my little botanist

i was logged on to rant about dinosaurs, and just when i resigned myself to a future of t-rexs and tonka trucks owen asks: where is there rosemary? i smell something, like... rosemary. no context, no conversation, but right on the ledge above where he was sitting was the sprig of rosemary with the rose i had picked last night and put in a little vase for a much needed moment of zen. perhaps those dinos and trucks might just like to explore a little herb garden--just the kind of dirt i can get excited about.