When my parents were visiting, I pointed out my struggling basil plant and noted that, though I had aids to keep me from forgetting to water it (and, indeed, hadn’t even OVERwatered it), it looked pretty wretched. The leaves had gotten limp and had started to lose their color, and I’d already cut back half the plant, so there weren’t even all that many leaves left anyway.
“I should probably just put it out of its misery,” I told my parents. “It’s not like it’s growing.”
“Maybe you should mist its leaves,” said my Dad.
I do, indeed, have a teeny-tiny mister, but I rejected that idea. Mostly because that would involve walking the whole way across my apartment (that’s 12-15 steps, people…maybe 16 if you’re limping or something), and open a closet door, and remove said mister, and fill it up with water, and DO YOU SEE??? That’s a lot of effort for eight leaves of basil.
Because of this, I just didn’t deal with the thing until the following weekend, when I was having people over, and felt like half-dead basil was not appropriate décor. I decided I would cut back the last of the leaves, wash them and wrap them in paper towels (just like Rachael Ray), and put them in the fridge to use sometime in the next 24 hours.
But when I went to cut the leaves, I noticed tiny white spots all over their backsides.
As we all know, tiny white spots on a backside? Not usually a good sign. I looked closer, and determined that, indeed, they were one of two things: some kind of disease or some kind of larva. Regardless, I was not going to eat that. Not even with a good freshwater rinse.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the end of my basil plant.