The Rosemary Comes Indoors
The rosemary spends summer outside and winter in. I move it on the first night that threatens a real frost.
It lives in a clay pot the size of a large mixing bowl. It is heavy. I carry it in with both arms. It leaves a trail of needles on the floor and a green smell in the hall that lasts for days.
Indoors, it goes by the south window in the dining room. This is the best spot in the house for light. It is also the spot Sorrel likes for her afternoon sleep. The two of them share a cold kind of truce.
Rosemary is a fussy houseplant. It dislikes wet feet. It dislikes dry air. It sulks near a radiator, and it sulks away from one. I water it only when the top inch of soil is dry to a finger. In January I turn the pot a quarter turn every few days, so that all sides see the glass.
Some years it drops a few branches anyway. I trim those and say nothing about it.
I use it in the kitchen all winter. A sprig in the stew. A few needles chopped into a loaf. A branch tucked under a chicken in a roasting pan. The smell comes up off the cutting board, sharp and piney, like a cold forest that has learned to cook.
On snowy days I brush my hand through the top of it as I pass. The scent stays on my fingers for an hour.
By March, the pot starts to put out pale new tips. They are soft and a light green, much lighter than the old growth. I take this as a sign that we have both made it.
In May it goes back outside.
The pot is heavy. I carry it with both arms. I leave the needles where they fall.
By Ember Penrose. Writer of slow stories and warm worlds. No dragons required. · Author of The Elves of Nine Ashes, a cozy fantasy series set in the Aldenmere. Meet Ember.
