The jade plant in my studio sits in a big pot by the east window near the radiator, where it gets plenty of sun and warmth. It was given to me as a cutting by my dear friend P when I was a graduate student eons ago, and now it is huge and gnarly, its shiny, round leaves and thick, woody stalks curving around one another in a delightful tangle. It isn't fussy, and in the grey days of winter, I count on its never-changing deep-green presence to cheer me. Jade plants (Crassula ovata) are succulents, natives of South Africa but grown throughout the world as house plants. I'd heard rumors that they flower occasionally, but I had no idea what this meant until my December visit to Los Angeles. Everywhere I looked—along sidewalks, on hillsides, in gardens—there were round bushes of flowering jade, their fat leaves hidden under thousands of delicate pink and white blossoms. Frenzied bees competed for the pollen, crawling in and out of the tiny flowers. Of course I spent a lot of time photographing, the light being exceptionally crisp (and the temperature balmy). Now that I'm back in my studio, I have to admit to looking at my jade with a suspicious eye. Is it too much to ask it to produce a few blossoms now and then? What do I need to add to its regimen to make it start flowering? A few weeks ago our relationship was harmonious; now I'm not satisfied. Ah, expectations!