Smelling like a rose

I've recently been reminded of the truth of the fact that some of the most poignant memories are brought back to us through our sense of smell. We always had rose bushes around my childhood home, most of them red but one white one on the far side of the house, where it was rarely seen. When I did happen upon it in bloom, it was as fragrant as the others, but with a different smell.

At my current home, we have a white rose bush in the front that is similar, and another one that isn't. When the similar one bloomed about a month ago for the first time this year, I remembered that bush from my youth as I walked by and caught the scent. But even that wasn't as vivid a recollection as one I had in the garden last week. I put down some stakes for the tomato plants, and as I used twist ties from bread wrappers to secure the vines to the stakes, I caught a whiff of their scent and was immediately reminded of all those springs and summers in my father's garden, poking around and playing with the dog as I ran up and down the rows of tomatoes he had every year. It was a very fond memory, and striking in its immediacy.

This evening Phil pulled our first helping of beans off the vine, and the cucumbers and one green pepper plant are blooming now. We ate the beans fried lightly in butter with salt, and they were delicious. I think it's going to be worth all the hard work putting this garden in many times over by the time it's done producing for the summer, and I have a much better appreciation for the pleasures of eating from it fresh now that I've had my first taste. I can't wait for those tomatoes to show up, red and round.