It was 9:30 PM on a windy, dark night in Gravesend, Brooklyn. I met up with my boyfriend after a long day of work, for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in our neighborhood. It was a romantic evening full of vibrant sushi rolls, hot sake, and Yakisoba noodles to die for. Afterwards we walked hand in hand towards our house when he whispered in my ear “I have a little something special for you at home.” My heart fluttered with curiosity. No matter what it was, a gift from the man I love would be nothing but sweet. No sooner than when we walked in the door, did he cover his mouth with his hand in horror. “How did that happen?!” He exclaimed in shock, with his eyes piercing like laser beams onto the kitchen table. There, a wilted sprig of periwinkle hydrangea drooped sadly over a small glass vase. Unrecognizable to the lively flower he had purchased earlier that day, it looked hopeless. “It was alive just hours ago!” He proclaimed in disbelief. Then, as if the Great Wall of China itself had just collapsed, we scrambled in a state of panic to revive it. “What do we do?” He asked. “Wait! I know!” I said rather gallantly. Then, as if I were reviving a small drowning child from an Olympic size pool, I hastily grabbed the hydrangea, rescuing it from danger. “Scissors!” I ordered my man like a brain surgeon at work. He fetched them promptly. I then swiftly cut the stem at an angle under warm running water. I had seen this done before. It was what little I knew of flower revival, and luckily I had learned it in the L’Atelier Rouge studio. “Do you think it was sick?” He speculated. I must admit, it was very endearing to see a full grown man of his stature sweating the life and vibrancy of a such a small and helpless flower (he’s a keeper). “I have no idea. Maybe the water was poisonous? Or maybe it was already dying? I don’t know, but I know someone who does…” Like lightening, I quickly text the man whom I knew bore the answer (enter our hero of the night…) none other than Master Designer Nicolas Cogrel, whose thumb is as green as the Earth! I told him of our great misfortune. Anxiously awaiting his reply, I leaped like a Mexican jumping bean when my phone lit up. He guided me through the process of what he maintained was the only way to revival. I was instructed to place the sprig of hydrangea in a bucket of medium temperature water over night, and it was that simple. He maintained that it would never come back any other way. Repeating his instructions verbatim to my poor, sweet, and bewildered boyfriend, we followed instructions. I’m both happy and relieved to report to you that just an hour later, the withered hydrangea already started to show it’s strength again. By morning, the resurrection was complete. If this happens to you folks, do not give up, there is hope still. For the little hydrangea that could, so can another wilting flower. Never fear, L’atelier Rouge is here.
The drooping victim
by Bernadette Lords