The rest of Ophelia's garland

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance;

Pray, love, remember:

and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.

—Ophelia, William Shakespeare's Hamlet

And here's a bushel of chives, that's for shame.

—Jay

When we first started a vegetable garden six years ago or so, my neighbor asked if I would like some chives. Of course, that sounded delightful, and she gave me a couple clumps.

I plopped them in the ground along the sidewalk where I had planted a few other herbs for easy access to the backdoor. I had no idea at the time that chives are the horticultural equivalent of rabbits: they multiply like crazy and are more than happy to consume a garden.

The growth of the chives patch — it's a patch now — was a little alarming at first, and I felt a bit ashamed for how little I was using this bountiful crop. I would sprinkle a few chives on top of a frittata or in a potato dish. But I have enough chives to open a dumpling stand at the Taste of Chicago.

A few summers ago, I noticed a large swath of chives in the landscaping around the Harris Theater in Millennium Park. They were quite lovely in bloom. I'm not sure why I needed someone else's garden to validate my own, but it was a comfort. I now embrace the chives, with no shame, as simply another flowering perennial — and occasional herb.

I now plant the other herbs in raised beds. I've allowed the chives to fill in most of the space beneath our crabapple tree and to blend in with a few Johnson blue geraniums in the same space. They seem happy enough together. Chives that show up where I don't want them are easy enough to pull up.

While thumbing through a magazine at the doctor's office the other day, I came across tips for the herb garden. The writer suggested deadheading chives vigorously to keep them under control. It's a shame there was no mention of not deadheading them to create a lovely, carefree flower garden.

And chive flowers are edible, you know, like pansies.