Peony

There's a moment in late May — maybe early June if it's been a cool spring — when the Sarah Bernhardt peonies open and I genuinely lose the ability to do anything productive. I just stand there. They're absurdly generous flowers, all ruffled silk and blush pink, layer upon layer of petals that seem to go on forever. I once counted over forty petals on a single bloom. I gave up and put it in a jar instead.

The scent is what really gets me. It's old-fashioned in the best way — like a rose garden and vanilla and something slightly powdery that reminds me of my grandmother's dressing table. If you've never buried your face in a peony, you're missing one of life's genuinely free pleasures.

Sarah Bernhardt is the variety I recommend to everyone who's new to peonies. She's reliable, she's hardy, and she puts on a show that makes people stop on the pavement and lean over your garden wall. I've had conversations with total strangers because of this flower.

The only catch — and I say this with love — is that the season is cruelly short. Three weeks, maybe four if you're lucky. But that's part of what makes them extraordinary. You can't have them whenever you want, and that makes the wanting sweeter.

I buy them for the house the moment they appear at the flower market. One bunch in a wide-mouthed ceramic jug on the kitchen table, and the whole room shifts.