Abby picked a buttload of these babies last night in the front yard, and my entire house smells like hyacinths. At first I liked it, but after a little while, it’s cloying perfume is nauseating. But oh-heck-no, I can’t throw them away. I can’t even move them from the kitchen table where she carefully placed them. It would crush her flower-soul and send her into paroxysms of wanton shrieking. Instead, I’m off to take another Benedryl. For the love of my girl.