I have a thing for dwarf evergreens.
This was not always the case. In my reckless youth I loved bad boys—fire-engine red monarda that will paint an entire field in three years, and archangel lamium, the devil dressed in yellow. I planted galloping grasses, furry masses of snow-in-summer (Cerastium) and expanding borders of flash-in-the-pan forsythia. Lysimachias and gooseneck loosestrifes, hederas and houttuynias, I loved them all. But over time, as my hot desire for sparkle and speed subsided, I erased them, one by one, from my little black book. I still appreciate a glossy calendar photo that shows their best assets under a summer sunset, but I don’t need to possess them in my beds.