As I was walking around 14th street, home from working at the spice market at Chelsea Market I worked at briefly, I spotted this beheaded beauty laying at a street florist's feet, and asked him if I could have it. Of course, he said sheepishly, and I walked off with what I consider to be one of the great wonders of the world. I snip whatever is left of the stem, ideally to maximize water flow to the rose head, and position thoughtfully in water to flourish and bloom to what you see below. Not quite as fragrant as its white friend, the red rose's delicate fragrance is mirrored by the velveteen petals that compose its intricate design. Intricate. That is also her fragrance, the red rose, that is her beauty, a dance in the world of fragrance, with whirling notes to delight the palate. That is why I call her Victoria, an exquisite beauty, elegantly and serendipitously breathtaking in her every detail. And as always, I cherished her in my grandmother's Limoges petite vase until she had no more beauty to share with me.
Grandmas vasette did not make it to Israel with me.
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