On Saturday morning, we awoke to very, very dark skies.
“What time is it?” Steve asked. “It’s barely light outside.”
It was 8:30 a.m.
I was supposed to meet a friend to run later in the morning, so we got up and set about making breakfast. As Steve pulled eggs and vegetables from the refrigerator, I walked out to check on the garden, and to clip some herbs for a little breakfast garnish. I hadn’t quite decided what would work best: rosemary? Parsley? Basil?
Once outside, I started poking around in the garden, looking at what was coming up (a little bit o’ lettuce), and what needed to come out (the dead cucumber plant). I clipped a Golden Summer pepper and poked around in the grape tomatoes as thunder rumbled far off in the distance.
Then a raindrop slapped me. Then another, hard as hail. It wasn’t all that hot out, so this was no relief. This inspired panic as I realized, while I’d been mulling over the garden and messing around with the vegetables, I’d totally neglected the herb-acquiring operation.
The decision, in a split second, clarified itself. The sweet basil plant lay between me and the door. I ran over, clipped two sprigs, and made it up on the back porch just as the rain began pouring down in sheets.
“I hope this is enough,” I said, waving the basil around as I came into the house. “And I picked us some tomatoes to go with the eggs.”
Within two minutes, by the time I walked out to get the paper off the front porch, the street in front of our house had reached whitewater status. I had just narrowly missed a full-on soaking.