Elias tugged. The roots came up like a net of nerves. He hung the stalks upside down in his garage, drying them in paper bags. A week later, he rolled a pod between his thumb and finger. It cracked open. Dozens of tiny, brown seeds spilled into his palm.
“The smallest seed,” he said, holding up the jar, “makes the loudest flavor.”
“What is that?” she asked.
Elias didn’t believe in small beginnings. He was a man of grand gestures, instant coffee, and pre-lit Christmas trees. So when his daughter, Lena, handed him a tiny envelope for his birthday, he shook it.
One morning, Lena came over and ran her hand along the top of the plants. “They’re flowering,” she said. Tiny yellow blooms, like shattered sunshine. Then, the pods came—green, then tan, then brown and brittle. how to grow mustard from seed
He had started with a single envelope. Now he had a hundred envelopes’ worth.
He plucked the weakest, his big, calloused hands suddenly careful. He left the strongest standing like tiny green soldiers. Elias tugged
A week later, they were a crowded jungle. Lena came over, pointed, and laughed. “Too many, Dad. Pull half of them out. Leave three inches between the survivors.”