It was our third or fourth date when I invited Tom to my not-so-glamorous rented condo. He had already cooked dinner for me, so I reciprocated with an invitation to my place. But I’m not a great cook, so it was a risky move. The relationship was in its earliest stages, and I wasn’t ready for him to know that I mostly lived on Cap’n Crunch cereal, cans of Coke, and Pizza Hut delivery.
Tom was five years older than me, and I wanted to look like I had a grown-up life and knew how to do fancy things like sauté and broil. So I asked my mom for the easiest recipe I could make ahead of time, and she gave me step-by-step instructions for preparing Chicken Eden Isle.
On the day of the date, I shopped for ingredients. I prepped. I set the oven timer. I even made a cherry cheesecake from a Jell-O brand cheesecake kit. I was crushing it. I’d already cleaned my condo top to bottom because what I lacked in cooking skill, I made up for with ninja-level cleaning. Show me a counter, and I’ll clear it. I’ll shine up a bathroom until it blinds you. Fresh vacuum marks in the carpet? It’s practically my love language.
In the final moments, I had the chicken dish baking in the oven, so I made one last pass around the condo to make sure everything looked great. That’s when I noticed two houseplants that were looking kind of… dead. Not totally dead but teetering on the edge.
I assumed I could save them if I did something radical like, I don’t know, watering? But I didn’t have time for that. He was going to be there in minutes. So I slid the wilted plants into a lower kitchen cabinet. I’d deal with their brown, limp leaves at a more convenient time.
A minute later, he was at my door. Soon we were chatting while we set the tiny table in my kitchen for what turned out to be a surprisingly good meal. Tom was flying through the potential-boyfriend checklist. He complimented the food, then washed and dried the dishes while I wiped down the counters. After he finished drying, he began putting things away. When he reached for the wrong cabinet, I lunged forward to stop him — a second too late.
Him (picking up a mostly brown, droopy Peace Lily): “Um, what is this?”
Me (faking surprise): “Oh, that? It’s just a plant. Totally forgot it was in there!”
Him (noticing an equally dead plant behind the first one): “You put your houseplants in dark cabinets? Are they being punished?”
Me (dying of shame): “No, no, that would be crazy. They were just in there… temporarily?”
Then I quickly changed the subject as I whisked the plants out of the room. He would eventually learn that I was, indeed, an unintentional plant killer, but by then he’d decided my strengths outweighed the weaknesses. Fortunately for both of us, that date led to many others and eventually to marriage.
Twenty-eight years and three kids later, my nurturing skills have improved, and I now have several happy houseplants, none of which get banished to dark cabinets. But I might have escaped that mortifying moment all those years ago if my town had a specialized business like the one in Edinburgh, Scotland.
It’s called Hilda’s Houseplant Hospital, founded by owners Rosanna and Tom Costello. After the couple’s plant shop became a success, they renovated the space next door and turned it into the United Kingdom’s first-ever hospital for sick houseplants. Rosanna said customers bring in sick plants, and the green-thumbed “doctors” on staff ask about symptoms. If a new patient has a fungal infection or pests like aphids or mites, they get quarantined to prevent spreading.
Depending on the diagnosis, some plants get surgery, some get put on a drip, and others need fertilizer and a good re-potting, which happens at a tall white counter that looks like the nurse’s station you’d see at any hospital.
Friends, isn’t this a genius idea for a small business? I hope it does so well that soon there will be houseplant hospitals all over the world. Sometimes we plant-lovers need a little professional help before things turn dire (and before our date shows up). Long live the lilies, ferns, figs, palms, pothos, and all the others… because it’s not always easy being green.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her books are available on Amazon.