I have barbecued my mother’s 25-year-old Hoya. I mean it. Literally barbecued. It looks decidedly miffed.
Having brought this otherwise indestructible plant out for its usual summer vacation, I had thought perhaps it needed a shaded transition spot. And there was the ledge beneath our rickety gas BBQ. Oooh, thinks me, looks nice there.
And then we grilled some chicken. And the hoya. It seems that BBQs get, well, hot. Even underneath. Oop.
Dear Hoya, please, please come back from Singed City. I promise I’ll make it up to you. A new pot? Fresh soil? Anything you want.
But, please, in return, promise me one thing: if you do end up in heaven, don’t tell my mother.