The beans were in the pan, the garlic was already going brown at the edges, and I walked out the back door in socks to get parsley. Twelve steps, no shoes, March air. That trip is the whole reason I grow herbs. Not the seed catalogue, not the little chalkboard markers I bought and never used. The twelve steps in socks.
It took me three seasons to admit that most of what I planted never made that trip. I had lemon balm going leggy behind the shed. I had a sad tarragon in a pot I checked on the way you check on a houseplant you feel guilty about. Somewhere in the middle of last summer I did the honest count and realized I cook with five herbs, over and over, and everything else was a hobby wearing a vegetable costume.
Parsley, which never sits idle
Flat leaf parsley is the one I would keep if I could only keep one. It goes on almost everything I make without changing the identity of the dish. Eggs, beans, roast potatoes, anything with too much fat that needs something sharp and green thrown at it at the last second. I chop it coarse, stems and all, because the stems taste more like parsley than the leaves do.
It is also the herb that puts up with me. Parsley in my garden gets picked hard, gets forgotten for a fortnight, gets picked hard again. It sulks for a few days and then pushes out new growth from the middle. I plant more than I think I need, because I have never once had leftover parsley at the end of a week. Two plants is not enough. Four is closer.
Basil, which I kill every single year
I have a bad record with basil and I have stopped pretending otherwise. I put it out too early, every year, because a warm week in May convinces me. Then a cold night comes through and the leaves go translucent and limp and that is the end of that. Last year I finally waited until the nights stopped being cold, and I got a plant that lasted into September.
Worth it, though. Nothing else tastes like it. I tear it rather than chop it, at the very end, off the heat. Cooked basil turns into a grey ghost of itself and I would rather use none than use it wrong. The plants want more water than I expect and more sun than my garden really offers, so mine live in pots I can shove around into whatever bright corner is going that month.
Thyme, which survives me
Thyme is the opposite of basil in my garden. I put it in a gritty spot near the path, forgot about it, and it has just kept going. It gets rained on, it gets stepped near, it goes a bit woody and grey in the middle, and it still gives me enough for a tray of roast vegetables any weekend of the year.
The trick I learned late is to not baby it. Rich soil and regular watering made mine floppy and bland. Poor soil, full sun, and neglect made it dense and much stronger tasting. I strip the little leaves off by running my fingers backwards down the stem into a bowl, which sounds fussy and takes about eight seconds.
Chives, which show up first
Chives are the first thing in my garden that looks like food. Late winter, when the beds are still mostly brown, there is a green tuft coming up in the corner and it genuinely lifts my mood. I snip them with scissors straight into whatever is on the plate. Potatoes, soured cream, an omelette, a cheese sandwich that needed help.
They come back every year on their own and they expand slowly and politely, which after my mint experience I have learned to appreciate deeply. When the purple flowers come I pull the heads apart and scatter the little florets over a salad, mostly because they look good and taste faintly of onion. I do cut the flower stalks off eventually, because the leaves get tough and hollow once the plant commits to flowering.
Mint, in a pot, always in a pot
Mint made the list because I do use it, in tea, in yoghurt with cucumber, chopped into a grain salad with too much lemon. It did not make the list because it is easy to live with. I planted it in an open bed once and spent two years undoing that decision, which I have written about elsewhere and still feel slightly stupid about.
So mine lives in a plastic pot on the paving, sitting on a paving slab so the roots cannot go looking for the bed. I cut it back hard several times a season, which it treats as a compliment. The one thing I would tell anyone starting out is that you will use less mint than you grow. Even one plant produces far more than a household drinks.
What got dropped, and why I stopped feeling bad
Off the list went lemon balm, tarragon, sage, and a coriander that bolted so fast I barely met it. Sage was the hardest to give up because the plant itself is beautiful, that soft grey leaf, but I looked back over a whole year and counted maybe three meals where I actually used it. Three meals does not earn a square foot of a small garden.
Coriander I still want to solve. Mine goes to seed the moment the weather warms and I get about ten days of usable leaf. I think the answer is sowing a small amount every few weeks rather than one hopeful patch in spring, and this year I am testing that. If it fails again I will go back to buying it, which is allowed.
That is the useful thing about doing the honest count. A weekend garden is small and your attention is smaller. Five herbs I walk out for in socks beat twelve I feel obliged to visit.