The garlic patch is weeded, at least as much as my patience would let it–the microscopic clover plants, so small they’re still purple, are mostly still there because I didn’t bother ripping them out. But the oodles of seedlings are ripped out. Among them are parsley sprouts. It was so odd to yank them out there, while thirty feet away I desperately want them to grow and thrive. “I guess that’s the definition of a weed,” Eric said. “A plant growing where you don’t want it.”