" . . . of course, I'd grow my own produce if I could—quality control and all that," Rodney's saying. "But who has the time?" He's been saying a lot since he brought John here—talking pretty much nonstop, actually, trying to fill the quiet and cover his weird and unanticipated bout of nerves.
He sees John shoot a look at the withered pot of what used to be mint over by the sink. "Yes, yes, fine," Rodney sniffs, waving his hand dismissively at it, "and I acknowledge that botany might not be my strongest suit, so perhaps it's for the best after all."
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