Meditations on Basil

I have been doing a lot of planting lately: my garden in Connecticut, the garden on our building's roof deck, the roof deck at Lily's school, where I teach my gardening class. And some of the time, much of the time, Annika has been gardening with me. It might surprise you, how much a twenty-month-old can garden. As it turns out, babies this age like pots and trowels, soil and digging, and--at least in the case of mine--the taste of herbs.

Lily is also a bit of an herb fiend, in the straight-up and not Jerry Garcia sense of the word. That is to say that she enjoys chives snipped in her scrambled eggs, cilantro in her guacamole, rosemary in her hash browns. What she really likes to do, however, is stand in our herb garden plucking things and chomping on them with gusto, asking me, even when she knows the answer, "Are you sure I can eat this, Mama? Are you SURE?"

I think it is because for five years I have been telling her that nothing can go into her mouth but actual food, and the herb thing seems a bit like cheating the system. Regardless, she has taught Annika how to wander around the beds, picking and chomping, and I was quite proud to hear Annika utter her first herb just last weekend: "Basil," she said quite clearly, pointing to an enormous patch of sage. "Basil!" 

So this morning, as the two of us sat at the kitchen counter eating apple slices, I pulled the little pot of basil that was a gift from my in-laws close to us and told Annika what it was. Imitating Lily, she asked, "Eat it?"

"Yes," I said. "You can eat the basil. Would you like to try a leaf?" I plucked her one, and she chewed thoughtfully, smiled. Then, as I sat beside her, wondering if I should intervene, she proceeded to eat every leaf off the plant, one by one, Every Single Leaf.

I'm not even sure what to say.