My orchid just flowered for the third time — four beautiful yellow blossoms. In the filtered light of our bay window, she disregards my brown thumbs and chugs along in her half-cup of dirt, requiring only
a thorough soaking with water every two weeks. I give her maximum points for hardiness, and admire her uncanny ability to thrive in such suboptimal circumstances.
Orchids always remind me of Thailand. My husband and I vacationed in Bangkok almost twenty years ago. One evening, we and several others from our tour group splurged on dinner at a five-star restaurant in the Oriental Hotel. The service was exquisite. Beverages practically refilled themselves. Soiled ashtrays (smoking was permitted back then) were promptly covered, removed, and replaced. When a guest exited the restroom, a matron quietly slipped in to remove the used towel from the wastebasket and refold the loose end of the toilet paper into a welcoming triangle. A captain and his team of three waiters set our plates before us and lifted their silver covers off at precisely the same instant. Afterward, the staff hovered a few feet from the table, ready to whisk away the empty plates. My husband’s entrée was garnished with an edible flower—a gorgeous pink orchid—which he popped into his mouth at the end of the meal. The youngest of the waiters did a double-take, then let out an involuntary snicker. He raced back to the kitchen holding his sides, doing his level best to maintain the dignified demeanor expected of him. The captain apologized profusely for the boy’s behavior. He was new, we were told, and this was the first time he (or any of them, for that matter) had ever seen such a thing. We waved off the apology and left a generous tip. To this day, when I spy orchids for sale in our grocery store’s flower shop, I giggle to myself and ponder whether they ought to be located in the produce depart-ment instead.
Have a comment? Click HERE to share it!