For many women, chocolate is a passion, but I can take it or leave it. My passion is for flowers. There is not a day in my life when, given the choice, I would not choose flowers over candy, and probably over jewelry, too. (But not over dogs.)

I got my love for flowers from my mother. When I was very tiny, she would take me to the vacant lot next to my Grandmother’s house to pick violets. The property was carpeted in purple, and it was almost frustrating to pick, because I wanted to scoop them up all at once, but instead, had to painstakingly reach beneath the big leaves to find the tender stems, one at a time. I remember not being very good at it, which tells me I was probably three at the most, but together we picked masses of violets. I still feel that same frustration when I pick violets, but I never miss an opportunity to have a bowlful in my house. I allow them to grow even though they spread so recklessly in my garden beds. People say mint is bad, but in my little ecosystem, violets are far more aggressive.

My mother also grew zinnias and big purple and pink asters in her garden. I loved the deep, vibrant colors, and the way they jostled one another in a brilliant haphazard jumble. Later, she grew sweet peas, and they grew in a jungle of coiling stems against a big stone wall. She gave me seeds for them every year, but somehow, I never planted them, and now I regret it deeply. The only plant I have in my garden that came from hers is the centaurea montana, a big purple relative of the bachelor button. She and I picked lilacs together every spring, and when she got older, I would pick them for her, filling a large purple vase with them. I planted her window box with geraniums for her, too. She could sit in her chair by the window and look out at them all summer long, and that gave her a great deal of pleasure.

I always have flowers in my house, usually in every room. At the moment I have white amaryllis and hyacinth bulbs growing in a wooden box of moss and ivy on the dining room table; various colors of tulips: orange in the hall and kitchen, purple and white in the living room; orange alstroemeria in the library and purple in the powder room; cut white hyacinths and lilies in the bedroom; and two brilliant red amaryllis on the edge of the bathtub. In the depths of winter I love the contrast of the fragile blooms indoors and the bitter cold outdoors. They make me feel that all is well. I like almost all flowers.

But never give me a poinsettia.

My mother always said that if she were rich she would have fresh flowers and clean sheets every single day. I feel the same way, and I suppose, that–and her tender care for animals—is her legacy to me. Riches, indeed.