We planted a postage stamp-sized herb garden together. Basil, thyme, rosemary, parsley, mint. In my mind, I tick off the pestos, chimichurris and marinades that I’ll make the next three months to top off fresh linguine, grilled ribeyes and snapper. And then, because he needs *something* to serve alongside his watermelon margaritas, we planted jalapenos and cherry tomatoes.

When he left for work, I swept up the dirt and imagined the kind of garden I would plant down South—bigger, better, maybe a little vulgar in its size and rainbow of colors. It would be a welcome change for the senses after muted, refined, tiny New York.

A few hours later I call him at work, very pleased with our domestic handiwork.

“I just tasted our basil.”

“What was it like??”

“Perfectly fragrant, just like my favorite spot on your neck.”

You make little moments of happiness in the city and then imagine when you can finally plant that big, bright, garish garden of your dreams.

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