do you have any suggestions? Alternately: Should I just make something up, and report the results?

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LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Rum Cakes In Potentia, “Please Consider”:

Following certain unfortunate activities near the start of January, the Editors went forth and tried to recreate the rum cakes of their youth, the ones sent us from Collins Street Bakery by long-gone grandparents. They were, to a degree, successful — the cake was similar, though not an exact replica, and was intensely delicious. Following this success, the Editors purchased the ingredients for yet more rum cake, having found it to be an easy and excellent recipe. 

But since the acquisition of these ingredients, the act of actually making the next round of rum cakes has eluded us. Not to put it indelicately, but: What’s up with that? Are you, like, avoiding us? Come on, guys! You’re here, we’re here, let’s make this happen! Eagerly awaiting your response.

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From Some Butternut Squash Pasta, to the Magazine, “We’ve Never Stopped Loving You”:

As avid readers, we were delighted to see that you’ve referenced the apple-and-pasta-thing recipe more than once in your pages. This year, you used us, the butternut folk, instead of pumpkin, and that’s fine, we understand that sometimes people come to us out of necessity rather than for our own merits. But you made the apple thing with us at least three times last fall, so we know we must’ve done well by you.

We’re writing to say, though, that… we’re still available? At your grocery store? You probably thought we were a seasonal item, and maybe the pumpkin variant is, but we’re still here, and we just want to remind you: hey. You really like that apple thing. Why not make it again? Why not make a place in your heart (or your stomach)… for us?

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COMMONPLACES

From Dylan Moran’s What It Is:

Go and get a job.
Go and find a flat.
Find somebody else, put them in the flat.
Make them stay.
Get a toaster.
Go to work.
Get on the bus.
Look at your boss, say “fuck.”
Sit down, pick at the thing,
Go blank,
Scream internally,
Go home.
Listen to the radio
Look at the other person, think, “why, why did this happen?”
Go to bed. Lie awake! at night!
Get up, feel groggy,
Put the things on — your clothes, whatever they’re called
Go out the door
Into work
Same thing, same people again,
It’s real. It is happening to you.
Go home again!
Sit!
Radio!
Dinner!

GARDENINGGARDENINGGARDENINGdeath.

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From Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb“:

It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it

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ANNOUNCEMENTS

I have no particular announcements at this time, except that evidently my subconscious is clamoring for apple-pasta thing and rum cake, so perhaps this is something I should bend my mind toward in the coming days.

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If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at minor.hours.magazine@gmail.com with the subject line:

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you’d rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print.

Alternately, commenting on this post will get you a similar result, with much less fuss.

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-Until next week, be safe.