Photo by Coffee with Joshua
By December, the city had folded itself into its winter shape—narrower streets of light, colder breath rising from the river, and the faint metallic scent of the season drifting through the shutters.
The Balcony Gardener had taken to drinking Lion’s Beard mushroom tea in the mornings, partly for its earthy comfort and partly because it seemed to keep her dreams vivid enough to discuss with a neighbour.
On the morning of the solstice, Teddy was already settled under the duvet like a seasoned negotiator who had won his case long ago. The Balcony Gardener eased herself out from under his weight and carried her steaming mug toward the window boxes.
The bulbs—shy, pale, determined—were pushing up thin green commas of hope. She greeted them with joy each year.
A soft knock sounded. Madame Dupont appeared at the door, her scarf tied with theatrical precision.
“I have perfected a new winter drink,” she said solemnly, raising a small thermos as if it were a relic. “And it contains zéro fermentation.”
The Balcony Gardener settled into her chair, wrapping both hands around her mug.
The Balcony Gardener stepped aside, amused.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “I’m having Lion’s Beard mushroom tea myself.”
She did not mention her latest experiment—her tiny Lion’s Beard mushrooms, beginning to look remarkably healthy in their well-hidden, insulated pot on the balcony. They were her secret winter project, quietly thriving under an upturned clay bowl.
“Merveilleux,” Madame Dupont replied, though her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the tea’s colour. “Does it cause visions?”
“Only sometimes,” the Balcony Gardener admitted. “Actually . . . I had the strangest dream last night.”
Madame Dupont leaned in, delighted. “Tell me. I love dreams that are strange.”
The Balcony Gardener settled into her chair, wrapping both hands around her mug.
“In the dream,” she began, “I found myself on a farm. During the last year of this garden, I’d had 32 rows of garlic, 50 feet long, planted six inches apart. That’s a hundred cloves per row. Perfectly normal, you see.”
Madame Dupont nodded with grave approval.
“But then, and here is where the tea must be involved, each garlic clove turned into a MUSIC garlic bulb, and each bulb had four or five cloves. So suddenly, I was standing in a field of twelve thousand eight hundred cloves. An ocean of garlic.”
Madame Dupont clutched her chest. “Mon Dieu. That is a festival of garlic.”
“It gets worse,” the Balcony Gardener said. “This year, I expanded the garden. One hundred and twenty rows of garlic. Plus corn. Plus amaranth. I couldn’t reach the end of the field. The rows went past the horizon like some biblical migration of garlic.”
Madame Dupont began laughing so hard her scarf trembled.
Teddy looked up from the duvet, somewhat alarmed.
The Paris rooftops seemed to lean in closer, curious.”
“And then,” the Balcony Gardener continued, “the garlic began whispering. Not in French. Not in English. In some ancient language of cloves. They rustled like tiny prophets.”
At this, the jars on the balcony hummed, a low, sympathetic vibration, as if they, too, acknowledged the possibility of prophetic garlic.
“And then?” Madame Dupont gasped.
“Then,” the Balcony Gardener said calmly, “they all uprooted themselves and began marching toward me.”
The Paris rooftops seemed to lean in closer, curious.
“I turned to run,” she said, “but the corn blocked my path. The amaranth formed a kind of polite but insistent barricade. The garlic closed in. They wanted something.”
“What?” Madame Dupont asked.
“They wanted me to take minutes,” the Balcony Gardener said. “It was a meeting. A garlic council meeting. They made me their secretary.”
For a moment, Paris itself paused, as though caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
The bulbs in the window boxes swayed very slightly, or perhaps that was simply the city breathing.”
Madame Dupont wiped her eyes.
“Your Lion’s Beard tea is too strong,” she declared. “Or too wise. Or both.”
The Balcony Gardener smiled, watching the candle she had lit flicker in the cool air. The bulbs in the window boxes swayed very slightly, or perhaps that was simply the city breathing.
“December is misunderstood,” Madame Dupont said, still smiling. “But your dreams, chère amie, are a magnificent chaos.”
The Balcony Gardener raised her mug in salute.
“In that case,” she said, “I’ll keep drinking the tea.”
Madam Dupont inclined her empty cup toward the Lion’s Beard teapot.
Later, when the door closed, the Balcony Gardener stepped back onto the balcony with her warm cup. The air was still, the kind of winter stillness that seems to listen. She leaned on the railing, watching the rooftops soften into dusk, and that was when she saw it: one of the window-box bulbs gave a faint, silvery pulse of light, as though winking at her. The jars gave a tiny, deliberate clink. Teddy lifted his head, ears pricked.
And perhaps, just perhaps, beneath the upturned clay bowl in the corner, one of the Lion’s Beard mushrooms gave the softest little wiggle, as if stretching in its sleep, preparing for whatever quiet magic the next season might bring.
For a breathless moment, the whole balcony seemed to inhale together, gardener, dog, bulbs, jars, mushrooms, and the winter air, acknowledging something small and impossible, growing in the quiet.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures here and in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1.