Ivy is my new pot plant, a delicate little thing whom I picked up at the Farmers’ Market around the corner from my place on Saturday.
The market was relatively deserted, containing many fewer producers than the last time I visited in November. I attribute the low numbers to the colder weather. But as people still need to eat their fresh vegetables, I wonder where they are shopping now? Back to the undercover mall, I suppose.
So I couldn’t avoid seeing the array of lovely indoor plants all up for adoption for a measly $5. I pointed to one plant and asked the seller its name. “That’s a ficus,” he said. “Ah, that’s a ficus. I’m an ignoramus,” I replied.
“Hey, that’s a good one,” he said, in a wonderfully strong Bronx accent. So I brought Ivy, who has grown up in the Bronx, into my Brooklyn apartment, which she sits elegantly on my kitchen windowsill and keeps me company.
