Efficacy of Gardenia.
So, everyone’s always yapping about the efficacy of gardenias. Good for calming, good for this, good for that. You hear it all the time, especially from folks who think a cup of petal tea can solve world hunger or something equally daft.
I figured, okay, I’m a practical guy, I like to try things myself. Why not? My shoulder’s been giving me some real grief, and someone, I think it was old Patty from the bakery, mentioned gardenias might help with inflammation. Or maybe it was for better dreams. Honestly, these home remedies all blur into one big, confusing mess after a while. So, I decided I’d document my little experiment, see what all the fuss was about.
First step, obviously, was getting my hands on these supposed miracle flowers. I’m not much of a green thumb, mind you. My idea of keeping plants alive is forgetting they exist until they’re beyond saving. I remembered my next-door neighbor, Sal, has this enormous gardenia bush that always looks like it’s on steroids. He’s always out there, snipping and fussing. So, I moseyed on over, thinking, you know, friendly neighborly chat, maybe he’d spare a few blossoms or some actual advice.
Well, that turned into a whole saga. Sal, bless his heart, he can talk your ear off about anything garden-related. He launched into this monologue about soil acidity, the precise angle of the sun, and some special fish emulsion fertilizer he swears by, smells like a dockyard by the way. My eyes started to glaze over pretty quick. I just wanted to know if they’d stop my shoulder from throbbing, not earn a botany degree. After what felt like an eternity, he finally snipped off a handful of flowers for me. Said, “Dry ’em out proper, then make a brew. But don’t go using too many, son!” Real specific, Sal, thanks.
So I carted them back home. Spread them out on a bit of newspaper on the kitchen table like he sort of vaguely instructed. They looked quite nice, I’ll give them that. Smelled pretty potent too, for the first day. Then they started to look a bit pathetic, all brown and crinkly. Not exactly screaming “powerful healing properties” at me.
Anyway, once they were “properly dried,” or what I guessed was properly dried because Sal’s instructions were as clear as mud, I decided to make the so-called tea. Crushed up a few of the sad-looking petals, chucked them in a mug, poured over some hot water. The smell changed. Not entirely unpleasant, but not exactly delightful either. Kind of like old potpourri mixed with damp earth. I let it sit for a bit, took a gulp. Tasted like weak, flowery regret. No, I’m serious. I can stomach most things, but this was… an experience I wasn’t keen to repeat.
Did it help my shoulder? Not a damn bit. If anything, I was more wound up from the whole rigmarole and the effort of choking down that “tea.” Did I have better dreams? Nope. Probably spent the night dreaming I was drowning in perfumed swamp water.
So, my practical record on the “efficacy of gardenias”? For yours truly, it was a total dud. A complete waste of time and effort. Maybe I messed up the drying. Maybe Patty from the bakery was thinking of daisies. Maybe Sal’s fish emulsion neutralizes any good stuff for anyone but him. Who knows.
What I did get out of it, though, is that sometimes the “practice” is just figuring things out the hard way. I endured Sal’s lecture, which, while mind-numbing, was a new level of neighborly patience for me. I confirmed I definitely don’t like weird floral concoctions. And I learned that Patty’s recommendations should be taken with a massive pinch of salt. That’s a type of efficacy, isn’t it? The efficacy of discovering what’s utterly useless for you. And honestly, that’s pretty valuable. Saved me from going out and buying a whole damn bush, I suppose. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just reach for the ibuprofen. At least I know that stuff actually does something other than taste weird.
