The color pink usu­ally leaves me cold. I’m just not a fan of most of its shades and tints. Bub­ble gum pink. Soror­ity girl pink. Pepto Bis­mol pink. No thanks.

I’m more a blood red kind of girl. Deep, rich, bluish reds like crim­son. Scar­let. Ruby. When it comes to roses, my tastes run along the same lines. Fran­cis Dubreuil. Sou­venir du Doc­teur Jamain. Empereur du Maroc. These all smell fab­u­lous, too.

But never say never. I spend too much time look­ing at rose cat­a­logues and other gar­den porn. Last spring, a shell-pink flori­bunda named Eng­lish Miss caught my eye. I knew I might never grow a bloom as rav­ish­ing and flaw­less as the one the pho­tog­ra­pher cap­tured, but she seduced me into order­ing her. This morn­ing, I found a per­fect bloom in my gar­den, and I have no regrets.

Some­times the thing you never thought you could love just is.

And the fra­grance? Sweet.