Lavender & Larkspur

Mark McGwire just came clean about his steroid use, so it seems a fine time to dish about ranunculus, one of the prettiest flowers I know and one I see increasingly in flower shops and, especially, in bridal bouquets. Ranunculus is a big, big family, but most of the flowers are tiny, like the buttercups you used to hold under your brother’s or sister’s chin when you were a wee young thing. Not so the Persian buttercup, Ranunculus asiaticus, which looks like a regular old buttercup that’s been pumped full of steroids. Breeders have been busy hybridizing it in ever fatter and frillier versions like the ones above. There’s something so impossibly feminine about ranunculus (despite that unwieldy name) that it’s easy to see why brides fall in love with them. They come in a rainbow of colors, from yellow and red and orange through to white and pink and purple. Like gerbera daisies, they just seem to elicit smiles.

That name, by the way, means “little frog” in Latin, supposedly because the plants are happy near water. I think it’s just as likely because the corms from which the flowers grow look a little like gnarled, wrinkly frogs. The corms look a lot like gladiolus corms and are supposed to be easy to grow. My experiences with them haven’t been happy, alas. In fact, while I’ve occasionally managed to elicit some foliage from the corms, I’ve never gotten a flower. I used to admire the ranunculus at the Philadelphia Flower Show so much, and the plant sellers there always had big vases full of ranunculus to tease me into buying the corms. I don’t anymore. I figure 20 years of lack of success in growing a plant means it’s not destined to be.

Still, the corms aren’t very expensive … and the flowers are so pretty. Maybe I’ll try just one more time …

Granted, it’s a gray, dreary day here, with more than an inch of rain predicted. But–but–but–the rain has melted enough of the snow piled up on my tiny front garden (where it always ends piled up from shoveling the sidewalks) for me to see that some of the small bulbs I put in in November have begun to poke through. Those slim green shoots emerging from the dark earth are like an early promise that we really will get through this winter into the warmth of spring. I smile every time I walk down the front steps and see them. And they add the wonder of mystery to my day: What will those first flowers be? Snow crocus? Iris reticulata? Species tulips? It just reminds me what a good idea it is to spend a few bucks (and they really are cheap, cheap, cheap) on those small bulbs. They pay back the small investment in such a big way.

And apropos of absolutely nothing … I just looked up the word “harbinger” in the dictionary after I used it in the headline and realized what a strange word it is. It’s from Old High German. A harbinger was originally someone sent ahead of a main party on a journey to arrange for their lodging. Which is, come to think of it, a wonderful way to think of those tiny little bulbs, preparing the way for their bigger and bolder cousins who will follow after them!

In honor of the previously blogged-about Thanksgiving tradition …

Van Bourgondian, an otherwise perfectly respectable catalog I’ve ordered from in the past, has on offer this spring a daylily called “Exploded Pumpkin,” and that’s exactly what it looks like, as you can see from the photo above. What’s next: “Pipebombed Kitten”? “Mashed Small Child”? C’mon, this isn’t an attractive plant! Back to the drawing board, daylily breeders, and get serious! There’s such a thing as too much novelty.

Photo courtesy of Van Bourgondian. Sorry. I just had to share.

When my dad’s first grandchild was born, 25 or so years ago, there began a fierce debate on what Dad’s title as a grandfather ought to be. When we were growing up, Dad’s father was “Poppy,” and my mom’s father was also “Poppy.” This would have been confusing except that, sadly, Dad’s dad passed away while we kids were still quite young. So after that, there was only one “Poppy” in our lives. When he started having grandchildren, my dad lobbied hard to be “Poppy,” continuing the dual family tradition. Somehow, it didn’t take. Despite his best efforts, that first grandson instead took to calling him “Pop-Pop,” and “Pop-Pop” he stayed, for as long as he lived, to all six of his grandkids.

I wanted him to be “Poppy,” too, and I was a bit pissed off that my older sister’s son chose to call him “Pop-Pop” instead. “Pop-Pop” is just repetitive child garble, with no class or finesse to it. “Papa” is more dignified; “Grandpa” more time-honored. “Pop-Pop” just sounded dumb to me. But the title your kids call their grandkids somehow seems to be more up to them than to you. I don’t remember any family-wide discussions of what my dad would be called; we let a two-year-old kid decide for us.

I only realized today why I wanted so much for my dad to be “Poppy”–because those are my favorite flowers. Or are they my favorite flowers because I loved my two Poppys? Or because my dad used to recite “In Flanders Field the poppies grow/between the crosses, row on row” to us when we were little? I don’t know; there’s really no teasing apart the complex threads of why we like (or hate) a particular word. (For instance: I cannot stand the word “mouthfeel,” nor the word “phlegm.” There are lots of other examples, too!)

If–when–my husband and I become grandparents, I’ll lobby for him to be Poppy. Hell, I wish I could lobby for ME to be Poppy. Instead I’ll likely be “Grandma” (blech!) or “Gran” or “Nana.” Of the three, I’d vote for “Nana.” At least it sounds like the beginning of that song we sing at football games: “Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey hey, goodbye”!

Photo by HujiStat licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 License.

So I’m still pawing through my plant catalogs, and I’m thinking about the photo of the hellebore I posted the other day, with the metric scale that showed how big (or small) the flowers were, and I’m wishing plant sellers would be a little more honest about how big (or small) the blossoms on their offerings are. The problem is that in most catalogs, all the photographs are more or less the same size–that is, they portray the elephant ear leaves the same size as lilies, and lilies the same size as dahlias, and dahlias the same size as dicentra. OR they show a closeup of a single blossom, so it looks like it’s as big as a dinner plate in real life. Granted, I understand it’s in the interest of the growers to have us believe every plant’s blossoms are huge, but it can really be deceptive. One catalog I just got has a great big photo of Habenaria radiata, the orchid shown above, which is also known as egret flower. They look spectacular in this photo, which shows the flowers to be four inches wide. Then you read the copy beneath the photo, and it says, “Gleaming white, dime-sized flowers in spring …” Now, I have to give this catalog props, because at least it’s telling the truth about how tiny the blossoms are. But when I see a photo like this, I get so excited that I skim right over that “dime-sized flowers” part. Lots of catalogs give vague descriptions like “large flowers” or “diminutive blossoms,” but wouldn’t it be great if more of them provided an actual size, or, even better, life-sized photos? (Though that would be a problem with those elephant ears.)

You know something else that bugs me? When catalogs show “giant” pumpkins, or ears of corn, or sunflower plants, or tomatoes, with kids beside them. I don’t know where the catalogs get those miniature children, but they are NOT a reliable guide as to size. Absolute worst of all are catalogs with cheap, phony-looking illustrations of stuff like “TEN FOOT TALL TOMATO” and “AMAZING TREE WITH APPLES THE SIZE OF TRUCK TIRES!” Anybody who falls for that crapola deserves what she gets!

Photo by OpenCage licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license.

Tree peonies (Paeonia suffruticosa) are another “unicorn” plant–those plants I see pictured in fancy catalogs but never actually see live and in person … um, in plant. They fascinate me because they cost a freaking fortune; I’ve seen single plants sell for more than $100. (Well, that’s a fortune to me!) The descriptions are always breathless and usually talk about Japanese breeders; often the names of the varieties are English translations of strange Japanese monikers, like “House of the Painted Crane” or “Lotus Blossom Plum Flower.”

The more I read about tree peonies, the more mythical they seemed. They live for hundreds of years! They’re easy to grow! Known as the “Flower of riches and honor” in China, and the “King of Flowers” in Japan! But look though I might, I never actually saw a tree peony–not even at the Philadelphia Flower Show, or at any of the fancy-dancy garden centers I sometimes would stroll through. If they were so long-lived and easy to grow, why wasn’t anyone growing them? (Well, besides the fact that they cost so damn much.)

And then, one day, just when I was firmly convinced there was no such flower as a tree peony, I was walking my dog near the high school when I saw an unusual-looking shrub behind a perfectly normal one-story brick house. This wasn’t a house that had an especially nice garden, or really any garden at all. But when I crept closer to the shrub, I could tell that it was a tree peony. A gorgeous yellow tree peony. There was no mistaking those big, satiny, many-petaled flowers. The shrub itself was pretty unprepossessing … but oh, those blossoms!

I admired that tree peony all that summer. Over the winter, the house was sold. And come spring, the new owners erected a big, high, ugly fence all around their yard. A pox on them for it, too. For all I know, that tree peony is still blooming in there, not that there’s any way for me to tell.

I don’t like fences–at least, not fences you can’t see through. Beauty is meant to be shared.

Photo by Kenpei licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 License.

I’m in love with a dish towel. Is that wrong of me? Does it make me some kind of freak, do you think? Here’s a link to the dish towel I’m in love with, since I can’t manage to lift a picture of it from the Crate and Barrel website:

http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=684&f=36146

I lust after the radish one most, but the other two are close seconds.

I frequently fall in love with dish towels, though not often so fast or so hard as I’ve fallen in love with this one. I like kitchen linens in general, especially when they’re produce-themed: little ruffly curtains with carrots on them, aprons studded with cherries, potholders embellished with cauliflower or potatoes or leeks. The nice thing about kitchen linens is they don’t usually cost too much, so I can sometimes actually bring myself to buy them. Is $5 too much to spend to own that radish towel, when it would make me so happy to see it every day (at least until it gets faded and dirty and burnt from husband or child using for something it was never intended for)?

Actually, I like fabrics in general. I think it’s because my mom used to regularly drag us all to vast, dark fabric outlet stores, where she’d pore over bolts of god-awful prototypical 1960s polyester that she made us, and herself, dresses from. I developed a lifelong hatred of polyester, but I still love looking at fabric bolts, and anything made from fibers, from rugs to upholstery to, well, dish towels. It’s a wonder that I remember those visits fondly, because my own experience with taking my kids to fabric stores is that they instantly turned into total tantrum monsters–I think because they could tell I was in the presence of something I loved that had nothing to do with them, something that commanded my attention. They never misbehaved that way in any other sort of store.

But even for a towel-head like me, these dish towels are particularly alluring. If you’ll excuse me, I must go order them now, before the rest of you get there.

I was listening to National Public Radio the other day when a segment came on about living roofs. I first came across this idea in a shelter magazine five or so years back, and I fell in love with it instantly. The idea is that you cover your roof with soil and plants; they help to conserve energy, attract wildlife (mostly birds, duh, since it’s a roof), and demonstrate your “green” commitment to your neighbors. To me, the big advantage is that they look so gorgeous. In the radio segment, a guy who grows sempervivum specifically for living roofs talked about the process of installation. It was really interesting! And it was clear the guy loved what he’s doing. The pride he took in it showed when he spoke about how the roof would look when the plants spread out and overtook each other and formed a complete carpet.

I have some sempervivum in my backyard, an escapee from a former neighbor’s garden, and I must say, I’m none too fond of it. It’s a plain mid-green and gets small yellow flowers. Mostly, it just spreads and spreads and covers over everything, so I have to rip handfuls of it out repeatedly throughout the summer. But that sempervivum isn’t cool the way the sempervivum on a living roof are–all those different shades and shapes and sizes! I don’t actually have a roof suitable for a living roof, except for the garage–and I guess I could do the garage, though the neighbors truly would think I was loony. Perhaps I’ll content myself with a living wall, like this one that appeared in Dwell magazine. How cool is that?!?

This will be a brief post, of necessity, since I just spent way too much time watching Alabama’s Crimson Tide defeat Texas in the final bowl game of the college football season. At the beginning of the game, I was rooting for ‘Bama because Texas had beaten them the past seven straight games or something. Then I was for Texas because Texas starting quarterback Colt McCoy got knocked out of the game on the second drive. And so my allegiances went, back and forth, though I did think Texas’s backup quarterback, a true freshman named Gilbert, did a heroic job in impossible circumstances. Well, Alabama won, and even though that’s who I’d wanted to win in the beginning, I was disappointed, because the circumstances of the game had changed everything.

And this has to do with gardening how? Well, there are underdogs in gardening, as in every aspect of life. I think of flowers like wild garlic, alyssum, forsythia, marigolds–the sorts of blossoms you can plant and just take for granted, but that never attain true garden glory. They’re just .. there, filling empty space. I don’t appreciate them as much as I should, I suppose. But my experience this past summer with a Proven Winners diascia, Flirtation Orange, made me a booster for floral underdogs. That plant wasn’t anything spectacular. The flowers were small. The color didn’t pop. But it bloomed like crazy from the day I undid the wrappings straight through till a week before CHRISTMAS, when I finally brought it in off the front porch out of fear the pot would freeze and crack. I stuck the pot in a cardboard box at the top of the basement stairs, waiting for someone (husband, son) to carry it down. No one did, for at least a week. And there, in the cardboard box, the damned thing went on blooming its head off. You have to love a plant like that.

Photo courtesy of Proven Winners.com.

I love bamboo. I love it because it’s Eastern and Asian and exotic, and because it’s what pandas eat (and who doesn’t love pandas?), and because not too far from here, there’s a sort of farm/retreat dedicated to peace and love for all mankind where I used to take my daughter’s Girl Scout troop once in a while, and where my husband Doug used to take our son for Boy Scout picnics. It’s a cool little farm with the most beautiful donkeys in the world (who knew donkeys were so gorgeous? Those long eyelashes; that natural eyeliner!), some chickens and goats, a nature trail, some cabins, a ropes course, and a great big stand of bamboo.

Now, before I visited this place, I’d never really been close to bamboo, unless you count bamboo tomato stakes. I’d seen bamboo stands in zoos, but I’d never stood inside a bamboo forest. It’s totally different from standing inside a regular old North American forest, the same way standing inside a pine forest is totally different from standing inside a deciduous forest. A bamboo forest is very dark and very dense. It’s confusing, because all the plants are bamboo, and thus they all look alike, so you don’t have any sense of, “Well, I just passed a big-ass oak tree, and there’s an ash tree, and over there’s a willow.” Also, bamboo doesn’t taper the way normal trees do, even though it’s as tall as trees; it grows in segments, and they’re no wider at the bottom than at the top. They just go straight up. As a result, being inside a stand of bamboo is like being inside the mirror fun house; you lose all sense of direction. Which is what made it so fun to hang out there with the Scouts, both Boy and Girl. Even better, this cool farm lets the kids collect fallen bamboo branches, so of course there’s lots of jousting and fighting and that sort of thing.

You can buy bamboo plants, but most people I know who have, end up regretting it. It’s the fastest growing plant on Earth–it can grow up to two feet IN A SINGLE DAY! Can you imagine having that in your backyard? There are varieties that are less enthusiastic, but in general, the experienced gardeners I know are all sort of bamboo-shy. It makes a great screen or living fence, if you’re willing to put it, say, between two driveways, where it can’t take over your property. Otherwise, buyer beware!

I also love bamboo shoots in Chinese food. I wonder if, if I were brave enough to plant my own bamboo, I could harvest bamboo shoots? How cool would that be?!?

Photo by Paul Vlaar licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 3.0 License.