I went to a place I haven’t been to in 35 years. The Philadelphia Flower Show. With my mom, the person who took me there in 1990. I haven’t really been into flowers and plants at any point in my life, as evidenced by the pitiable mélange of plant life on my front windowsill (their leaves stretching toward the glass as if praying to escape) and the inadequate front-of-house gardens I’ve largely ignored since August.

In 1990 my mom talked me into going with her by inviting the boyfriend du jour and all I remember was how lush and beautiful the scene was and, also, the honey vendor from which I acquired an oatmeal raisin recipe that’s been in my recipe box forever. I wanted to go last year, I don’t know why, and then never made it. So this year I said, Mom, let’s go. And she was all, YES!!

We decided to meet there as we’re coming in from opposing directions and by some miracle arrived and parked at roughly the same time. She made it inside before me and told me she’d be standing outside the restrooms and, “you can’t miss me, I have white hair.” By the way, if you’ve never been, she is most definitely easy to miss because nearly everyone at the Philadelphia Flower Show has white hair. And we kept getting separated and it was difficult to locate her at times. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

Anyway, I go inside, pass through security and have to remove my bag because, car keys, or the bejeweled cross I have dangling from the zipper. I walk toward the only bathrooms I see and she is nowhere. I walk back toward the door, looking everywhere. No mom. I walk back again and by this time I have aroused the attention of the two guys at the information counter, who look at me quizzically. I call her. Where are you?

I’m standing outside the bathrooms.

NO YOU ARE NOT.

Yes, I am.

Okay, which bathrooms?

They’re right inside the door you entered.

Now, at this point I’m getting pissed off. I explain the spiral staircase I passed by and that the bathroom is at the end of the entrance hall and SHE IS NOT STANDING THERE. She says, “what spiral stairs?” and mentions the escalators and I tell her I can’t get on them without my ticket, which she has. And then the call drops.

I ask the two info guys, is there more than one entrance to the Flower Show? Why yes, there is. Guess where mom was??

After walking outside and across the street, passing through security again, removing my bag to be searched again, there she was with that amused smirk I know so well. Because it’s just so damn funny when I’m aggravated.

The Flower Show really is something. It’s also extremely crowded with folks jockeying to see the most popular displays – in one case an exquisite “tea party” with enormous animals crafted of plants and flowers seated around the table. One can view it 365 degrees around but the majority wanted that artistic photo through the “window” on the house façade. And it was 10-deep in most places and instead of courteously moving along in a line, people were diving in from behind and butting in front of others (me) who waited patiently for their turn.

It is notable that in 1990 there were no cell phones. Today everyone held one with the camera on and ready, snapping thousands of pictures to capture every second of the experience they’re not really experiencing with the naked eye. Sad, really, though I admit I have been guilty over this many years. And OMG, there were a number of young people there snapping what could only be Insta selfies in front of many displays.

There was a Botanist garden bar – and by Botanist I mean GIN – and mom was all, oooh, cocktails! and it’s only half past twelve. Did I want one? Not a gin drinker, though I honestly haven’t tried it in almost as many years since the last flower show I went to. I tasted hers (it was good!) and bought us a $8 pretzel twist with a $2 container of mustard to share.

Another reason I really wanted to go the show was because my cousin had a booth and I really wanted to see her and my uncle (who was there helping for the week). I also knew my mom would love her pottery. It’s cheerful and colorful and gorgeous and I felt compelled to ‘splain why I wasn’t buying, like an asshole because why did I need to say anything at all?

And then I sank the ship deeper when I said I really like the “earth tones” stuff which isn’t at all what I meant because it’s not earth tones and if I’m being honest I blame the gin for this terrible lapse. And she said, “oh, you’ll never see me making earth tones,” and then it was time for the earth to swallow me hole. But did I shut up? No, I did not. I tried to correct my mistake and I was sure it wasn’t landing and why, oh why, do I still do shit like this at 55?? And I’m still obsessing over it, eight days later.  I’m sorry Jess. You don’t have to claim me as family.

And my obsessive mind is already answering that with, “oh, you won’t see me claiming you as family”, and now I’m going to spend another two days obsessing over my stupid mouth and my awkward sensibilities. I’m weird, sometimes. I blame my mom. She’s weird too. Certainly this did NOT come from my dad’s side of the family.

So we drifted among the other booths and admired the boutique items and expensive wares. I saw a pair of floral boots with a lug sole made from recycled materials I loved but not for $255. There were six-foot tall beautiful charcuterie boards selling for as much or more than $300. My current focus is subtracting, not adding, as I clean out closets and cabinets and drawers. I want to live minimally. Less clutter. More thoughtful buys.

We walked across the street to the Reading Terminal Market, bustling and buzzing like an ant farm, and by some miracle got two empty seats at the Greek counter. We ordered two gyros – the correct way – and the waitress knew exactly what we said and it was glorious. There’s a café down the street from Todd’s office building that makes THE BEST gyros and they’re Greek owned so they don’t think I’m trying to order a “hero” sub instead. And now I really want one.

If you ever decide to go to the Philadelphia Flower Show, take note: everybody else will have the same idea as you, to go during the week and arrive at opening (10 a.m.) so you’ve already missed the morning rush hour, and leave early afternoon in order to miss the evening rush hour. Therefore, parking is abysmal (but not impossible – you may have to drive to the top of the parking garage and halfway back down before landing a spot) and lunch hour at the Terminal Market is all day. It was well worth it, in the end, even though I almost wrecked my car in Center City (thank God for people who actually know HOW to drive in the city and stop inches from your bumper), and even though I’m still obsessing over my blundering, clumsy social skills.

Miscellaneous

The Philadelphia Flower Show is the oldest and largest indoor flower show in the world. The first show was in 1829 and it was there that the poinsettia was first introduced to Americans (imported from Mexico).

I saw my first show at the Philadelphia Civic Center, which held the show from 1966 to 1996 and is now demolished. Current location – Pennsylvania Convention Center. That show was called, Purely for Pleasure, Gardens for the Senses. This year’s exhibit was called, Gardens of Tomorrow.

Due to the Covid pandemic, the flower show was held outdoors for the first time in its history in 2021. It would be held again outside the following year, returning to the Convention Center in 2023.

The Philadelphia Civic Center was torn down in 2005 and on its site today sits UPenn’s Perelman Center, a place I passed through many times as my mom recovered from surgery.

Incidentally, the “floral-themed pop-up bar” at the Philadelphia Flower Show, featuring cocktails using Hendricks Gin, NOT Botanist Gin, was not called Botanist Bar but rather Hendrick’s Gin Botanical Garden Bar. There is, however, a gin called Botanist because I have a bottle on our bar cart and did not just make it up.

The drink we shared was called a Leslie Gracie – a highball made with Hendricks gin, St. Germaine, and club soda. I would’ve come up with a different name, myself, but lucky for you I’m no longer a bartender.

Philly’s oldest public market, Reading Terminal Market, opened in 1893 at the train shed of the Reading Railroad. Today it features over 75 small-business vendors – produce, butchers, poultry, fish, eggs, cheese, baked goods, flowers, food stands, books, crafts, clothing. Diverse array of food options – something for everyone.

It cost me $38 to park. When I used to drive up to New York during my college years, I used a little garage off Washington Square Park and with my student ID paid just $12. FOR THE ENTIRE DAY.