Coriander Despair

30th April 2012 Monday

Lunchtime - there is a pot of coriander seedlings on the table between us. Plonked there like an accusation. They look spry and healthy. My husband brought them back this morning from the allotment along with similar pots of parsley and rocket. He’s not sure what coriander is. Or rocket.

‘I don’t know why I planted it, he says.‘But I must have grown it before because I had the packet of seeds.’

‘Taste a leaf,’ I say. ‘It’s a herb. ‘I put it in curries.’

He doesn’t recognise the taste or the shape of the leaf.

He wants to leave them in their pots in the garden but I want him to plant them in beds at the allotment so we can have great perfumed bunches all summer long. We argue, get in a muddle. He slips into misery and goes to bed. I go into a turmoil of grief and despair - into the  tunnel of how can you grow things if you don’t know what they are? Peas need sticks to grow up but spinach doesn’t.

And where will he go if not to the allotment? Will he always be here in the kitchen with nothing to do, staring out of the window?

Later we drive out for a walk but the lanes are flooded so end up in the University parks instead but still get mud on our boots. And my heart stays steely cold.

I have found a good place to cry is in the bath -  with the taps running. Tonight the stream of rain drops on the windows adds to the sound proofing - but I hope my husband is asleep by now anyway and can't hear me.