Garden, with weeds. A true garden. Those tidy gardens without weeds belong to helicopter gardeners, the ones who hover and gasp and rip up the offending "weed" as if the garden police were knocking at the gate, ready to write citations and name names.
And, because I grew peas in a pot (a very large one) a couple of summers ago, I love remembering the fresh-cut smell of the pods between my fingers. I've given them a little whimsy here with Mother of Perle buttons:
Happy Thanksgiving!
