Tarragon
For my Momma, and for my Gran
I like tarragon best of all the herbs.
She don’t pussyfoot around.
You’re either for her or you’re not.
There’s no warmup.
No middle.
Just love me or don’t, baby.
She’s just fine either way.
Maybe it’s cause she’s French.
I want to be like her but I’m not.
I’m sitting inside of a mess.
A beautiful mess.
I had a garden party today—
in the confines of my 31st floor balcony.
I’m surrounded by a disaster of hydrangea arrangements, and empty Tiffany trumpets—some still holding champagne—and the vacuum in the middle of the living room plugged in to the wall—I’ll probably leave her there tonight.
The party was a success I’d say.
I like to think everyone had a good time.
It was the first of these I’ve ever thrown.
When the boy left...
after the boy left—
I let my balcony fall into complete disarray.
This was sort of a reclaiming.
I fixed it up.
New patio furniture.
Herb garden.
Flowers—
same me.
Not the “same” me that loved the boy,
no—
but the lingering smell of a blown candle—
smoke swirls and ash—
traces.
Not like the tarragon—
Not that just grows—
and reaches her chicken feet leaves toward the sun.
I get hung up.
I dunno if everyone has that sayin’.
The south’s full of those.
Most of the ones I know are jacked up cause daddy taught us wrong.
“Boy,” he’d say, “A bird in the hand’s worth two in the creek.”
or, “You gotta lie in the bed you make.”
He meant well.
Anyway.
I get snagged—like a trout, mindin’ his business—
but then that fly just looks too damn good bobbin’ there…
(Snap!)
And that’s it.
Caught.
Wrigglin’ on the line.
Waitin’ for the same net that’s caught me a 1,000 times—
catch and release.
I missed it—
when I think like that.
I miss all the folks who didn’t.
The ones who came.
Who showed up.
Who stayed.
The tarragon just grows.
She’s all over my container garden.
She came back this year.
All on her own.
Kinda like she picked me.
She just grew.
I was makin’ green goddess yesterday,
for the garden party.
I messed up.
I forgot to buy mayonnaise.
“Shit,” I said, “I forgot mayo.”
“You can make that you know,” momma said sipping her champagne, “all you need is an egg and some oil.”
She was right.
That is all you need.
Plus a little lemon juice,
salt,
some mustard—
worcestershire if you’re feelin’ flavorful.
I was mixing it up.
Addin’ the spinach.
A little arugula because I’m a recipe deviant.
And lots and lots of tarragon—more than the recipe called for.
Momma sipped her champagne and looked at me and said,
“You know? Your Gran just used the ole Seven Seas, glug, glug glug,” she laughed motioning her hand like she was filling the red cabbage with a bottle.
(We put vegetable dip in a hulled out red cabbage surrounded by all the fixin’s. It’s beautiful.)
“What?” I asked.
“Seven seas, it’s a brand,” she said. “She just filled that cabbage right up.”
I paused as I looked at the food processor filled with all the things.
Even the sad anchovy fillet waiting to be minced into the dressing—
the dressing of my Gran.
“Well girl,” I scorned, “I wish you’d have told me this earlier. It would have saved me a lot of time.”
Momma laughed.
I did too.
My goddess was better.
I added more tarragon.
The tarragon grows.
She tastes like licorice.
She tastes like that whether you like her or not—
she just grows—
with her chicken feet leaves.