Potted plants (aka "pot plants" in the South--I kid you not) at the local farmers' market.
I always feel bad for houseplants that are given to me. I know better than to buy them myself, because I will kill them. I don't set out to kill them, but inevitably, my houseplants die a slow, lingering death. I once had a fiddleleaf fig that survived for years with one leaf. One. I watered it less, I watered it more, I moved it into different light, I silently begged it to die and stop reproaching me with its one pitiful, stubborn leaf.
To say I don’t have a green thumb is akin to saying that some of the passengers on the Titanic got a little bit wet. This is how un-green my thumb is: I’ve killed mint. People say you can’t kill mint. Maybe you can’t. I can.
My lack of innate skill is combined with—frankly—a lack of interest. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay? I'm about the fauna more than the flora. Plus, I live in the high desert. This isn’t exactly prime gardening ground—unless you really know what you’re doing.
I'm happy with the sage and the view.
Fortunately, the good people who run roadside produce stands and set up booths at the local farmers’ market know exactly what they’re doing. Here’s a sampling of the fresh, locally grown, organic produce that the boyfriend and I found one hot, sunny weekend this summer. Bon appétit.