“This will never do,” I said to my sister Judy when she showed me her herb garden. In fairness, it was not all bad. It was perfectly located near the kitchen door, and it had its own picket fence and a barnwood birdhouse. The problem was that Judy relegated her few herbs to poor-cousin status while she lavished all her attention on her flowerbeds. As I looked at her paupers, I thought of my own kitchen garden: a wild fecundity of color, texture, and fragrance spilling in a riotous revelry down the hillside and into the woods like a gleeful band of gypsy dancers. Clearly, Judy needed some help.
