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| Illustrations by the author's wife, Susan McNeill |
Introduction to 'The After-Dinner Gardening Book' by Richard W. Langer:
"The conversion of our apartment from a normal, barren city cave to a tropical jungle began quite by accident one bleak winter day. I was sitting huddled in pajamas and two dressing gowns, a wool scarf around my throat, tending to a particularly tenacious New York cold. My wife, Susan, in complete innocence had left beside me a large warm glass of freshly sqeezed lemonade with honey and set off to the local pharmacy for aspirin. I myself sat unsuspecting, half-heartedly reading a spy novel. Dutifully I took a slug of the lemonade, almost choking on two seeds which had slipped seditiously into the brew. That, I think, was the exact moment it all began.
There was no saucer, and to put the seeds back into the lemonade would only be to court further disaster. Of course I could have gotten up and disposed of them in the kitchen, but such exertion seemed uncalled-for. With only a moment's hesitation I reached over to the bedraggled begonia on the window-sill, abandoned by the previous tenant, and put the pits in the pot. After all, I told myself, they're organic, maybe as they rot they'll fertilize the poor begonia - in its condition nothing could hurt. Then I dozed off until Susan returned, totally unaware of what fruit my innocent act would bear....
A few weeks later my eye happened to rest on the lone flowerpot and observed a new sprout. Excitedly I called Susan over, congratulating her on rescuing the begonia from the elements of destruction, New York soot being not the least of these. She looked for a moment, then told me,
"It's been invaded. My flowerpot's been invaded."
"Nonsense," I replied.
Thereupon she pointed out what I, even without any botanical training whatsoever, should have noticed. Where as the begonia leaves were somewhat wrinkled and roundish, the new leaves were long, flat and shiny. Suddenly, from the dregs of memory floated up a page out of my Biology 101 textbook: seed leaves. With elaborate erudition I explained how seed leaves, the first two leaves on a new plant, never looked like the rest. I couldn't explain why, being unable to recall the next page in the text, but for a while anyhow her invasion theory was eliminated.
The next two leaves appeared ten days later. They were long, flat, and shiny. Slightly shamefaced, I mumbled something about going out for some pipe tobacco, but made my way instead to the local flower shop. As I stood in front of the florist's window debating how to present my problem to him, the obvious answer appeared behind my reflection - in the form of a lemon tree bearing a $9.95 label. I had grown my own tree from seed!
Proud as a new father, I paced up and down before the shop window, letting the tree grow in my imagination until it well shaded the beach bungalow on the tropical island to which I had transported us. Reluctantly giving up the idea of getting cigars to pass around to friends, I headed for the five-and-dime. There I purchased the largest pot they had and several pounds of sterilized soil - newborn plants must be sensitive and all that. Digging out the lemon tree with Susan's nail file, my first miniature gardening tool, I transplanted it to its new home. When I called Susan over to inspect my handiwork, I was rewarded by a fit of giggles. Well, granted the pot, about 20 times the size of the plant, did look somewhat underfilled, still....
Continuing to sulk at dinnertime, I ate in silence, oblivious to everything except the thought that when "the old cold" as Susan had dubbed the lemon tree, started bearing fruit, I'd have the last laugh.
We had fresh mango for dessert. After one bite I stopped suddenly.
"A pit."
"Impossible. How could I miss something that size?"
"No, no. I mean, where is it?"
"I threw them out."
It was one of those moments I was glad ours was an older apartment, without a convenient incinerator chute. I dashed to the kitchen, where I rooted around in the garbage like a pig for truffles, rising at last triumphantly with two beautiful mango pits.
Excusing myself hastily, I ran down to the five-and-dime, bought two more pots and three huge bags of soil, and returned to Susan's despairing "Oh no!" Then I began my new career as New York's only plantation manager in earnest."
