Everything You Can Do with This Plant: All of Grandma’s Uses
To Grandma, this plant was more than leaves and stems—it was a remedy, a seasoning, a blessing, a memory. Whether it was mint, lavender, rosemary, or basil, she knew how to turn a single sprig into magic. In her hands, nothing was wasted and everything had a purpose.
She began with the kitchen. The fresh leaves went straight into her stews, teas, or homemade vinegar blends. She’d crush them with sea salt and lemon zest to make her famous seasoning rubs. Chopped fine, the plant flavored her roasts, soups, and slow-cooked beans. When dried, she’d store it in mason jars with hand-written labels, always dated, always neat.
But the magic didn’t stop at flavor. When someone had a headache or an upset stomach, Grandma would brew the leaves into tea—steaming, fragrant, and always served with a honey spoon and a story. If you had a sore throat, she’d make a gargle with hot water and the plant’s oil. For bug bites or bruises, she’d mash the leaves into a paste and press it gently onto your skin, murmuring, “Let the plant pull it out.”
Come spring, she’d make sachets—little cloth pouches stuffed with dried leaves. These went into dresser drawers to keep clothes smelling fresh or tucked under pillows to ward off bad dreams. She said the scent calmed the nerves and carried your thoughts somewhere kinder. Some Sundays, she’d toss dried leaves into her bathwater and soak like royalty, skin softened, stress released.
She used the plant for cleaning too. Boiled with lemon and vinegar, it became a disinfectant that filled the house with a clean, crisp aroma. Sometimes she’d even add it to mop water or sprinkle crushed leaves into the trash bin to keep smells away.
In her garden, she planted it around tomatoes and beans, saying it kept pests out and pulled good energy in. When the dog got fleas, she’d rub a bit of the oil into his fur—not too much—and brush him while humming. If flies came buzzing indoors, she’d tie bunches of the plant by the windows to keep them out.
She said it helped with memory, so she kept a sprig at her writing desk, and when Grandpa forgot something, she’d joke, “Sniff the leaves, dear.” At church, she’d give sachets to the ladies who looked tired or sad, pressing them into palms with a smile and saying, “This one’s for your spirit.”
Even in grief, she turned to the plant. At funerals, she’d weave it into wreaths or slip a sprig into the coffin—“to guide them home.” And when babies were born, she’d tuck the same plant under the crib for protection.
To Grandma, this plant wasn’t just useful—it was sacred. It was comfort, healing, history, and heart. Every leaf held a story, every scent a memory. And now, when I crush a leaf between my fingers, I swear I hear her laugh and feel her hands guiding mine.
