Cut down our rosemarry bush today. Well. I didn’t cut it down completely. But in the words of the redneck (who I am) and the thoughts of the vulgar (who I should be?) I thoroughly decapitated a mostly dying four square foot colossal rose-merry bush today. We had it growing on the south side of our beach house for the better part of more than a few years (thank you for the run-on). Last year it was so vibrant and full of life–my bush. For I had planted her that number of years ago. It was when I was cooking. Cooking too much. The scale in my bathroom determined that one. After I found a way to compromise with my bathroom scale I went back to cooking. It changed nothing–except for accepting the wishes of my scale. Just cook, scale said. But don’t fill yourself, my scale added. And I did. I abided. But then. Suddenly. I get here. Home. Again. This place. This beach place. I get here so seldom. You know. Because. I call this my home. But it is. And. According to the/my rosemarry bush she is my home. That is clear. And. As I said. I had to gut her today. I noticed when I was here in March that she didn’t make it through the harsh winter. You know, I was shoveling snow off my mother’s car in March–at a beach resort on the mid-Atlantic coast of my beloved united mistakes–my home. And so much cruel winter is too much for my rosemerry. She didn’t make it. But here’s the thing. Part of her was living. Part of her–a small part–had the will to go on. A few branches from the thousands (yes, I’m exaggerating) branches (of my four square foot bush) survived. So I thought: cut the rest away. Those few branches are the same that I started with. So many years ago. And now she produces the luscious leaves as ever before. And I will cook with her again. But that’s not what I wanted to bore you with tonight, dear worst-reader. I wanted to bore you with the idear that that bush had so much to do with not just cooking but with this place. This home. And I realized that when I cut her into pieces. For that is how I do it. When I’m trimming the hedges, the plants, the rose bushes of my mother, I pile the scraps into a large state-bought trash receptacles, you know, the kind tax payers are coerced into paying more tax for, and then I proceed to cut-down the limbs of what I’ve trimmed. This enables me to get a bunch of rubbish into a state-owned and state-ueber-taxed receptacle without compromising the rest of our rubbish needs. And here’s where the magic starts. As I was cutting down the three or three point five of the four square foot of my beloved rose’mree bush I noticed that her branches carried the same luscious smells I had fallen in love with after my first visit to Tuscany in the year of someone’s lord two thousand four–or was it 1998? It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m sure. I was cutting her down so more of her would fit in the receptacle and her smells spewed forth from the taxed trash can. It was wonderful. Two inch thick branches that I thought were dead–well, they are dead–still reeked of the luscious rose and marry. You know. That smell. When mixed properly with garlic and oregano and then strewn on someone’s pasta make the best basic meal there is. Indeed. Leave it up to the Italians to come with something like that. But I’m thoroughly lost now. All I wanted to say was that I miss the four square feet of my rose-merred bush. But there’s still a bit left of her and we will work with that. Amen.