Last night we made a stew that called for fresh thyme. We’ve had storms but there’s no giant pile of snow outside our door, so the kitchen thyme continues to thrive. It’s compact, fragrant, woody little self is a persistent and adorable tenant in our landscape.
It would be hard to overstate how satisfying it was to step out into the cool air of our kitchen walkway and snip fresh sprigs of this sweet little plant rather than open a glass jar of dried herbs.
Most of our kitchen herbs grow just down a stone walkway near to the kitchen, and they are looking very dormant right now. But there is a tiny patch of ground just by the door that is big enough to accommodate a little thyme plant; it seems happy in its protected south-facing spot. So last night I grabbed a pair of scissors, pulled my hood on, opened the door, and snipped what I needed, thanking my little friend and thankful that it isn’t buried in a mountain of snow, yet.
In these dark winter days, the cool, moist fragrance of this little thyme plant was reassuring and comforting, nourishing to my mind and senses, and helped me be fully present for a moment of sweet appreciation.
Hooray for the little things.