This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Roses represent life and death. They adorn coffins and newborn's bedrooms. Snag a finger on a thorn and you bleed, but make it to the top and you get to the heart of the flower and benefit from its growth. But a rose without a scent? Why that's like a violin without strings! I think this world has become so mass-produced that it is even taking the most natural things away from nature.

Dear Ether, 

I went into a florist and saw the most delightful array of roses.  Crimson reds with blackened borders.  Blush pinks that looked the same shade as ballerina’s tutus.  Yellow the color of custard. White’s purer than the fluffiest cloud.  I touched their delicate petals and their texture was fragile but strong enough to withstand just enough pressure to let my fingertips glide along their ridges.  Long green stems with glistening, emerald colored leaves were placed amongst yellowed thorns.  

And, sticking my nose into this magnificent array of beauty—-I smelled nothing.  I expected to be hit with glistening florals, sparkly citrus and mind-blowing musks.  But all I smelled was an icy-wet odor of stale refrigeration and wet grass.  What a horrible illusion these beautiful sirens were!  

I remember my summers in England and Los Angeles.  The wild roses blossoming madly on the sides of roads or in people’s gardens.  The tea roses omitting their sweet smell as they basked in the sun.  The giants heads of other varieties blowing in the wind and the breeze capturing their heavenly headiness and just closing my eyes and taking it all in. 

I remember my mother bought me my first fragrance when I was a little girl.  It was very cheap—and simply called “Tea Rose” by a no name perfume company.  I LOVED it.  It captured everything that I thought a rose should be in a little bottle. I used to dab it on my wrist every night before bed and let it lull me to sleep dreaming of a madman’s trellis filled with roses and me standing under it’s canopy sniffing its fantastical fumes.  

And, you sure as hell bet that when I went to Borough Market in London for the first time, I bought rose flavored ice cream.  And my first purchase from Colombia Road market in Shoreditch—a dozen long-stem red roses that were so perfectly formed they looked like tea cups!  

My first fragrance from Jo Malone (on of my favorite perfumers) was Red Roses Cologne and for my senior prom I wore real baby blossoms woven through my bun to match my dress.  

So, when I went into this florist, seeing my old, dear friends, with no smell, I was so sad to see that they had been created in a hybrid hothouse, mass-produced for their looks.  Did no one care about scent anymore?  I asked the florist, and she said that garden roses didn’t last as long, were much more fragile and didn’t come in the varieties that the mass produced ones did.  She said refrigeration and picking them too quickly stole their aroma.  She told me that very upscale boutique florists had magnificent smelling collections and that they could be special ordered—but for a hefty price. 

The next day I went to a local garden center and perused their rose section.  Ahhh, what wonderful names they have come up with.  If you’ve ever visited the rose garden in June in Greenwich Park in England I’d recommend it.  It smells magnificent and they too, have fabulous names for their varieties.  I decided on a stunning sterling silver rose bush.  The owner promised that over time it would produce fragrant, sweet smelling roses that would have full heads and would be a glamorous shade of silvery-purple.  

As my plant was being loaded into my car I felt like I was adding another rose into the world that gave the air some scent—some beauty.  That, especially in Los Angeles, where everything is so concrete and polluted, I wanted to stick my nose in something natural and beautiful again.  I wanted to close my eyes and have my senses overwhelm me. 

Every rose has it’s thorn, but then again, sometimes it’s worth getting nicked to feel something and reap the reward of its beauty than to not have any experience at all.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365