I should know better than to promise some sort of garden product, particularly since I don’t know what I’m doing.
But there I was, shooting off my mouth on the patio at Atlas World Grill in late June, telling one of Steve’s friends that we were making mojitos and we were making them within the next week and a half. “We have more mint than we could ever possibly use,” I said.
Emphatic: That was me.
Then, over the weekend, I took a closer look at our out-of-control pot of mint. I noticed buds beginning to form on the top of the stems, which were, to be fair, awfully thicker than I remembered upon last look.
I snagged a leaf and bit into it. “Steve, we can’t use this mint,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I think it’s gone to seed. Or bolted. Or whatever it’s called. Whatever it is, it’s bad.”
The mint tasted bitter, biting, like an old and untamed horse.
Steve took a leaf of his own. “Yeah, that’s bad.”
I took to the mess with a pair of scissors, and even had trouble getting the scissors through some of the stems. Where was my lovely, tender, tasty mint of just a few weeks ago? What had happened while I was paying attention to my tomatoes?
I cut ruthlessly. Heartlessly. With abandon. When I was done, the pot featured some scraggly stems of mint and the biggest root ball I’ve ever seen. It’s disgusting and tangled and evil-looking, like some kind of fairy tale thicket.
But I’m hoping it will grow back. There’s still time for mojitos this summer.