After weathering the winter on my windowsill in fine fashion, growing from little more than a sprig in a miniature plastic pot to a leafy bush, which has twice produced enough pesto for a pound of pasta, my basil plant is on its last, spindly legs.
I don't get it--shouldn't it be thriving, now that it's summer and the west-facing picture window in which it sits is filled with light much of the afternoon?
Jim suggests that the plant may have gotten more out of the lower winter sun than the higher summer rays, but I'm not persuaded.
Still, there are leaves left, and some little ones coming on.
And many days, I pick a few, tear them, and add them to yogurt and a cut-up banana--something I first tried in February, when it felt like eating sunshine.
It still does.
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