This is really one of those posts that I’m creating for myself as a future surprise. Four or five months from now, in the dark, grey, depressing days of late winter, when everything is covered in that layer of crusty road salt and the promise of spring in not yet in the air, I will be sitting here at my computer, listlessly killing time while I’m supposed to be doing something productive, and I will come across this post, and I will remember.
The last bouquet of summer sweet peas, bought at the farmer’s market from the sweet family who run the apiary and primarily sell honey. I nestled the small bouquet into a bag containing a bunch of basil to protect them from getting bumped and bruised by things like apples and potatoes.
The smell that emanated from that bag fills my nostrils still; the peppery sweetness of the sweet peas combined with the savoury, hearty smell of the basil. I’m sure some of the people sitting near me on the streetcar ride home must have thought me either a bit crazy or that I was a huffer with a secret stash of gasoline, so often did I smush my face into the folds of the bag to get at the leaves and flowers, inhaling deeply and emitting a loud sigh.
Sweet peas are quite possibly my favourite flower ever, up there with the wild roses my Grandmother used to have in her front yard, and the lilacs my Mom craves every spring. Like so many smells, they’ve got an emotional attachment, and remind me of the huge planter my Dad fills every year. I always had a bouquet of sweet peas in my room during the summer as a girl, and now as a grown-up, I buy a new bouquet for my desk every week when I visit the market – until September when they’re finally gone for another year.