“Miss G, where do I put your plastic flowers?”

I was in the kitchen grating daikon when our handyman, Mr. P., clomped in wearing blue shoe-covers. We were renovating our bathroom.

“What plastic flowers?” I asked.

I own a faux yucca palm but no plastic flowers.

He jerked his thumb toward the bathroom. “In there.”

I washed and dried my hands and followed him.

He pointed to the Phalaenopsis orchid on the bathroom ledge. “That one.”

The orchid sported six delectable pink blooms.

“They’re not plastic,” I said.

Mr. P. touched a petal with a blunt finger. “Woah… they’re real?” He shook his head. “They look so… perfect. I thought they were plastic.”

Mr. P. had caught the blooms in their prime — well before they showed signs of wilting.

But, seriously, “as-perfect-as-plastic” is the best compliment I have ever gotten about my orchids.