As an experienced gardener I knew better.
That was how I justified my reckless planting. Not one, but TWO pots of spearmint. In. The. GROUND. Free to spread its sneaky tendrils without a care. No boundaries to contain its exuberant growth. Able to smother all but the hardiest of herbal companions.
But no more. After three years of looking the other way while the mint crept in and claimed the thyme, the basil, the marjoram, the sage, the lemon balm, and even the parsley and cilantro, I decided its time was up. This week I ruthlessly ripped out every visible sprig of spring smelling sweetness.
Of course that means nothing. Come March there will be little minty volunteers popping up all over. And I vow to promptly pull them up and … put them in a pot. For their own good.
Because mint, unattended, might be monstrous. But happily contained in a garden pot, it’s mostly marvelous. And no garden should be without it. Especially mine.