Phillip’s call the night before (she had carried the phone with her around the house, as eager as a teenager for its ring) had been long and chatty. His parting words, “Sleep well, Elizabeth,” had come true and she had awakened smiling, ready for what the day might bring. She spent the morning making herb vinegar. Down in her garden she filled two baskets with sprigs of herbs— oregano, thyme, Italian parsley, dill, garlic chives, sage, basil, and tarragon. Back in the kitchen she rinsed off the leafy bunches and shook the moisture from them. She had already washed out her gallon jars— eleven of them— and she divided the herbs among the jars, stuffing nine of them with a mixture but reserving the tarragon for just two. Tarragon, the “little dragon” of herbs, was too overpowering to mix with milder flavors. “Does not play well with others,” she mused as she filled the jars with slightly warmed apple cider vinegar. She set the jars on the table under the window. There they would sit for several weeks as the herbs’ essences permeated the vinegar.
