WHAT KIND OF LEAF IS THIS?

One of the few things I like about where we live these days is that we’ve got free run of fresh greens. Long as we can eat ‘em!

Let me explain: a few years back we leased out part of our land to a real green-thumbed fella who grows vegetables, and as part of the deal, we get all the produce we want for our own table. Not a penny off, not a dime charged. Every day our table’s loaded up with lettuce, collards, arugula, scallions, cilantro, parsley, peppers of every kind, and, come the right season, fresh tomatoes too. That’s about the range of it, more or less. Save for the odd experiment now and then, the Garden Man plants pretty much the same list of vegetables, over and over. Week after week.

Now, this ain’t a complaint — heaven forbid! — it’s just background, so you understand why things went the way they went.

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Yesterday, right before lunch, my wife sent me down to the garden for seasoning for a chicken dish she was fixing. What she wanted was what we call around here “cheiro-verde” (you call “green herbs”— scallions, cilantro, parsley). And if I happened to find some of them little chili peppers, those’d be welcome too.

I got to the door of the greenhouse, one of three, and waved at the owner, who was helping a customer.

He waved back.

Over time, with the routine of it all, I’d earned the freedom to just go in and pick whatever I needed myself, without having to bother him or one of his hired hands.

First, I went to where the scallions grew.

While I was pulling each little leaf careful-like, I got to thinking about that little bit of discomfort I still feel coming here, taking what I want, and leaving without paying a cent. Not that our tenant’s ever shown a lick of displeasure about it, or about the deal we struck in the first place. Nothing like that! But I still don’t feel quite right walking in, filling up my bags, and walking back out without handing over some money.

I stood up with a few scallions in hand and headed over to the parsley bed. That’s when, in the row right next to it, I spotted a kind of leaf I hadn’t seen around there before.

Small, scattered little sprigs — the stems looked like cilantro, but the leaves were different. I picked one and brought it to my nose.

“Mm, that smells good!”

Seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place what seasoning it was.

“I’m gonna grab some of this too.”

I started pulling up one sprig after another and — I got to thinking about it after, and I still can’t tell you why — the smell just seemed to get stronger, sweeter, the more I pulled. Guess I got a little carried away. Kept right on tearing it up, filling my hands with this fragrant herb whose name I didn’t know, but whose smell I could’ve sworn on.

“Chopped up fine in that chicken, this’ll be something else.”

That’s when the Garden Man, done with his customer, walked into the greenhouse. I saw him and, still riding that little wave of excitement over my discovery, left the row and went straight up to him, both hands full of the stuff.

“Hey, I grabbed a little of this here.”

He looked at the sprigs in my hands. Looked over my shoulder at the bed. I looked too, and it hit me — maybe I’d gotten a little carried away. Maybe I’d pulled up more than I needed for lunch... more like lunch for the whole week.

Looked like I’d cleared out near half the bed.

My excitement dropped a notch or two.

I asked him:

“I liked the smell. What is it?”

“You out of your mind?”

“Huh?”

“Those are carrot seedlings. I just planted ‘em.”

Looks like we’ll be going without vegetables for a spell.

I originally wrote this in Brazilian Portuguese in 2017. I translated it into English myself in 2026—assisted by AI, but relying on my own ear for rhythm. I hope the result is good.

Below is a real photo of the greenhouse I was forbidden from visiting for months.