A shady garden, with some color (thank you, caladiums, right forefront) around the edges. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
YET AGAIN this year, I will not be seeing any semblance of Versailles from the back porch steps. For all my planning and dreaming and finger-crossing and spitting (to ward off the evil eye), my shady garden is, once again, what it is. A spattering of successes drenched in a rain of errors.
And we started out so well this year.
In times like these I turn to Henry Mitchell, a ray of light. The dearly departed Washington Post columnist always mixed advice with humor and bits of life from his own city patch.
Like me, he had what he called a “cat run,” typical of city gardens. A narrow yard about 40 by 100 feet, possessing no inherent charm, just that which he managed to create.
Unlike me, he dwells on the positive.
In a chapter on summer, from The Essential Earthman, Mitchell says of this point in the year (or inches from it), “There is a brief time in July when the gardener has nothing to do but enjoy his flowers,” calling it “a time of leisure.”
Hoo-hah, I say. My mood is as dark as my garden.
Phyllis, the 20-year-old mophead hydrangea, always a reliable beauty that announces the beginning of the left border, went into cardiac arrest last fall, for no reason I could figure. She’s coming back, but there’ll be no flowers this year, another green thing doing nothing.
When you garden in the shade there are many green things. Ferns, of course, and ivy, philodendron, palms, monstera, and elephant ears among them. I do enjoy the shades of green, the mix of textures, but . . .
Completely lost is the mock orange that, for years, blossomed by the pond. We have others, but this was the only one that had a scent. And what a scent it was!
Another elderly mock orange, by the back porch rail, decided not to bloom at all. It’s right next to the Don Juan climbing rose, which normally reaches the second floor, ravishing in sight and perfume.
The pittosporum, a 3-year-old, still has no sign of flowers—which should be clusters of creamy white and intensely orange-scented. It’s healthy enough. And green. Sigh.
My kiwi has grown into a small tree. It was in fragrant bloom when I bought it, about six years ago, but nothing since.
I’m still waiting, praying, that this will be the year that the plumeria will finally bloom along with my little collection of birds of paradise.
When you have so little space, every failure or delay feels like a disaster, and when July rolls around there’s little to be done about it.
O! where is the color of yesteryear?
Thankfully, I dumped a bunch of caladium bulbs into a tub in late April. They’re beginning to emerge and can fill in the dead spots. Such lovely soft leaves and mellow shade of pink, large enough to have some impact. You can, maybe, still buy some already up and potted.
My two rose of Sharon plants have grown into small trees; one is white with red centers, the other pale purple. They just began to flower the other day, eye candy.
The Meyer lemons are (relatively) spectacular this year. One has three lemonettes—a bumper crop!—they should be ripe in December or January, if the squirrels don’t get them. Three lemons is enough for three tarts! The other, brought back from Florida this past January and nursed along indoors, was full of blossoms last week. The flowers fell off, as they do, revealing little fruit nubbins. Dare I hope for fruit, or will they frizzle?
The hibiscus is full and showing a few buds, Alice (my white hydrangea) is a mountain of snow, the jasmines are blooming, the anthurium is covered with heart-shaped flowers, and the mandevilla’s velvety pink blossoms are flourishing on the porch railing.
Never mind. I’m gonna sit back and enjoy what I have. Thanks, Henry.
MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an Amazon Associate.
If this post was sent to you by a friend, you can sign up for the newsletter at the very, very bottom of this page.
Q: I HAVE A black walnut tree in my small backyard and can’t get anything to grow anywhere near it. Could it be cursed?
A: No. No, it’s not cursed. It’s a black walnut. A beautiful tree with magnificent wood and delicious nuts, BUT . . .
I’m glad black walnuts were not on my radar when we needed a tree in the backyard. We were in an angry mood, my Prince and I, when we went tree-shopping. This is not the best way to buy something that would be with us for decades. Possibly you know that.
See, we had these townhouses that went up behind our home in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Washington DC. Four stories tall, blocking the previous view from the back porch of nothing but sky, an invasion of privacy—theirs and ours.
(I could say something here about the congressman’s wife who left her bedroom blinds up while dressing, but I won’t. We had a nice clear, pornographic view.)
Packing our umbrage into the truck, we headed for Homestead Gardens in Davidsonville, Maryland, which tends to many of our whims and fantasies.
We wanta beautiful tree that will grow fast. Fast. We need to hide a terrible view, we (meaning I) said. And, we want our privacy back. Now.
So, we loaded a 12-foot Kwanzan cherry with a root ball the size of a Mini Cooper into the truck and tootled home. With the help of several neighbors, it was hauled into the garden. As promised, it grew fast and fabulously: 15 years later it’s 30 feet tall with a 15-foot canopy.
I suspect the giant neighborhood black walnuts had a similar genesis. Probably planted in the 1970s when the neighborhood had a lot of do-it-yourselfers with a Peace Corps/hippie aesthetic; one can imagine the gleam in the eyes of the planters. Not only would they hide unsightly neighbors, but there would also be free nuts, and the wood could be used for kidney-shaped coffee tables and kitchen counters and such. Tools were amassed.
The trees still stand, untouched by ax or saw.
Some years ago I wrote about Ken Jarboe, a neighbor who bought a townhouse near the Marine Barracks with a backyard filled with nothing but clay soil and weeds. But for a massive black walnut tree, it was a blank canvas.
Envisioning a Japanese garden, he added three cherry trees, a dogwood, and a meandering white stone path, “for a river effect,” he told me.
Everything died—except the black walnut, which has a lifespan of 250 years, give or take a decade.
The tree weeps a substance called juglone, which is toxic to most other plants in its vicinity. While its russet-colored sap is useful in hair and clothing dyes and wood stain, juglone dripped along that white stone path made it look like “a smoker’s teeth,” said Jarboe. “Instead of a nice river effect, it’s the Anacostia River on a bad day,” he added.
Gardening pro Melinda Myers suggests not putting susceptible plants within 50 feet of the tree. And make sure you account for the tree’s rapid growth (about a foot a year), and eventual height of 120 feet and 50 foot width.
That goes for your neighbor’s tree as well, which Maggie Hall and her husband, Gary Humfelt, found out when nothing grew beneath the branches of the enormous tree next door (which had taken root inside a garage and was allowed to grow right through the roof, “which made the garage pretty useless as a garage,” she told me).
“We loved it because it was handsome and provided widespread shade over our yard in the brutal heat of a DC summer,” she said. “But we hated it because it poisoned the soil.”
After several years of struggle, and many expensive floral failures, they discovered the black walnut was the culprit. “The only plant that survived the ravages of the poison were begonias. Not that they exactly flourished,” she said.
Among the plants that should limp along beneath the mighty canopy, are squills and snowdrops, for an early spring show, says Myers. For summer through fall, hosta, lungwort, Solomon’s seal, and Canadian ginger are known to be tolerant as well.
Forget removing the tree and cultivating roses. “The juglone remains in the soil until the roots, nuts, and leaves totally decompose,” she says.
One more thing. Forget relaxing in the tree’s generous shade as the nuts ripen. They’re hard, heavy and fall off the tree with “such an extraordinary force that the only way to safely spend time in the yard,” said Maggie Hall, “is by sporting a crash helmet.”
THE BEAUTY of gardening in pots is that the plants can be moved.
Disaster with the asters? Drop a pot in the spot. (That clever wordplay was accidental, by the way).
Not sure where to stick a little bush? If it’s in a pot you can move it about until it says, Yes! I love it here!
Have a clutch of bulbs of who-knows-what color and afraid of a clash? Stick them in pots until they flower. (You can, by the way, overplant bulbs with something pretty; the bulbs will grow up through whatever’s above.)
Sad story. That hollyhock I bought with such hope a couple of weeks ago drooped in misery. I suspected this would happen, given my shady habitat, but bravely I forged forth. I did see a blossom, one sweet pink flower, and that was it. It’s in a pot, so can easily be dumped in the trash.
This is another pot point. When you want something that you know will not work, treat it as you would a bunch of cut flowers. You know those won’t give you more than a week or so of pleasure, but you buy them anyway. So you buy a plant you crave for color or memory or some such and when it flops, out it goes.
It’s tough, I know. Some people, like My Prince, hate my disposable attitude. But should you have a friend who loves to resuscitate the mortally ill, you can pass the wretched thing along.
There’s been a photo over my desk, on the board I keep for such things, reminders of I WANT (as if I need to be reminded). The photo has been there for years, and as it often happens (for me) some semblance of it comes to life, eventually. In this case it’s a garden heavily shaded by a tree of some sort, beneath it are greens—ferns and shrubs and hydrangeas that appreciate a somewhat gloomy life. Scattered about are several beautifully painted pots, lofting more ferns and shrubs, giving the space levels where there had been none. The vivid colors also serve as flowers where flowers don’t care to bloom.
My point being, you don’t always need blooming plants to create a brilliantly colorful space. Paint a pair of chairs Chinese red, add a table with a mosaic top. Portuguese, Chinese, and Mexican pots are a riot of color and pattern. The French have such a way with blue. I’ve always wanted a Balinese umbrella, one with lots of fringes and a little cupola on top. That alone could take the place of a garden of roses. No deadheading necessary.
Broken pots, though—I know these have become a thing. But once you’ve seen that thing for the 45th time, it’s time to try something new.
On the other hand, pots that are broken and set upright can be charming in almost any setting. Most of ours have been found on sidewalks, foundlings. We have a wealth of fusspots in this neighborhood who toss their whatnots when they show a ding, or are just ready for a replacement.
Such discoveries are so much more rewarding than (depending on the girth of your wallet) logging onto Amazon or Frontgate and whipping out a credit card.
One of the mixed borders at Dumbarton Oaks in Washington DC. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh. / On the front: giant alliums. iStock photo.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
BIKINIS IN JANUARY have never made sense to me. I have zero interest in summer clothing (cruise wear—is
it still called that?) when I’m hunkered down in down.
On the other hand, it makes total sense to focus on gardens in January, though digging and planting and mulching are months away. There’s so much planning to do, much of it misbegotten—but there’s plenty of time for revisions before you make real (read: expensive) mistakes.
Ah . . . daydreaming about roses and such is so lovely when you’re sitting in front of a fireplace, or a TV set displaying a video of a fireplace. Magazines that feature gardens: elegant, cottagey, one color, 100 colors . . . Rev those gray cells for spring!
Beginning in January, we anticipated a glut of gardening in the pages of top design magazines like House Beautiful, Architectural Digest (AD), and Elle Décor. Alas, months passed, warm weather approached, the fingers itched for dirt, the brain for inspiration, and there was little to be found. Even magazines dedicated to gardening, such as Flower, were focused on table settings and flower arrangements.
So, June springs forth and what do we have? A whole lot of interiors painted beige. Beige, see, appears to be the new gray. Not only are there no flowers or gardens in these magazines, there’s little color. The words austere and boring come to mind.
Thank god for RuPaul’s shoe collection in AD, a two-page symphony of hot pink, hot red, cool turquoise, and metallic gold. All with spike heels and platform soles to give his 6’4” frame a lift.
In a break from beige, RuPaul’s house is mostly white walls and black trim with bursts of primary colors in the furnishings. I could live here.
But where’s the garden? Maybe there isn’t one. No, in a photo of the pool (white walls, black and white cushions) a landscape architect is credited, though there’s nothing to be seen of his work besides some greenery sprawled over a wall. Nice pool, though.
Though they do a fine job of covering gardens online, Veranda alone nods to the season with a flower-filled solarium on the May/June cover of the magazine, and a handful of features that include short takes on exceptional spreads—great ideas for those who happen to have, for instance, 250-foot borders flanking the path to the chateau.
There are also several gardens that feature a pleasing eclecticism, mixing formal and informal plantings, such as the prairie garden in England that features a mix of ornamental grasses and wildflowers. Another idea: keeping plantings neat and orderly near the house and increasingly loose and wild as you approach the forest. This does hinge on having a forest.
Then there’s a pet peeve of a trend which I’m happy to see so I can rail about it. Ceramic sculptures that climb walls. The spread in Veranda features branches of foxgloves, poppies, hyacinth and such. Created by London-based artist Kaori Tatebayashi, these are “precisely wrought” replicas in “ethereal unglazed white stoneware.” They’re intended to cover a wall, like 3-D wallpaper.
Imagine the dust! The ick! How do you clean them?
On the other hand, it won’t be long until they’re beige.
A Capitol Hill curbside garden bonanza, unfortunately not the author’s. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
WHEN BABY WAS a baby, we’d read books before bed. Books carefully chosen to develop and enhance her sweet nature.
Edward Gorey taught her the alphabet . . . “A is for AMY who fell down the stairs”; “B is for BASIL assaulted by bears.” So charming, such a delight to read.
Roald Dahl’s The Witches— in which a witch plots to get rid of children—made her giggle. Everything by Roald Dahl made her giggle. Me too.
And then there was The Rose in My Garden,* by Arnold Lobel, charmingly illustrated by his (then) wife Anita Lobel. It was written in 1984, the year Baby was born, and read night after night.
A garden grows with a page for each flower and a drawing on the facing page as each new flower is added. It grows like this:
This is the rose in my garden.
This is the bee that sleeps on the rose in my garden.
These are the hollyhocks, high above the ground, . . . marigolds orange and round . . .
And so forth, adding zinnias in a row, daisies white as snow, tulips sturdy and tall, and sunflowers tallest of all.
Then comes a little mouse who’s pounced on by a cat, and the flowers shake and shudder and the bee awakens.
When my mind’s eye sees a garden, it is this one. A jumble of flowers. Such color, leafy texture, and scent.
I suspect this is the garden Baby sees too, judging by the near-haphazard growth of her borders. It’s pretty, I want it, I know how she thinks. After all, I made her. **
We should design a family crest.
She has sun spots and shade spots in her spacious suburban setting. I have shade and more shade in my little patch—though I can walk to the coffee shop, a benefit to city living.
Knowing I’m doomed to failure, I marched defiantly to the garden center last Sunday and bought a hollyhock. My first. It has fat buds showing pink. I found a spot by the pond that gets a sunbeam for an hour or so each day around noon, said, Stand up straight, and lashed it to a stake. Maybe, maybe I’ll see a bloom . . .
Even while the 30-year-old peony spat out one bud that fizzled before it opened . . .
And an equally old climbing Don Juan rose, gifted me with three measly, though heavenly smelling, flowers this year.
Ah, life in the shade. The ferns are doing very well.
White wisteria that has let itself be made into a tree. / Photo above and on the front by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
THERE’S A MIRAGE around the corner.
Two white wisteria trees have suddenly emerged at either end of a pie-shaped street garden, one of those spaces that appear to be the responsibility of no one, scattered around the neighborhood, detached from any property. Neighbors usually take them in hand, planting roses or grasses or other pleasurables.
In this case, someone planted these trees. Each is about 12 feet tall and at least as wide, dripping with blossoms so sweetly scented they enthralled my nose from a block away, hauling me along on perfumed tentacles to find the source.
Standing beneath a branch of heavenly scented blossoms, I muttered, Impossible. Impossible. Wisteria trees. Nah . . . there’s no such thing. And yet, I was staring at one (and then the other).
Where did they come from? I swear to you they were not here last spring. I swear there were big patches of datura, angel’s trumpet, in one of the spots. I don’t recall anything in the other.
Is this like . . . Brigadoon? Magical apparitions that appear once in 100 years and then return to the ether never to be seen again in this lifetime?
In a frantic Internet search I find wisteria trees actually don’t exist, at least in this form.
If you want a wisteria tree of any color you have to create one yourself.* Like rose bushes that are pruned to the shape of a tree—standards, they’re called—these were your garden-variety wisteria vine, forced to form a stalk and a crown of flowers.
Per White Flower Farm, you take a bareroot wisteria, jam a stake into the ground about 12 inches deep and lightly lash the trunk to the stake. You’ll have to replace the stake with a steel rod at some point, they say. I say, might a well start with one. These beauties grow big and fast, up to 15 feet in one season.
Aha! So that’s where the trees came from. They probably looked pretty no-account the first year or so, since a good bit of pruning was needed to get the shape and flowering head going, which is probably why I didn’t notice them in my near-daily walks right past their tidy beds.
On the other hand, the trunks are thicker than my arm (which really could be thinner, but that’s neither here nor there). They had to have taken years to achieve that girth.
Oh, bother. These suckers have me really rattled.
You want to give it a try? Wisteria is invasive, which is nothing to sneeze at, so be warned. There’s an enormous amount of labor involved in keeping their limbs from running amok. Training a tree might well be worse than dealing with a vine. Growing that tall that fast means you should probably stand by your burgeoning tree, secateurs in hand, from beginning to end of each growing season, clipping those wily little branches as they emerge. No summer vacation for you!
On the other hand, the tree might be easier. Confine it to a clear spot on your patch, where you can easily see which way it’s sprouting and twining, and deal with it promptly. Clearly, I know nothing.
Quite a show for a week or so, and now I see the blossoms have faded to brown and dangle forlornly from the branches. As ephemeral as any spring bloom, there’s an explosion of flowers and then . . . pfft.
Have I mentioned I want one?
*I have seen wisteria trees for sale online, but they appear to be trees in name only. They’re the same wisteria you can grow up a wall or over a trellis. You still have to do the training.
TUT, TUT. The Royal Horticultural Society has taken a tumble into the weeds, announced The Times of London, in an article that ran on April 24.*
You know that anything the Brits say, Americans take as gospel; it’s that plummy accent. (Consider the bethroned and snooty-voiced actress who sells Poo-Pourri on a whole series of . . . um . . . ripe commercials.)
So, when the RHS recently noted that four of the 12 show gardens at this year’s prestigious Chelsea Flower Show, would feature weeds, all the brambles, thistle and knapweed in the kingdom rose up in a rousing cheer. Huzzah!
The dandelions also took a bow, getting a pat on their fluffy heads for providing nectar for bees. (And here I just mentioned liking them a few weeks ago). Really, if we didn’t have dandelion fluff, what would we wish upon—other than stars, birthday candles, and coins in fountains. That last was me commenting, not the Times of London—do Brits even wish on dandelion fluff?
Once the “hallmark of a badly tended garden,” the Times article continued, many weeds should be prized. There’s now a campaign to “rebrand” these obstreperous fronds as “resilient plants.” They don’t need watering or feeding, and they create a natural habitat for wildlife.
There’s also a lot of stigma around the word “weed,” we’re told. So, they are now to be known as “weed heroes” or “superweeds.” It’s all so very politically correct; one might even call it—gasp!—American of them.
In another radical departure from tradition, the society, which holds its show each year in May, is rejecting the idea of digging over garden soil to improve its structure; instead the soil gains nutrients by having mulch added to the surface and letting nature alone improve the border.
My own gardens started out as hard-packed clay. And, as I have written before, over time, with the planting of plants and the mulching of mulch, the soil has become so friable and rich that I can dig in bulbs and seedlings with my bare hands (see last week’s column on the condition of my nails).
This took me only 40 years—record time when you consider the Brits have been at it for at least a millennium. OF COURSE, their soil is gorgeous.
The RHS List of Superweeds:
Dandelions: Source of nectar for bees early in the year. / Image from the Healthline website.
Nettles: Evidence of nitrogen-rich soil and can be made into nettle tea. Stinging nettles show. / Image from The Wildlife Trusts website.
Thistles: Bee heaven. Meadow thistle shown. / Image from The Wildlife Trusts website.
Teasels: Important bird food.** / Image from The Wildlife Trusts website.
Fat hen: Evidence that the soil is deficient in nutrients. / Image from The Wildlife Trusts website.
*You won’t be able to read this unless you have a subscription—£1 for 6 months, quite the bargain if you think about it. Thanks to my buddy Maggie Hall for sending along the copy.
**I had no idea what a teasel was. It looks just like a thistle. Well. I have discovered, that it is a Dipsacus, a genus of flowering plant in the family Caprifoliaceae, which sounds like an Athenian soldier about to bring down the wrath of Zeus on an obscure Spartan tribe. It is, however, merely a weed that resembles a thistle.
Dogwoods at the National Arboretum, this year perhaps even more than last, are simply spectacular. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
I HAVE GOT to stop gardening with my fingers. The problem being that my tools are never to hand when I get inspired to pull, or poke, or nip, or whatnot. My fingers always are. The result being, my nails are chipped and ingrained with dirt, usually not noticed until I have to shake or reach for a menu or pass a buck or four (!) over for coffee. Then, shame.
I’ve tried manicures and can usually resist digging for a day or so, waving my paws in front of my eyes, admiring. Then I catch sight of younger hands, frequently my daughter’s, so lovely and soft and clean and . . .
Damn! That dirt hides a multitude of aging sins.
Did you know people get elbow lifts? When I say “people,” I mean women, or mostly women. That, next to hands, the elbow is the most visible sign of aging? You probably haven’t noticed, and won’t thank me when you look in the mirror, but your elbows are as saggy as your boobs. A little (lot) of weight work can do something for the batwings, but the elbows? Surgery is required.
They can replace the fat pads on the soles of your feet too.
Don’t ask me where I came up with these thoughtful thoughts (it was a long time ago on some Internet wander). On possibly the same wander I discovered that: The older we (women) get, the more we resemble men; and you have to cut your hair short, after a certain age, because from the back you might look too youthful for your years and fool men walking behind you. Perish the thought. Quel embarrassment! For them, when they find themselves wolf-whistling Granny.
That is all beside the point. Which I think I recall was hand and nail care. Also, gardening.
I did discover a rather nice lotion, on the 50% off rack at Safeway, which is on the way to the ladies’ room with those high-powered driers that cause the backs of your hands to shimmy. Olay’s Collagen Peptide Firming and Hydrating Lotion. While it smells like overripe tropical fruit, when I used it last night, my paws looked rather nice this morning. Even with the ingrained dirt and chips and such. Soft dirt.
Speaking of gardening, which I suppose I’m doing: It looks like a perfect set of days to get some stuff in the ground and move other stuff about. Despite the rather brilliant sunshine this morning, the weather is supposed to turn, with cool and rainy days right through the weekend.
It’s the kind of weather that encourages seeds to settle in and annuals to wriggle their little limbs in the soil and prepare to blast off into summer’s heat. No hose required.
Note: Azaleas, roses, and lilacs are flowering fabulously. The perfect place to see them if you’re in or near the nation’s capital? The National Arboretum. If you can find a patch of sun in the next few days, pack a picnic and go.
Two pollinator-garden designs suggested by the White Flower Farm catalogue.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
IT’S TIME to stop daydreaming and pull on your gardening gauntlets.
While it may feel as if we’re lollygagging along, that it’s been spring for a month—roses already!—it’s only now time to get down and dirty.
What a luxurious thing it is to have had such a long, flowery spring, constantly tingled with a threat of a frigid rebound and the destruction of those tender blossoms, the tension adding to the delight. Like duck sauce and mustard.
We’re at the absolute right time to lay in the mulch, contemplate the zinnias and dahlias. The last frost dates are beginning to cascade. In Washington DC, that’s April 21, this weekend. (Although, for those outside the zone, you may have days or even weeks more to wait).
Tender annuals and tropicals, such as lemons and hibiscus, are now beginning to fill garden centers. The better centers put out frost-sensitive plants only when we can be reasonably assured that they’ll live. This is good, if frustrating, for the impatient, or those lucky enough to have a backyard microclimate that can reliably skirt the danger.
If you have your garden plan in hand. Well, ready, set, hoe.
But if you’re waiting for your green or black thumb to turn a bare patch of, let’s be blunt, dirt, into a blooming paradise, and have no plan yet, here’s my advice . . .
Steal.
If you’re like most, the issue will be where to start.
If you have a reasonable working knowledge of plant names and varieties, take a wander through your neighborhood (or an aspirational one) and see what others have done. If you see stuff you like, but haven’t a clue, get an app for your phone, like Picture This, which will identify most plants and give care instructions. Write down what you see—placement and varieties and so forth—and have at it.
I did this 40 years ago, a newbie at gardening in a garden, not a pot on a fire escape. One neighbor had the most breathtaking climbing rose covering the side of the house. I planted a Queen Elizabeth in the same location in my garden and it was spectacular, until the tree grew, blocked the sun, and poof. Similarly, a wisteria caught my eye—just the thing for the garage roof, I thought. And so one was planted. It has yet to bloom. Seems I bought the wrong variety, Chinese wisteria, which blooms (when it blooms) as the vine leafs out, not before the leaves appear, which is what I expected. Ah well, live and learn.
Sometimes a catalogue can be your garden’s buddy.
While I haven’t bought anything from White Flower Farm in decades, it’s a great jumping-off point for those with deep pockets—we’ll get to that. Reliable, with beautiful stock, and excellent hand-holding, the Connecticut-based family-run company has been around since the 1950s, supplying not just plants but entire gardens, acting as your designer.
If you are an experienced gardener you will probably need only look at the photos as an aid to sketching out your design and then shop locally for the plants. Beyond supporting neighborhood resources, there’s a joy to seeing and sniffing the stock.
For the clueless, the WFF website describes entire gardenscapes, which you can buy and plop into your (prepared) beds. The Long Season Hummingbird Garden, for example, includes 15 plants and covers 30 square feet. Among other bloomers, there are salvia, heuchera, monardia, and phlox. Some bloom through fall, others flower at different points between now and then, giving you months of blossoms.
The collection is $189 plus $50 shipping. A pretty penny, one (me) says for some common bloomers. But if you don’t know what you’re doing and want a beautiful garden that you don’t have to fret over . . . well, shell out.
Totally guilt-free for the taking is the Pink Pollinator Garden, which attracts beneficial bugs. It’s already out of stock, as are a number of other preplanned gardens, so filch the basic design with impunity. This one’s such a happy frolic of Barbie-pink plants—movie tie-in! starring phlox, yarrow, coneflower, and bee balm.
Each of the White Flower Farm designs includes a handy diagram so you know where to place each plant so the foliage and flowers are most complementary in size and bloom time. If you’re shopping locally, make note of the height and expected spread of each pot and compare with their selections.
Word of warning. It’s so tempting to load up on spring bloomers, lilacs and cherry trees, peonies and the more ephemeral roses —i.e., not those scentless, ever-blooming, perennially boring, Knock Outs.* If you do, you’ll have only green to show for it come July.
Make sure to add annuals to any collection so you have flowers from now till frost. Stuff them into pots and empty spaces or line the edges of the border, so your eye can dance into winter.
*No offense. I have some too. They have their uses.
THIS EARLY spring morning, I’m sitting on the back-porch steps, as I’ve done for over 40 years. It’s still a bit chilly, but I enjoy watching spring happen. If I don’t keep a close eye, sometimes it seems to slip by before it’s begun. Summer comes on so fast.
It’s getting warmer by the hour this year. Full June at noon.
Yes, I’m still sitting here. I don’t want to miss a minute of the cherry tree’s flowering. As I tell you (warn you) each year, this was a great mistake, an enormous mistake, I mean that literally.
The Kwanzan cheery tree in the Cavanaugh backyard on Tuesday. / Photo above and on the front (after the ultimate fallout) by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
The Kwanzan cherry, also known as the Japanese flowering cherry, is described by the North Carolina State gardening site as a “small tree.” It’s a big state, North Carolina, with lots of room, so to them I suppose it is small. They say grows to 36 feet. For a small city garden that’s a damn big tree.
One of the showiest of the Japanese cherries, they also say. How true. It’s in the rose family, they say. Who knew? It prefers sandy soil to the clay we in DC offer (good thing we have clay). It has “large wart-like glands (2-4) on petiole that look like spider eyes.” OY! That’s disgusting and nothing I’ve noticed.
They also say there’s fruit. Fruit? Well, that’s a shock. It’s nothing but green when the flowers fall, and that’s just as well. What a horrible mess that would make—rotting fruit underfoot.
Same tree on Wednesday. What a difference a day makes. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
But, it’s glorious when in full bloom. Masses of flowers, double pink powder puffs, so light and fluffy one imagines Jean Harlow at her vanity, all satin slip and milky skin, dusting her pearly cheeks. Or sugarplum fairies poised for a jeté.
Watching it bloom, which you can do, is like watching popcorn pop. Keep an eye on that tight little fist of dark pink that has emerged from a branch and looks like a sad nothing at all, give it a minute or an hour, and it will explode into a cloud of pink that will last a few days or a week, depending on the weather, before falling in snowy pink drifts upon the beds of tulips, the pebbled walk.
It’s too damn big, I say again. It got that way so quickly, which was the (misguided) reason for planting it in the first place.
In the beginning, there was a schoolyard behind our house, blocked from sight by the garage that ends the garden walk. From the porch we saw nothing but sky and a few treetops. Then the school became a condo, and the yard became the site of townhouses, each four stories tall, so there was an audience for dinner. Privacy? What’s privacy?
So the tree—we did research—was big, fast-growing, and beautiful. A perfect screen. The Prince and I put hands over our ears (la la la la) as the chap at the nursery said it was too big for us.
As I’ve also said many times, by now we expected to be in Key West, or somesuch, margarita in hand, rumps chilling in the ocean. Someone else would be dealing with the tree, no doubt drooling at the thought of the pink explosion. Maybe fantasizing about growing zinnias and roses beneath its branches. Ha.
Uh. We’re still here, and the tree is easily 30 feet tall with limbs that stretch about as far, tangling with the wisteria that clambers along the garage roof, sprawling over the 8-foot fences that border the garden. I can clip branches from the second-floor porch. They look so fine in a vase.
The sun dapples. I’ve come to appreciate shade gardening. Don’t you just love ferns? There is no choice.
The author’s Seder table. / Photo above and on the front by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
This story first appeared in Prime Women.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
OURS IS a mixed family. My husband is 100% Irish and was raised Catholic. I’m 100% Eastern European, raised Jewish. As a result, we celebrate the major holidays of both religions, albeit agnostic style: a Christmas tree, the menorah for Chanukah, jelly bean hunts for Easter, and a traditional dinner for Rosh Hashana. Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, I reserve for myself—as I’m the only one who cares to fast.
Then there’s Passover, a holiday that lasts for seven days and marks the freeing of the Jews from slavery in Egypt. In recent years the Seder dinner, which marks the beginning of the holiday, has been adopted by many faiths as a symbolic repudiation of oppression and a celebration of freedom. This year Passover starts tonight, with many people having a second Seder tomorrow night.
For a service that dates back thousands of years, this one is always topical, hence its increased cross-cultural popularity. Sadly, there are always tyrants, from Pharaoh to Putin. And yet, there is much in our lives to celebrate. The Seder service calls on us to remember, to discuss, and to feast.
As is said about most Jewish holidays, but particularly Passover: We suffered, we talked about the suffering, let’s eat.
◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊◊
Planning a Seder can feel overwhelming, particularly if you’re doing it alone or for the first time. Decades ago, as is tradition, I tried to do it in a day. I’d take the day off from work, the house would be (theoretically) immaculately clean, then I’d cook the multi-course meal from scratch for 10 or 12, set the table, lead the service, serve the food . . . and plotz. I don’t do the cleanup; that’s my husband’s territory, thank heaven.
Now I make lists and spread the work out over a week, so when the day rolls around, I’m relaxed. Well, it doesn’t hurt that our daughter can handle the silver polishing, ironing, table setting, and centerpiece production while also serving as sous-chef and waitress. Tip: Have a daughter if you can.
Passover Traditions
I’ve been doing this for so many years that it’s tough to remember when it was hard. But I most certainly know what everything is supposed to taste like. And while I still do it all from scratch to honor my mother and father and the generations before them who handed down the recipes, there are ways to cheat and take shortcuts. I promise that even your grandmother would scarcely taste the difference!
What I give you here is a variation of my Seder dinner, one that is fairly typical of most American Jews that share my Eastern European, or Ashkenazi, roots. One that can be served at a second Seder, if you can’t get it together in time for tonight, when Passover officially begins. A couple of recipes and many handy substitutions and cheats are included.
Do note! This is a kosher-style meal, meaning I don’t serve or use dairy products in the preparations. For reason, lost in the midst of time, more Orthodox Jews (and Muslims) never combine meat and dairy at a meal. Possibly for digestive reasons. As our traditional cooking is always heavy, this may account for the longevity of the race.
And, during Passover, we are confined to matzoh-based products—no flour. As you can imagine, this makes for some less-than-wonderful desserts. But hey, they’re still sweet.
The multi-course feast that follows starts with matzoh ball soup, then gefilte fish, and then the main course of a brisket of beef, roasted asparagus, mushrooms and onions, and apple sauce. (I also serve latkes (potato pancakes), which may be unorthodox, as they’re usually served at Chanukah. If unorthodoxy appeals to you, find my recipe for latkes here.) And dessert is usually a sponge cake and macaroons, sometimes strawberries dipped in chocolate.
Don’t forget the wine, a lot of wine—also sparkling water for the designated drivers and non-drinkers.
If you’re serving cocktails, serve them alongside chopped liver (buy at a Jewish deli) or kosher hummus and matzoh crackers, maybe some olives, celery, and carrot sticks. This should lead to candle lighting and the time to gather round the table. Keep it light, there’s a lot of food to come.
First Course
Matzoh Ball Soup: I make great chicken soup. I also make lighter-than-air matzoh balls. But you know what? You can also just buy a couple of cans or containers of good-quality chicken broth. After all, what is this soup but a vehicle for matzoh balls? For the balls, I am shocked to say that Streit’s makes a delicious dupe for homemade matzoh balls. I didn’t believe it until my daughter introduced me to the mix last year. If you have a little chicken fat, which I’ll explain in a bit, use it instead of the oil they call for. The flavor will be greatly enhanced.
Cook matzoh balls in a separate pot from the soup. The balls absorb the liquid, tripling in size, leaving you with little or no liquid to serve. Add bouillon cubes or Better Than Bouillon to the water to enhance the flavor.
NOTE: Chicken fat, also known as schmaltz, gives a particularly delicious flavor to matzoh balls. Streit’s, as I’ve said, is excellent, but they call for oil. Chicken fat will take it to the next level. If you don’t have a butcher who will give you a quarter pound or so, buy a whole chicken or chicken parts, remove whatever fat is visible, pull off the skin and cut it up, add a thinly sliced small onion, and melt over a low flame. Strain and put in the fridge. Use as you would oil.
Second Course
Gefilte Fish With Horseradish: Buy a jar of Mother’s Gefilte Fish. The whitefish and pike version in jellied broth is my preference. My mother made this from scratch once—the house stank for a week. I’m also not going to give a doctoring-it-up recipe because you probably won’t like it anyway; it’s such an acquired taste. So just chill it, take it out of the bottle, slice it, and put it in a serving dish, pouring the jellied liquid over the top. Garnish with bits of parsley. Pass it around the table with horseradish—buy a jar of Kelchner’s if you can. It will knock your socks off as fast as the stuff you grate yourself.
Note: Horseradish is also on the Seder plate that sits in front of the host and includes a number of symbolic foods found listed in the Haggadah, your prayer book. It’s also delicious with brisket of beef, the main course.
Main Course
Brisket of Beef
*A 6-to-7-pound brisket
Salt and pepper
Paprika
2 large onions sliced very thin
2 stalks of celery, chopped
1 to 2 cloves garlic, chopped
A few sprigs of parsley
1 teaspoon thyme
1 small bay leaf, crumbled
Dry red wine or beer
Beef stock
Preheat oven to 450.
Rinse meat, and wipe with a paper towel. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and paprika. Put in oven. Brown on one side, flip and brown on the other. Takes about 40 minutes. (You can also do this part on top of the stove if you have a frying pan big enough. It won’t take quite so long).
While meat is browning, finely chop onions, celery, garlic, and parsley. I know many people, including some excellent cooks, who swear by Lipton’s Onion Soup. Please no! Try it this way, and you won’t go back.
When meat is browned, put the vegetables on top and brown in the oven for another 10 minutes (if you browned the meat on the stovetop, move it to the roasting pan and then heap the vegetables on top).
Add parsley, bay leaf, and thyme, and add a mixture of wine and stock or a couple of bottles of beer (which tenderizes) to completely cover the meat and veggies.
Cover the roasting pan with a lid (or tightly sealed tinfoil) and reduce temperature to 325 degrees. (NOTE: Don’t worry if your roasting pan is too small to lay pieces side by side; it’s okay to double them up as long as they’re covered with liquid)
Roast for approximately 3½ hours, until tender, when you stick it with a fork. Taste the broth, you may want to add a little more salt and pepper if it seems bland. Let cool on the stovetop for an hour before putting it in the fridge to rest overnight (if you’re doing the second-night Seder, or all day if you’re aiming for tonight.Serving: Sometime in the afternoon, before the Seder, remove meat from the fridge and skim off the fat that has accumulated on the surface. Remove the meat from the pan (don’t throw out the gravy!) and slice against the grain (sorta sideways). Put it back in the pan and return it to the fridge.An hour or so before the meal (or as cocktails are being served), return the meat to the oven covered at 325 degrees.Slicing cold meat is a snap!This took me 30 years to discover.*If the slab of brisket you get (6 to 7 pounds should serve 10, considering the rest of the meal) is in one piece with a layer of fat between top and bottom, you will need to separate the two and trim off most of the fat (or talk to the butcher about doing this for you—they usually will). Some people prefer the pieces connected, but I think it’s too fatty).
Garlic Roasted Asparagus: Depending on the thickness of the asparagus, three to five stalks person should do it. Epicurious.com has a fine recipe. It’s delicious chilled, so there’s no last-minute fuss.
Mushrooms and Onions: An optional but delicious extra. Thinly slice a large onion, sauté in olive oil until light brown, add sliced mushrooms, and cook over low heat until soft. Add salt and pepper to taste. This is another dish that can be done in advance and reheated. You might also mix it with the pan juices from the brisket for a divine gravy.
Dessert: Go to the bakery and buy a sponge cake and macaroons. If you want to get fancy, get ripe strawberries and dip them in melted semi-sweet chocolate. Set on parchment or waxed paper to cool. Do it yourself? There’s also a sponge cake recipe that’s always on the back of the Manischewitz Potato Starch container (or maybe it’s the cake-meal container, I forget).
Tea: Coffee is not served after this meal because most people drink it with milk or cream. Besides! Tea is an old-world tradition.
End note: While I use my mother’s recipes, for many, Joan Nathan’s Jewish Holiday Cookbook is considered the bible. She covers the basics of every feast, and while I might quibble here and there, the guidance is excellent, and the results are generally delicious.
All Summer Beauty Hydrangea, from Breck’s nurseries.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
I’M TAKING an early spring inventory of the back 40 (feet). This requires a very short stroll from the foot of the porch steps to the garage door, a charming small building that resembles a cottage . . . just don’t open the door. The pebble path that divides two flower borders winds along, like a dry streambed, which was the intention. It hurts bare feet; I’m just reminding myself to put on shoes.
I don’t recall planting a Euonymus japonicus, an evergreen that (theoretically) has small white flowers and red berries around about fall. Clearly I did, as PictureThis, my gardening app, tells me that’s what this clump of green is called. I have a problem with labeling, expecting my brain to remember, which it doesn’t. Though I distinctly recall thinking: Of course, I’ll remember! Who could forget?
Neither do I recall planting aster in the pots that flank the garage door but, again, I must have.
More massive than ever, the Kwanzan cherry tree is covered with buds. There are even some little flowers on the lowest limbs. This is doubly odd because it usually flowers from the top, where it has a clear view of the sky, and it’s also at least two weeks from its usual flowering date. Unlike the Tidal Basin’s Yoshino cherries, the Kwanzan is a late bloomer.
Oddly, my hydrangeas, Phyllis and Alice, usually so reliable, look more than a little bedraggled. I don’t know what this is about. They look at each other across the path and are rather a feature, so this is disturbing.
Phyllis, who’s a lovely pink when she blooms, has a lot of dead stems and a dearth of buds. There won’t be much of a flowering this year, I fear, though there’s a mass of fresh green at her base, which may do something in another 12 months.
Alice, who’s white, fared better, but she’s younger. Phyllis has been around for nearly 40 years, Alice just three. Does this mean anything? I’ll whack off the dead stuff and fertilize both plants. It’s a bit earlier than usual. My friend Bruce, who has the most splendid hydrangeas, swears by a dose of Miracid at Thanksgiving and another at Easter (just so he remembers). I missed the fall feeding for some reason. Hmpf.
On Friday, the weather is supposed to be drizzly so the food will seep more quickly into the soil; less effort for Mother.
The earliest of the tulips are blooming, a little too red for my preference, but they look jolly enough. More are coming, but not in the abundance I expected, and much of the foliage is ratty. Squirrels? Possibly—little devils are always busy out there. Maybe the cold snap we had a few weeks ago? Also possibly. Maybe not enough of a chill altogether, could be. But it’s been as cool as the fridge most nights; that should be enough, shouldn’t it?
Well, the ferns beside the pond are fine, though the raccoons, it seems, got hungry and made off with all but two of the feeder fish we deploy each year. Raccoons like fish. Raccoons love koi. That was an expensive mistake, therefore feeder fish, 10 for a buck, the motley souls one feeds to one’s pet anaconda. But they’re colorful and fish-like and should be pleased at the bucolic, if abbreviated, life we offer, though they never say.
I’m amazed that the kiwi grew over the winter; shouldn’t it have been dormant? I was thinking we’d need to move it into the back corner, to the left of the garage door, to fill a gap, but it seems to have decided to do that all on its own. It appears to be 7 feet tall, or thereabouts. Maybe it will fruit? Actually, I don’t care if it fruits, I don’t much like kiwis, but it has delightfully scented flowers, so if it would just bloom. I bought it in bloom, so I know this can happen. That was eight, nine, 10 years ago . . .
The pittosporum I planted last spring seems to have buds, but this Southern beauty, so intoxicatingly fragrant when it blossoms, has fooled me before—a mass of new growth, and then nothing but more leaves. Like a false pregnancy. I’m not holding my breath.
Not sure about the asparagus fern. My app said it should survive even if temperatures dip below freezing on occasion, and it was stringy-looking but green through the winter. Then came that last cold snap.
But the honeysuckle is dancing along the fence, the never-blooming wisteria is beginning to green up, and oh! The orange trumpet is climbing the neighbor’s wall, which runs part of the way alongside our yard. It’s about time we got some blooms—it takes three to five years, they say. I think we’re hitting five. When you plant invasives, as I do, despite ample warning of . . . their invasiveness . . . they’d damn well better put on a show.
You listening to me, wisteria? Nah, didn’t think so.
Close up to the back porch, the Don Juan climbing rose, a finely scented variety, and the mock orange beside it, are both growing green and lush. They were both quite sad last year so I hacked them way back, which always takes a few years off my life as I find it traumatic. The plants appear to be grateful, though.
Photo courtesy the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
THE TULIPS and daffodils are beginning to poke up as midwinter slithers into spring. This has been the strangest of winters, scarcely there, at least around here.
While the North and West have been pummeled with snows and storms, the Washington DC area has been dancing along. A cha-cha perhaps, two steps ahead, three back.
The last big bang of cold was around Christmas, the only big chill really. Enough to fell the tenderest plants I experimented with leaving to the elements this year—thankfully, I took cuttings, which have so far survived.
This kind of weather leaves me itchy for spring. You too? The weatherpersons continue to call for unseasonably mild temperatures and sunny days, yet it’s four weeks until March goes out like a lamb, and weeks more before the flowering trees and bulbs dazzle forth. It’s just too early to plant a damn thing.
What solace then are botanic gardens and flower shows, places to plot a course for April, which will be here in a blink. Or two.
After several Covid-related years in Philadelphia’s Eisenhower Park, the Grandmama of all US flower shows, the Philadelphia Flower Show, is back at the Philadelphia Convention Center, March 4-12. Borrowing from the best of the outdoors, without the worry about unseemly weather, the show promises to feature some of the biggest gardens built in the event’s 200-year history, some up to 2,900 square feet.
“This year, we’re working hard to create a cohesive and fully immersive experience for show attendees,” said Seth Pearsoll, the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society’s creative director, at a press conference. “Design choices are intentionally being made to mimic the feel of being outdoors in nature by creating larger displays that surround guests.”
The entrance, always smack-you-on-the-nose fantastic, will feature “a 360-degree world of unique floral pairings, textures, light, fragrance, and vibrant colors,” said the PHS in a press release. “Guests will experience a jolt of floral magic that celebrates that unique feeling of awe, excitement, and celebration that one experiences when encountering majestic beauty.”
Instead of the usual mob crowding up to the ropes to view a flowery tableau (while tripping over wheelchairs and double-wide baby buggies), a winding path will lead through the gardens. There will also, of course, be the usual displays and floral design contests, among them: window boxes (my personal favorite), flower arrangements, orchids, and botanical jewelry.
And the Marketplace will feature more than 100 vendors with plants, tools, and ornaments. Yes, it’s once again time to pick up one of those Hawaiian plumeria sticks, which they swear turn into plants of intoxicating fragrance. This has yet to happen for me. But buying one here—and failing—has become de rigueur.
A closeup of the Firecracker bouquet from Urban Stems. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
IF KRISTEN HARTKE still lived in Washington, DC, she would probably have gone to Eastern Market and picked up something fabulous for me from the flower lady. Maybe she would have mixed the blossoms with some greens and odds and ends from Trader Joe’s. Then she might have snipped some dried grasses from her garden and—poof!—brought me an arrangement to die for.
As it was, the food writer, chef, and artist is living in Manhattan now, along with her husband, Rick Weber, and daughter Maddie, who lives on her own but in this they were together. So, flowers were shipped in a cheery box that landed on my doorstep.
When my sister Jeanie passed away a few weeks ago I went to Florida to do what was needed. Several people sent flowers to her home, for me and my baby sister Bonnie to enjoy. Some were lovely, others were as sad as the occasion, with near-black roses moaning alongside strangely purple-mottled orchids.
Why do they make funeral flowers look so damn funereal? They have totally ruined lilies for me.
Kristen hit it precisely right. She ordered The Firecracker from Urban Stems. Nestled in greens was an explosion of color from blousy orange/pink roses, purplish thistle, with tight yellow balls of craspedia sproinging about. An apt remembrance for Jeanie, who always had such energy and panache, the note read.
She would have loved them.
I had sorta-kinda heard of Urban Stems but only now looked at the offerings, which have nothing to do with Teleflora or whatever flower service we’re most familiar with. The best that we (meaning me) can say about those arrangements is that they’re inoffensive. They sure don’t bring joy.
Well, Stephanie, I say to myself, this is a fine intro to a flowery Valentine’s Day column. Behold the slick segue! We (me again) put out the question: Where do you buy flowers, when flowers need to be sent?
Several readers suggested supporting local florists and buying flowers directly. Said Bird art director, Kathy Legg: When I send flowers to someone out of town I do a google search on florists in that town, pick a website, see what kinds of arrangements they offer, choose one and call them directly to place the order.
If you’re sending flowers to an office, make sure a vase is included, otherwise they might end up catawampus in a coffee pot—or worse. My Urban Stems arrangement ($70-$158) was shipped bare-stemmed, not a problem since it came to my home, and my home could give the Container Store a run for the money. The company’s vases start at $12.
But! I once worked at a newspaper magazine, wrote Christine Ledbetter. We were a small staff so they put us all in one room. On Valentine’s Day, the newly married copy editor received 24 red roses from her husband. The art director received a Ritz Carlton lobby-style arrangement from his boyfriend, a florist. A writer whose husband was traveling was sent a mixed bouquet of Birds of Paradise and Calla Lilies. My husband sent me roses from 1-800-flowers that arrived without a vase in brown paper, and never opened. My sad arrangement was the laughingstock of the room.
Oh my. Poor guy. For want of a vase . . .
Caren Sniderman says chocolate is her go-to for Valentine’s Day, but I really like The Bouqs for online flower delivery. On-time and beautiful. For example, Sweet Escape takes you to the tropics with pink ginger and red cordyline paired with masajeana leaves and more super-lush greenery, plus dried okra pods—which dry well, so there’s a wisp of memory to linger. The price depends on the number of blooms, $49-$79 plus $12 for a vase.
Farmgirl Flowers has rarely disappointed Bird editor Janet Kelly: I had gorgeous peonies from them late May last year sent to Jackson Hole to a couple we were visiting for Memorial Day and have sent a few bouquets to my daughter-in-law that were always just right. Hydrangeas are the lure for the Dew Gooder bouquet, a delicious combination of pink, pistachio, and peach stems. It’s $68 including shipping, but includes nothing to stick them in. Choose a vase from your private collection, they say, in a helpful end note.
You’ll notice that I do not include the cost of delivery in these prices. There are too many hoops to jump through, first-borns to be offered, and so forth, to pin those costs down. The exception is Farmgirl, which includes delivery on certain arrangements, Dew Gooder being one of them.
For more choices, check out Oprah’s website, which lists 18 flower delivery services, from budget to extravagant. By the way, Oprah gives highest marks to Urban Stems. Way to go, Kristen!
A spread from the current issue of Veranda magazine shows Brooke Astor’s storied Park Avenue library, designed by Albert Hadley (and photographed by William P. Steele). The spines of Astor’s husband’s leather-bound book collection supply the room’s base color, the reds picked up by florals by master florist Jennifer Figge. Her arrangement was photographed for the magazine by Pamela Cook. / Photo on front from iStock.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
THE TREE is down, the fairy lights dimmed. Spring is months away. Has your home hit the doldrums?
In the most recent issue of the shelter magazine Veranda, the one with the turquoise dining room on the cover (a color I dream of painting our old Mustang convertible), there are eight home design features spread over 60 pages, offering an instant winter pick-me-up.
Within those pages are 58 rooms that include some form of greenery. There are bunches of flowers, some in tiny pots, others arranged in billows, branches of green leaves, ficus and orange trees, and ferns on pedestals. Some of the flowers are clearly expensive, massive bunches of roses begging for a sniff, orchids (of course), and elaborate florist-designed arrangements. Others are sweetly plucked from gardens or woods: Queen Anne’s lace, cosmos, ferns, sunflowers, evergreen branches.
They are displayed on tables, countertops, coffee tables, mantels, and bookcases; in living rooms, dining rooms, kitchens, and bathrooms. Sometimes they’re so enormous and elaborate that they smack you on the nose, sometimes they hide in plain sight, like a tiny posy on a nightstand.
Only four rooms have no plants or flowers: unsurprisingly, a bathroom and a mudroom; scandalously, a foyer (every entry needs a bit of welcoming greenery) and, oddly, a dining room, that despite its elegant furnishings is as inviting as a feast in a freezer in February.
Grey Gardens, the fabled Hamptons home of “Big Edie” and “Little Edie” Beale, cousins of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, over the years went from shabby to shabby chic to in-your-face glam, as redone by fashion entrepreneur Liz Lange. The current issue of Veranda features the dining room on the cover and the rest of the house on 10 pages inside, with photography by Pascal Chevallier. Here, as befits a cottage-style home, the flowers are Queen Anne’s lace and fronds seemingly plucked from the garden (although florals were in fact done by The Bridgehampton Florist.)
Take it from the design pros.
Flip through any shelter magazine and once you notice the extra dimension that plants and flowers add to a room, any room, it’s hard not to notice their absence. The steeliest, sleekest, most contemporary space is complemented, warmed, given an extra layer of dimension, by anything natural—even if it’s a naked branch, clipped from a tree. Or a bodacious boudoir, already fussed up with canopy bed, mirrored ceiling, and fireplace, is gifted an additional frisson of glamour by a vase stuffed with peonies, or a frilly palm.
No matter how beautiful a room, without a flower, a plant, even some leaves, the space can feel sterile and dead. Growing things add a layer of life.
A feature in the current issue of the magazine, “Living Histories,” pairs flower arrangements with the rooms of prominent (i.e., rich) people that were decorated or curated by famous designers, picking up the colors of the furnishings, playing with the mood.
One such is Brooke Astor’s carmine red library, with its flowery furnishings and black lacquer tables, designed by Albert Hadley. Collections of seemingly uncracked, leather-bound books, which seem to have been chosen for the color, line the brass-trimmed shelves that run floor to ceiling. In a companion photo, a flower arrangement by florist Jennifer Figge picks up the color with oxblood ranunculus, accented with pale pink hellebores, berry branches, and fizzy sprays of wild grasses—weedy things you might yank from the garden, here playing a prima donna role.
Something to keep in mind when you’re selecting flowers: Key them in color, scale, and shape to the room, your artwork, and your furnishings.
Take any painting, print, or photo of flowers, look at the colors, the mood. Say, you have a print of sunflowers. Try popping the real thing into a vase and setting it nearby—as if the flowers have waltzed out of the picture. Try a bunch of baby’s breath in front of a snowy scene. Tulips for a windmill or print of Holland. A potted palm beside a photo of last year’s trip to Bora Bora. The same holds for throw pillows and upholstery: Pick up the theme (if there is one) or the colors and let plants and flowers add punch to the setting.
For some great examples of flowers playing with art, mark your calendars for: the Philadelphia Flower Show (March 4-12, 2023), which always does a spectacular job with flowery vignettes. Also, the date is set for Washington DC’s Art in Bloom at Anderson House (March 27-30, 2023) but their website isn’t yet updated from last year. For a little road trip, the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh offers Art in Bloom (March 15-19, 2023) with floral designers interpreting works of art in the museum’s collection.
The parlor palms do predictably well in the, uh, parlor. / Photo here and on the front by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
I LIKE THE WAY the house feels when it’s full of plants, said My Prince. And full it is. We now live in a jungle. That this is a situation of his own creation is neither here nor there.
Last spring my little greenhouse came down. It was an enclosed porch on the second floor, opening off my office. Lined floor to ceiling with windows, sunny through most of the day, it was perfect for wintering over the tropical plants that grow all summer in the front and back gardens. It was also over 100 years old and beginning to sag a bit from the weight of the overstuffed pots and the occasional drenching from overenthusiastic watering.
So, it had to be rebuilt, he told me, promising that all would be fine by fall, neglecting to say which fall. At least he’s learning. Unlike the basement that he promised to turn into a bedroom suite by Baby’s 13th birthday, and almost 25 years later is nearly finished, there is no firm end date on the greenhouse. If I let him live, as some future fall comes around, he will be correct. This Sunday, I’ll have been married to this ever-too-busy-contractor for 40 years, and the “honey-do” list keeps growing.
The parlor by night, when some uplights allow the plants to cast light and shadow on the ceiling. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
Some of the most tender specimens had to be moved to Baby’s house in Northern Virginia, where she recently moved with her Personal Prince Pete, I’m-Not-A-Baby-I’m-A-Boy grandson Wesley, and Tallulah the granddog. There’s space and sunshine, but even she doesn’t have room for all my needy pots.
Now every room in the house has greens in the corners, on tabletops, on pedestals, and on windowsills. That’s not counting the Chanukah bush, which is particularly lush this year.
What surprises me is how well many of the plants we kept are doing. This is not, as I’ve pointed out too many times, a bright house. It’s dim even with lights on. Cozy, though. That’s always been fine for the parlor palms that like the shade anyway, so they came in as they always do, unfurling behind the living room sofa.
I’m amazed at the health of the jasmines, two in the dining room, picking up stray bits of light from the back porch doors. One bloomed quite fabulously in December.
There’s a grow light on during the day for the white bird of paradise, also in the dining room, for a monstera plant that about hits the ceiling. The light also hits a schefflera and a hibiscus that’s struggling some, but I think it will make it through. It’s a full-spectrum light on a flexible stem that can be directed whichever way; it was a gift and has no maker’s name, but there are plenty of similar lights out there. A side benefit is the drama of the leaves lit-up and shadowing the ceiling at night.
(I’m tempted to train it on my face: Aren’t these fancy full-spectrum lights supposed to boost collagen or something?)
There were a number of plants that I just threw up my hands at saving. They were too large for any space I had available. So, learning from the monstera cutting that Baby gave me a year ago that still grows in a vase, its roots in water, I broke apart a dieffenbachia, a spiderwort, another monstera, and a clusia, kept the roots intact, rinsed them off, and stuck them in several vases.
They don’t seem to mind the dim light at all, look lovely on various tables, and serve as a fine backdrop for flowering stems. Come spring, back to the earth they’ll go.
Next week: Layering plants, flowers, lighting, and art for a dynamic home.
Greenery everywhere: The monkey lamp spends time with roses, Dieffenbachia, spiderwort, and wandering jew, left. On table with vase, right: Dieffenbachia and bird of paradise with roses. / Photos by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
A transitional Manhattan window box. / Photo by Kristen Hartke.
By Stephanie Cavanaugh
WINTER WINDOW BOXES, or planters, can be even more splendid in the cold than in full summer bloom, and they’re easier to care for with a wide variety of cold-comfortable branches and greens—most readily available, and often free.
Freelance food writer and artist Kristen Hartke* spied the beauty above near her Manhattan home.
Growing outdoor plants in the city is not that easy, and New York City is probably a pretty tough place in particular for such endeavors, she said. I would personally love to have a window box but am not allowed to in my building, so I have to content myself with those that I see while I’m out and about.
Figuring out what to grow in these spaces is tricky because there might only be a scant couple of hours of direct sunlight or maybe only indirect light—there is actually a courtyard in our building where we tenants grow a wide variety of shade plants for all to enjoy, and they are absolutely lovely, so I have had to learn a lot more about shade plants over the past several months.
I love the plants, which aren’t always necessarily that lovely but still offer a little bit of natural texture and color and shape, which is always welcome when living in a concrete jungle. And I happen to also love the old wrought-iron window grates and how the window boxes nestle inside them and the plants snake up the vertical wrought-iron bars. A lot of the time, the flowers—often it’s vinca or something similar—have gotten quite leggy and look a bit anemic, but there’s something about how they keep reaching up toward the sunlight, even on a narrow, dark street, that seems to tell a story about what it’s like to live in New York!
The stunning box she captured in the photo, is a rare success, perfectly straddling the fall and winter seasons with sunny mums splashing against a backdrop of boxwood, eucalyptus draping the front border, and branches of red berries and papery balls of orange Chinese lantern providing punctuation.
When the mums fade into a dismal blackish bog, as they do, they can be easily yanked and replaced by shrubbish more attuned to the frigid winter winds. The frame is there for quick seasonal updates.
The trick is creating that frame. Something tall and lush in the rear, something dripping in the front and sides, and a free center space for a mixed mass of color and texture.
Note that none of the plant materials I’m suggesting are alive. Their stalks can simply be jammed into existing soil. Even if you live in a cellar with trash-can views, you can create exciting arrangements. If you already have plants—pansies, cabbages—consider some of these as filler or enhancements.
Consider branches of magnolia with their big glossy leaves in the background and more along the front edge. Fill the center with masses of baby’s breath and white lights and you’re holiday ready. Tuck in a handful of crocus, snowdrop, and grape hyacinth bulbs (no, it’s not too late) and they’ll spring up in late January and early February, just as the baby’s breath grows as tired as you are of winter.
Instead of baby’s breath, try pinecones, spray-painted silver or gold. Voilà! A glitzy holiday box. Those pinecones will last for decades, so the spray painting is a one-shot deal.
It’s been a gorgeous fall for a walk, and often the best trimmings are free: feathery tops of ornamental grasses, branches of red berries, curly willow, red-twig dogwood—and pinecones—are all fine fillers for planter or window box.
Garden centers are usually delighted to give you scraps of tree and swag trimmings, saving them the disposal, and fake berries look perfectly real and can be reused year after year.
Slap on a beret, and stuff those planters: If you feel artistically challenged, crank up the Piaf and talk to yourself with a French accent as you work. That sometimes helps.
*Kristen’s recipe for strawberry champagne soup appeared in the Washington Post on November 18, 2022. It’s a deliciously refreshing first course, served chilled, before a heavy holiday meal.
MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.
Q: Should you lay down compost once the leaves have fallen and been raked away?
Where do you even get it assuming you don’t have your own?
It supposedly helps plants do well.
Then, do you mulch in spring—when?
Let’s do this in order.
A1: Compost, say the fine folks at Burpee seed, should be added in spring and midsummer to give plants a boost. So, unless you’re longing for your own compost heap, there’s nothing to do right now but read about it.
When the time comes . . .
In DC, the Department of Public Works provides District residents with “up to five 32-gallon bags (bring your own bags) of free compost on weekdays (1pm to 5pm), and Saturdays (8am to 3pm), at the Fort Totten Transfer Station.”
Many zoos—including the Smithsonian National Zoo in DC, Cleveland’s Metropark, Oklahoma City, Zoo Miami (in person only), and Woodland Park in Seattle (also in person only)—sell compost, though mostly on site. Often known as Zoo Doo or Zoo Poo, this blend of animal manure, straw, wood chips, and clippings, makes a rich compost that’s excellent for seedlings, potted plants, and the garden.
If, for some reason, you wish to make your own compost, keep it far away from your house and your neighbors, unless you hate them. This stuff stinks. Amazon has all manner of bins and cans and kits to get you started—and to keep down the smell. You supply the (biodegradable) waste. See: smell.
A2: On to mulch.
What I know about mulch would fill a tidy paragraph.
Every spring for the past 40 years I’ve dumped a few bags of small-bark mulch around the plants in the back garden, just enough to cover the dirt, and make it all neat and tidy. The result has been that as the mulch has decomposed, the soil has become so rich and friable that I can dig holes for new plants with my fingers, which is often a good thing as the trowel regularly scampers into the weeds and stays there until unearthed—oh, there you are!—some months later.
When it’s time to plant my spring flowering bulbs, I can push the soil back as easily as folding back a bedspread. I planted 250 bulbs yesterday in little more than an hour, including clean-up.
The mulch selection process goes thus: Sometime each Spring, My Prince goes off to a Big Box hardware store to buy whatever it is guys are always buying in such places.
At some point he phones. Do you need any mulch?
Yes, I’ll say, adding: Make sure it’s small-bark and not the shredded stuff.
The shredded stuff is on sale, he’ll say (as he always does and as it always seems to be).
I don’t care. Shredded mulch looks cheap. Small-bark looks elegant.
He hangs up on me (as he always does) but brings me what I want.
Well, that was more than a paragraph, but I always find more to say about nothing than I expect.
For more intelligence on the subject than I’ve offered, check out The Spruce, which offers a fine tutorial on varieties of mulch, including pine needles, grass clippings, newspaper, straw, plastic and landscape fabric, gravel and stone . . . and just shredding those leaves that you usually bag and dispose of. There are also a number of terrific companion pieces with instructions for the best ways to use it.
Have a question? Send it along, and have a happy, bountiful, delicious Thanksgiving!
