My good friend basil, king of herbs
My friend HJ is convinced that most women are Vitamin D-deficient. I have no doubt she has scientific journals and studies to back her up, because she's a serious journalist. But I choose to believe this is a crackpot irrational belief she has, because her eyes do in fact light up with an unholy zeal when she gets on this apparently always-relevant subject. Besides the flu I wrote to you about in January, I have also contracted a very sore throat and cold this winter. I am hardier than all this malarkey. And yet. [The truth is, I rarely got sick when I was taking a little Vitamin D softgel capsule every day, on HJ's advice.] I bought a 250-capsule bottle at CVS yesterday. You win, HJ.
It's been a very busy year so far. We went, as Thirst Aid Kit, to the Sundance Festival. We did a live show! I was burdened very greatly indeed by the altitude of Park City, Utah. I could not catch my breath for the entirety of our time there, and suffered with migraines as well. I felt I was allergic to the obvious wealth of the community we were briefly stationed in. Fuck capitalism, obviously, but I'll tell you what: money is so nice for getting nice things and living in stunningly beautiful places. Money for all! Money for everyone!
I also got to guest host an episode of the show where I have my day job... This American Life. You may have heard of it? It was a genuine honour to host (and co-produce with the abundantly talented Dana Chivvis) the show, and to tell stories in the way that we did. I got to speak to the poet Ross Gay, a man whose work I have admired from afar for so long. He was a delight. The most human human, with the warmest aura to him. I felt immediately like we had been friends for a very long time, and it made for one of the loosest interviews I've ever conducted. I left his home in Indiana sad that we did not live closer to one another, so we could pop round each other's homes for chats. Much of my job is a treat, but this felt treatier than anything else so far.
Before I left Ross's house, we took a long, slow walk about his garden. He pointed out his potato bed, his green beans, his collard — and other — greens, and so much more. He pulled a couple of ripe tomatoes right off the vine for me and my producer; the flavour felt like the exact colour of the sun itself. He also plucked two basil leaves for us to munch on. Again, everything felt like the most intense version of itself it could be. I rhapsodised about the basil leaf for long minutes (it's all captured on tape, and I am slightly embarrassed) and by the time we were done chatting, microphones packed away and recorders turned off, Ross came back from outside with a bunch of basil in his hand. He put the bunch into a paper cup, soaked a kitchen paper towel in water and wrapped the roots in the wet paper. And he told me that since I was so taken by the basil in his garden, I might as well take some basil back to Brooklyn with me. Gratefully, I took the cup.
The basil, with only some bruised leaves to tell of its journey across the States, lasted just a few weeks once we got to New York. But in those few weeks, I got to enjoy the fragrance of blooming basil every time I walked past the plant. I also got to eat pasta with roughly chopped fresh basil a few times. And every time I sidled past it, sitting in a repurposed candle jar, I thought of Ross, and I thought of his poems, and I thought of his Book of Delights (now a New York Times bestseller!) and I thought of my family, and I thought of my friends, and I thought of all the disparate things that make up a life, and I felt light, and happy, and delighted, however momentarily, every time.
All that, I thought, from some sweet-smelling basil.