Read by Matilda Longbottom

As I stand at the threshold of my garden, the crisp Autumn air nips at my cheeks, carrying with it the bittersweet perfume of fading Summer. The weeds have stopped growing, and the plants that have been my faithful companions through long, sun-drenched days now face their final curtain call as I begin to plot my path, harvesting herbs and flowers. My fingers trail along their leaves and petals – mint, basil, thyme, chamomile – each touch a farewell and a promise.

I am the reluctant harbinger of Winter, scissors in hand, ready to perform the annual ritual of preservation. The garden has been my sanctuary, a place where time slowed and worries melted away like morning dew. Now, as the first frost threatens on the horizon, I must become both executioner and savior.

The basil goes first, its pungent aroma filling the air as I clip entire stems. There’s a certain liberation in harvesting annuals – no need for gentleness or restraint. I cut low, near the base of the plant, gathering generous bunches. They’ve lived their fleeting lives fully, and now they offer themselves up for one last service. The cilantro follows, then the dill, their feathery fronds a reminder of delicate Summer dishes soon to be mere memories.

But with the perennials, I must tread more carefully. The mint, ever the opportunist, requires a firm hand lest it stage a coup come Spring. I recall with a rueful smile the year it nearly succeeded, transforming my carefully planned beds into a monochromatic sea of green. I trim it back severely, cutting about two-thirds of the plant’s height, ensuring it won’t spread its runners too enthusiastically. The rosemary and thyme receive gentler treatment, a pruning that promises renewal rather than end. For these, I snip off the top few inches, careful not to cut into the woody stems.

As twilight descends, I retreat indoors, arms full of fragrant bounty. The kitchen becomes an alchemist’s workshop, where I transmute fresh herbs into Winter gold. Some I hang in bundles from the rafters, tying them with twine and suspending them upside down in a warm, dry spot above the stove. Others I prepare for the freezer, first washing them gently and patting them dry with a clean towel.

For freezing, I employ two methods. For harvesting herbs like parsley and cilantro, I chop them finely, spoon them into ice cube trays, and cover them with a thin layer of olive oil before freezing. For hardier herbs like rosemary and thyme, I freeze the sprigs whole on a baking sheet before transferring them to freezer bags, allowing me to easily grab a sprig or two as needed.

The freezer bags fill quickly, each one a time capsule of Summer’s essence. As I label them with the herb name and date, I can’t help but feel like a squirrel preparing for the long Winter ahead, hoarding away these morsels of sunshine and growth.

For drying, I separate my harvested herbs into small bunches, secure them with twine, and hang them upside down in a dark, well-ventilated area. Some, like oregano and thyme, I lay out on wire racks, ensuring good air circulation. In about a week, when the leaves crumble easily between my fingers, I’ll store them in airtight glass jars away from direct sunlight.

Finally, as the last herb is stored away, I pause. The kitchen is heavy with mingled scents – basil and mint, rosemary and thyme. For a moment, I’m transported back to lazy afternoons in the garden, the buzz of bees and the warmth of the sun on my skin.

As I prepare to leave my herb sanctuary, a splash of color catches my eye. How could I have forgotten the floral gems of my garden? The herbal flowers, no less precious than their leafy counterparts, demand their own farewell ritual.

The vibrant red of bee balm nods in the fading light, its petals still holding the memory of hummingbirds’ visits. I snip the flower heads carefully, knowing their bergamot-like flavor will bring a touch of Summer to my Winter teas. The chamomile, with its delicate, daisy-like blooms, seems to glow in the twilight. I gather these gently, cupping each flower head in my palm before snipping, preserving their apple-sweet scent.

Calendula’s sunny faces turn towards me, their petals ranging from pale yellow to deep orange. I harvest these with reverence, knowing their healing properties will be a balm for Winter-chapped skin. The sturdy purple coneflowers of echinacea stand tall, and I select a few, leaving plenty for the goldfinches that will visit long after the frost has come.

Lastly, I come to the lavender, its purple spikes heavy with fragrance. I run my hands along the stems, releasing a cloud of soothing scent, before cutting bundles to dry. These will perfume drawers, flavor shortbread, and perhaps find their way into a sachet beneath my pillow on long Winter nights.

For these floral treasures, my preservation methods are gentle. Some, like chamomile and calendula, I spread on screens to air dry in a dim, warm spot. Others, like bee balm and lavender, I hang in small bunches, their stems tied with twine and suspended upside down.

The echinacea I treat differently, digging up a few entire plants, roots and all. After washing the soil from the roots, I’ll chop them coarsely and dry them alongside the flowers, creating a potent immune-boosting blend for the cold months ahead.

As darkness falls in earnest, I gather my floral harvest and step inside. My kitchen now bears witness to the full spectrum of the herb garden’s bounty – from the savory leaves of culinary herbs to the delicate petals of medicinal flowers. Each bundle, each jar, each bag is a promise: of flavor, of healing, of the inevitable return of Spring.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, inhaling the mingled fragrances of leaf and flower. In preserving these gifts from my garden, I’ve captured more than just herbs and blooms. I’ve bottled memories, stored away hope, and prepared a feast for the senses that will sustain me through the barren months to come.

Winter may claim the garden outside, but here, in this warm kitchen, Summer’s essence lives on, waiting patiently to be awakened at need. And I, the gardener-turned-alchemist, hold the key to unlocking these treasures, one pinch, one petal, one memory at a time.

The herbs and flowers may be gone from the garden, but they live on in jars and bags, in cubes of ice and oil. And in their absence, the garden sleeps, gathering strength for the cycle to begin anew. ❖

What are your traditions for harvesting herbs and flowers? Do you have special ways of harvesting herbs and flowers and preserving them after?  I’d love to hear them in the comments.