By seven the kitchen windows along the lane smelled greener than usual. The parsley bed had set out tiny curlers, and each leaflet greeted the salt cellar before it would even think of a wave.
We asked a neighbor by the kiosk. "They nod to the soup first," she said. "If the pot looks pleased, they may curl exactly once, then the clip sits down."
The next morning a late sprig arrived with an extra bow and asked whether lunch kept a waiting list. It did. The salt saved him a quiet place, just once.