Hortulus Farm Diary

SUMMER BOUNTY

2011-07-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

I've been traveling a great deal for the last couple of months to photograph gardens for the new book I'm working on, but have had a blissful week on the farm this past week before I take off again, and just in time to really start reaping the benefits of all the wonderful things I planted in the vegetable, herb, and fruits gardens in the spring. Surely, we've been harvesting lettuces and early crops like beets, Asian greens, peas, and radishes for months, but right now is when the gardens truly start kicking in.

The tomatoes are just starting and yesterday I harvested two each of Great White, Caspian Pink, and Yellow Mortgage Lifter, with the first Monomakh's Hat (a superb Russian Bull's Heart variety) just about ripe on the vine. Not only are each of these heirloom varieties beyond tasty, but their colors are wonderfully vibrant, especially when tossed together in a salad (why not give feta and mint a try instead of the usual mozzarella and basil?). All I need is a nice verdant type like Green Zebra to complete my edible Solanum spectrum!

My kales are looking absolutely glorious right now. I planted two favorite types: Dwarf Blue Curled Scotch and Dinosaur or Lacinato (also called "Tuscan Palm Tree). To me, kales are tremendously undervalued as a food plant as they are usually harvestable even out of the snow and, like all Brassicas, are packed with vitamins. I love them sautéed with garlic, pancetta and olive oil until nicely wilted, but I've recently discovered kale chips, which make a wonderful hors d'oeuvres: toss leaves with salt and olive oil, place them in a single layer on a cookie sheet, sprinkle with grated parmesano, and bake at 350 for about 40 minutes, until totally dehydrated and crisp.

We pulled up the onions this morning (one yellow sweet and one red variety) as their tops had collapsed and turned brown, signaling harvestability. We set up one of our big wire grid nursery tables out in the garden and have spread the harvested onions on it to cure for a bit before we store them. I'm looking forward to some rich and warming French onion soup come fall -- is there anything easier or more soul-satisfying? The potatoes in the main garden are nearing readiness, too (waiting for their tops to collapse...) and, when the time comes, we'll spread them out on the grid table to cure as well.

Our four kinds of basil are also currently in full flush -- so much so that I need to trim the flower heads practically daily in order to keep them from going to seed. As the chives are planted right next door, I think I'll whip up some tasty green sauce to slather on meat or vegetables (process with garlic, olive oil, pitted green olives, and a tin of anchovies). And, as we have just harvested a bumper crop of cucumbers, I think I'll also slice up a big batch of cucumber salad with the chives and lemon basil: peel, seed, and slice the cucumbers, salt them in a colander for about an hour, rinse, and toss with olive oil, rice vinegar, s&p, and the chopped herbs. A crunchy delight!

The second flush of strawberries (Tristar) had also started, which is a very happy thing, and the Magnolia Vine's incredibly nutritious berries are just beginning to color up (wonderful to dry and make tea), also a very winning idea, but the big fruit excitement right now is our first crop of the hardy kiwi Issai four years from planting. They are still ripening but what a horticultural coup to be able to enjoy bite-size, fuzzless kiwis right off the vine as handily as plucking a grape (and self fertile and hardy to zone 4!).

And, still, so much left to come! The visual triumph of the Asian long beans (Yard Long White Snake and Red Noodle)... eggplants Rosa Bianca and Thai Green... bush beans Beurre de Rocquencourt and Royal Burgundy Pod, peppers hot and sweet (Purple Cayenne, Peach Habanero, Jimmy Nardello), summer squash Eightball... and loads more tomatoes! Ah, nature is bountiful and life is good!

GOING TO POTS

2011-06-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

This month, we've been moving potted plants out of the greenhouses like crazy, not only to decorate our precincts with some early leaf and bloom but to give the plants themselves the healthy dose of fresh, circulating air they've been craving after a long winter of close confinement under glass.

Pots are wonderful for adding an instantaneous and difficult to achieve otherwise swat of hard architecture and contrasting leaf and blossom texture to a garden environment. They fill in empty spaces, flank entries, sparkle up shady nooks, are wonderful grouped around water features, and add a becoming softness to walls and steps. We usually pair them with some other hard architecture like flagged or gravel terraces, stone steps, etc., but have even seen them set on plinths in the middle of perennial borders to great effect, as one would place a rose tuteur or statue.

Many of our most prized potted specimens, including our collection of begonias, find their way down to the stone terraces below the house, overlooking the creek and little milk pond,. Grouped multiply on tables and in corners, they soften all the surrounding stone and add spectacular architecture and punch. For those of you unfamiliar with begonias, they are the perfect houseplant: undemanding, tolerant of low light, offering the most stunning foliage imaginable, and blooming year round with a modicum of feeding.

In the courtyard garden outside the front door, we've placed both a big pot of Conca d'Or lilies with a bamboo rail to help keep then upright, and a handsome glazed pot of variegated acanthus. The former will stun with it's tall, tall stems of sunny, wildly fragrant blossoms, while the former is surely one of the most extravagantly foliaged plants around. Both add just the right complement of form and color to this fern-y, mossy space.

Out in the summer borders, flanking the steps to our Temple Canus, we always place two pots of immense, truly show-stopping tropical furcraeas. Each of these plants is five feet high and wide and it takes a ride in our backhoe to set them in place each year. However, their unique, strappy, sharply pointed tropical form and pale yellow striation makes them the perfect formal foil to the surrounding, decidedly non-tropical perennial plantings.

Further out in the Mediterranean Garden, we enhance the Mediterranean mood by grouping pots of succulents and tropicals around the Italian village fountain at the center. With these unlikely specimens scattered beneath a pair of non-bearing pear standards, true body doubles for the un-hardy olive trees we lusted after for this space, one could well imagine one was somewhere in the Tuscan hills.

But surely our most remarkable potted specimen is the 100 year old bonzai forest we purchased in Little China in Los Angeles over twenty years ago. We bought this miniature grove of eastern red cedar from a family of Japanese nurserymen whose elder, then in his nineties, had been training it for more than 75 years. We had a special table built for it and it is the pride and joy of the summer terrace, where it can be enjoyed by our garden visitors passing through.

Speaking of which, isn't it time you paid us a visit? Do keep in mind, we're open Wednesdays and Saturdays, May to October, 9-4, for self-touring and we'd love to see you!

THE BIRD IS THE WORD!

2011-04-18T14:16:00.000-07:00

Although, so far, April has been drenching with the showers for which it is so justly famous, there has also been an amplitude of the brilliant blue days necessary to getting the gardening juices flowing as Mother Nature wields her artful brush and starts to transform the stark silhouettes and gray tones of winter. First, the greening of the lawns and the clouds of daffodils that start drifting across their flanks, and the earliest stellata magnolias, with their white pinwheel blossoms born on bare limbs, creating magical, ghostly forms in the woods. Now the muscaris, so intensely blue, encircling the trunks of trees and lining woodland paths, and the fruit trees -- cherries and pears and crabs -- bursting into pastel bloom.. Soon, the dogwoods and azaleas and bluebells: a world of the purest white and green and yellow and blue imaginable. Make no mistake: spring has sprung!

This year, in part, our thoughts have turned to our birds. The farm would be a very hollow place without the scores of fowl we keep to enliven our precincts: chickens and ducks, geese and pheasants, pigeons and peacocks. Now is nesting time and the farm is flurry of noisy bustle as the females take to roost, the various husbands and aunties and uncles standing clamorous sentry about them. At this moment, our female whooping swan has decided to plant herself firmly in a quadrant of the cutting garden and elected to pick out all the blue pansies I planted in the central urn to better feather her nest. Our new female Australian swan has taken up a post in the protective curve of the lowest step to the lake pavilion, and we are rabid with excitement over that possibility.

Over any winter, however, there is always some attrition. Unpinioned ducks and geese fly off. Others fall prey to foxes and raccoons. Chickens and peacocks and pheasants expire from old age or a panoply of avian diseases almost impossible to detect. So, this spring, we are in the happy position of ordering some new friends for the farm from two of our favorite purveyors, the Murray McMurray Hatchery in Webster City, Iowa and Stromberg Chicks & Game Birds Unlimited in Pine River, Minnesota. Both offer an impressive assortment of eggs, chicks, and even full grown pairs of everything from racing pigeons to quail, guinea fowl, and turkeys.

This year, we're particularly intent on expanding our family of pheasants and ducks, and our intention is to purchase full grown pairs. Fowl of almost any sort mate for life, and the widow or widower of a lost bird is a plaintive sight indeed, so it pays to buy devoted couples: they'll be happier and so will you. We have transformed our former corn crib into a pheasant run, one which became sadly depleted after the rigors of the past winter, so we have set our sights on a pair each of Lady Amhersts, Red Goldens, and Yellow Goldens: all flamboyantly, even surrealistically colorful, the last two being exotically Chinese in origin.

In the duck category, we have fallen in love with White Crested Ducks, which sport a tamoshanter-like pompom atop their heads, so we ordered a pair of those, as well as some Chocolate and Fawn Runners, tall and slim and tipped forward like they're about to fall on their beaks, and a pair of startling black/green Cayugas. These will join the White Muscovies, Mallards, and White Pekins all ready on the pond, as well as our large family of White Chinese, gray Toulouse, Canadian, and White Emden geese.

It's easy to forget that birds are cold-blooded creatures (a friend says "like snakes with feathers"), so they can withstand winter temperatures with surprising ease with a modicum of shelter, open water for the water fowl, and a daily feeding. Our chickens, pheasants. pigeons, and peacocks we keep caged, mainly to avoid the tragic results of a chance meeting with a fox, raccoon or hawk, but our water fowl wander freely all year round so, if you have a pond or lake, give some waterfowl a try. And, of course, if you can keep chickens, there's nothing more appealing than a fresh from the henhouse omelette and the happy morning cacophany of a resident rooster.

Murray McMurray Hatchery can be reached at (800) 456-2380 or at www.murraymcmurrayhatchery.com, and Stromberg Chicks & Gamebirds at(800) 720-1134 or at www.strombergschickens.com. Both are happy to mail you a catalogue, which is almost as much fun to thumb through as getting a favorite seed catalogue this time of year. Happy Spring!

APPLES OF SODOM!

2010-08-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

“I wish Englishmen to content themselves with meats and sauce of our own country than with fruit eaten with apparent peril; for doubtless these Raging Apples have a mischevious qualite, the use whereof is utterly to be forsaken”
- John Gerard 1687

I have been extremely remiss in keeping up with this blog this last month as I have been suffering from a pesky case of vertigo which has still left me walking a bit like a drunken sailor and made close examination of anything (like a computer screen) a bit of a trial. However, i am back with a combined July/August effort extolling the virtues of the vegetable (actually fruit) I have been gorging on these past weeks from the garden.

Eggplants probably had to wage a more considerable uphill battle towards culinary acceptance than any other edible plant, although tomatoes are a close contender. Reputedly originating in India, they are first recorded as being cultivated in China as long ago as 500 BC, although it is entirely possible they were originally grown purely decoratively, as was their solanum cousin the tomato. We know the small, white, egg-shaped variety was perhaps the earliest incarnation of this vegetable, but the Chinese had certainly developed their signature long, thin purple-tinged varieties by the 2nd Century AD, and the Arabs, who had been growing them since at least the 4th century AD, introduced eggplants to Europe in the Middle Ages in that familiar silk/spice road scenario of import and trade typical to cultivars originating in the Far East. However, the eggplant did not really permeate greater Europe until the 16th century and, even then had to twiddle its thumbs around the Mediterranean basin until people managed to surmount the various solanum-related suspicions attached it.

These suspicions find their origins in this controversial fruit's close kinship to deadly nightshade. Accordingly, the eggplant was known across many early cultures as the “mad” or “rage” apple, and, consequently, was thought to induce madness and even death, and as late as 1586, Rembert Doedoens, the Dutch herbalist, claimed they induced “evil humors” and called the eggplant “unwholesome”, as if it could and would influence children’s tender psyches adversely if consumed. Additionally, because eggplants were believed to have originated near the Dead Sea and the imagined site of Sodom & Gomorrah, they were also known popularly, or perhaps unpopularly, as “apples of Sodom”. Josephus, the ancient Jewish historian, wrote that he had himself seen the beautiful purple “apples of Sodom” which, magically and clearly with divine purpose, vanished in smoke when they touched one’s lips. This bit of ancient lore was also employed by John Milton in Paradise Lost, when he spoke of the singularly disappointing diet of the fallen angels. Oddly, this fanciful legend of shining aubergine skin cloaking an interior of bitter ashes may be based in fact. Excavated remains have revealed that, very possibly, it was an invasive insect that begot this particular brand of heavenly magic, boring into the flesh of the eggplant and causing it to powder and decay interiorly while the skin remained beautifully intact. Thus, it would seem it was entirely possible to bite into what appeared to be a glossy bit of heaven only to come up with a mouthful of everlasting repentance.

The eggplant entered Spain in the 12th Century, where four varieties of the controversial plant were grown by the Spanish Moor Ibn-al-awam. The eggplant was then introduced into France by that great gastronome Louis XIV, where it enjoyed fairly wide culinary success, although it seems to have retained some of its “mad” associations and was still listed by Carl Linnaeus as late as 1753 as solanum insanum. Thomas Jefferson is often credited with introducing the eggplant to the Americas, but more likely is its arrival on the southern coast of the Americas via slave ships in the late 16th Century, where it became known as “guinea squash”.

There are countless beautiful varieties of eggplant in a host of wonderful sizes and colorations, from the signature large, stocky shape to the long, thin Oriental types to eggplants like "Fairy Tale" and "Turkish Orange" that are as tiny and winsome as can be imagined. I'm growing four varieties this summer: the gorgeously and voluptuously striated "Listada de Gandia", "Green Long", a light green scimitar of a fruit, "Thai Green" a lovely little striated orb, and "Striped Toga", another little beauty tiger-striped orange and green. As with tomatoes, i view every growing season as an excellent opportunity to trial a new one.

Eggplants are desperate lovers of warm temperatures and grow best in full sun, so wait until nighttime temperatures are consistently above 60 degrees before transplanting outdoors in the spring. Regular watering will help avoid bitter tasting fruit and repeated harvesting will stimulate continuous fruit production. At harvest, the skin of an eggplant should be taut and shiny: fruit that has lost its shine and begun to change color (usually from purple to a bronze-y tone) is overripe and most likely bitter. A good rule of thumb is if you press the fruit with your finger and the skin springs back, then the eggplant is ready for picking. My favorite summer recipe came from our friends Melissa and Christopher at www.canalhousecooking.com. if you have not seen their cookbooks, make haste!

RECIPE:
Cut eggplants into slabs no thicker then 3/4". Marinate in lemon juice, good olive oil, and salt. Grill, turning occasionally, until softened and nicely covered with grill marks on all sides. Return them to the marinade, adding more olive oil, lemon juice and salt, plus a good handful of fresh mint, and a couple of tablespoons of red pepper flakes. Stir to combine and serve.

PRIVATE EDENS

2010-06-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

I am lucky enough to currently be working on a book that has afforded me a glimpse into two dozen or so spectacular gardens along the east coast. The book is tentatively entitled Private Edens and my intention is to try to identify the personal motivations and influences behind the choices each garden owner made in creating their “paradise”. It is my thesis that, while they undoubtedly share commonalities in defining “Eden”, to wit green-ness and blossom and a connection to nature’s calming, comforting embrace, each, individual view might be based on any manner of things. Where and how the owners grew up. Places they have visited or longed to visit. The beginning or end of relationships. Problems or traumas turned to new understanding and vision. Choices burnished by nostalgia or fired by the desire for change.

As I have traveled from Virginia up through Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey, to as far north as Connecticut, New York state, and Massachusetts, what has struck me the most as I have toured and chatted is the resilience of the human spirit and the zeal with which these seekers of paradise pursue their dream. All have a personal story to tell. One, a garden designer, suffered a debilitating stroke some years ago so his garden has had to adapt to gardening from a motorized wheelchair and with a little help from his friends. His garden remains his greatest solace. Another suddenly found her garden of twenty years surrounded by a flotilla of MacMansions and it became all about screening what had been, in the past, a breathtaking rural view. Yet another, a widow and mother of eight, remarried in her 70’s and built a new house and garden to create and share with her new husband. And another, after gardening his property for thirty years, was so loathe to see all his passion for the task disappear after his demise that he has entered into an agreement to sustain it as a public garden in perpetuity.

I have visited everything from hilltop mansions in Virginia with fairy tale views of great horse farms and expansive, heart-stoppingly unspoiled acreage to quaint Connecticut farmhouses perched on the side of dirt roads, only revealing their cloistered green charms out the back door, to spare, new constructions where a minimalist hand paints a restrained and contemplative vision of harmony and contentment. All have understood and executed the intricate balance of hard structure to green sprawl to perfection, carving steps and terraces and pathways into the landscape with the precision and artistry of the most brilliant of surgeons. Most have introduced a feeling of water, be it intrinsically in their situation on the banks of a pond or stream, or as simple as the addition of a fountain or rill or reflecting pool. Many have included an edible idea in everything from a stand of berries to a small orchard to a real decorative and productive potager, as what would Eden be without a nod to nature’s bounty?

After exploring all these various and, to me, fascinating parsings of paradise, it seems that, in the end, the point is really to be with the land, not against it – to understand the unique soul and potential of that singular piece of property and seamlessly interpose your presence, even if you are the defining element. To forge a partnership with Mother Nature based on equal amounts respect and ardor, which, in their commingling, embody your unique vision of the beauties with which the natural world can surround you. To feel embraced, calmed, connected, contented, protected. To not only feel attached to, but, in your very essence, be as one with the living earth around you. To delight in the sun on your back, the song and sparkle of water in motion, and a thousand shades and shapes of green. Surely, then, all of us have the chance to dwell in Eden.

TOMATOFEST!

2010-05-10T10:08:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Spring 2010! What a joy to be back in Pennsylvania on yet another glorious spring day with the azaleas, vibernums, lilacs, and bluebells painting the lawns in shades of cream and blue and dusty purple as elegantly as a William Merritt Chase painting. We are currently gearing up for our big TOMATOFEST! at the nursery, where we’ll be offering 25 really superb varieties of seedlings for sale (upwards of 1,500 plants), and so I think I’ll start off this season off with a few words about America’s favorite homegrown food for, according to the USDA, tomatoes are preferred by four out of five Americans to any other edible plant, and over 90% of American home gardeners grow them.

The tomato originated spontaneously in the coastal highlands of western South America and small, straggly wild tomatoes can still be found growing in the coastal mountains of Peru, Chile and Ecuador. The wild tomato was a simple, tiny, two-celled creature until a friendly genetic mutation occurred, resulting in the large, ruffled and lobed, multi-celled fruit with which we are all now so familiar. The tomato was domesticated by the Mayans and Aztecs and, in the early 16th Century, carried into the Mediterranean basin of Europe by the returning conquistadores. In 1544, Pietro Andrae Matthioli, the Italian herbalist, classified the suspicious new import as one of the mandrake family, which were close cousins to deadly nightshade, which is exactly when the centuries of suspicion and misinformation surrounding the tomato began to pick up steam.

Tomatoes were given the original European designation of “wolf’s peach” or Lypersicon, by the Greek physician Galen, as nightshades were legendarily linked to werewolves. Karl Linnaeus later added the esculentum, meaning "edible", although this was an issue clearly up for debate as, while winning some culinary popularity in Spain and Italy, tomatoes were introduced into England only as questionable ornamentals. In fact, the English herbalist John Gerard, who planted them in the College of Physicians gardens in Holborne in 1590, concluded that “the whole plant” was possessed “of ranke and stinking savour”. The Pilgrims were also early tomato-bashers, considering them “an abomination”, and, 200 years later, Joseph T. Buckingham, editor of The Boston Courier was still calling the tomato ”the mere fungus of an offensive plant, which one cannot touch without an immediate application of soap and water… deliver us, oh, ye caterers of luxuries, ye gods and goddesses of the science of cookery! Deliver us from tomatoes!” Even as late as 1836, A.D. Wilcox, editor of The Florida Agriculturist, pronounced his first tomato: “an arrant humbug” that “deserved forthwith to be consigned to the tomb of all the Capulets”. My: how the worm can turn…

Early tomatoes came in a huge variety of sizes, shapes, and colorations, ranging for currant-sized to 2 pound mammoths, round to “ox-hearted” to totally misshapen, black and dark purple to red and orange, to yellow, green and white, and they were all either ribbed or lobbed or both. In fact, it wasn’t until the turn of the 18th Century that Joseph Pitton de Tournefort, botanist to Louis XIV, described a Lycopersicum rubro non striato, or “red wolf’s peach without ribs”. Now of course, there are literally hundreds of choice varieties of every hue, dimension, and savor and for every climatic consideration imaginable, so here I will stop to romance you with some of my favorites.

For sheer taste, to my mind there is nothing like the black Russian types, like “Black from Tula” and “Black Krim”. Not actually black but more a deep purple/red, usually with a green shoulder, these are beyond richly complex in terms of taste, and there’s even a “Black Cherry” for easy snackability. Also notable are the “Hillbilly” (sometimes referred to as “Pineapple”), a mammoth beefsteak with marbled red and yellow flesh and superb sweet/acid savor, and “Great White”, the Moby Dick of tomatoes, another sizeable beefsteak the color of old ivory and loaded with flavor. Two varieties that are actually green when ripe and chockablock with tangy/fruity flavor are the Amish heirloom “Aunt Ruby’s German Green” and “Green Zebra”, the immensely popular new striated kid on the block developed by Tom Wagner of Tater Mater Seeds in 1983. And for that sugar sweet zinginess we all crave in a pop-in-your-mouth cherry, there’s nothing to beat the varieties “SunGold”, a large-ish yellow type, “Reisentraube”, a deeply robust red heirloom, and “Sweet Million”, a tiny but true powerhouse of flavor.

Start tomato seeds indoors 4 weeks before your last frost (or stop by the weekend of May 22-23 at the nursery!), transplanting at least once into a deeper pot and burying the plant right up to its neck to insure good root development. Harden off by carrying plants outside for a few hours each day for 2 weeks before planting to get them acclimated to the outdoors, then plant out 2 weeks after your frost date, when soil is well warmed up, in your sunniest location. All tomatoes love compost, old manure, a Ph of about 6.5, and a good, deep watering, and a shot of fish emulsion once halfway through the season will be extremely popular. Also, do provide some stout trellising for these mainly indeterminate, vigorous vines to clamber up and keep your plants “desuckered” to a nice, strong, single trunk by removed the auxiliary vines that develop in each leaf crotch: a tangle of vines in the humidity of August can surely be the devil’s playground!

THE HORTULUS FARM COLLECTION FALL 2009

2009-09-29T08:05:00.000-07:00

I'm going to make this the last blog of the season as I'm about to have my right shoulder repaired (yes: probably a bit of over zealous gardening...) and will be in a sling for a month or so, which will make both gardening and blogging a bit of a trial. However, a pain-free and more mobile future awaits, so I'll certainly be chomping at the gardening bit with renewed vigor come May.

Luckily, the day will soon be upon us when the first frost arrives and the gardens will be put to bed for a bit of R&R. I don't know about where you are, but the leaves are just starting to color up here in PA: especially the dogwoods, which are turning that marvelous deep shade of claret and, today, the sky is exquisitely blue: surely, a perfect fall day to be wrapping this up for the season.

In any event, I thought I would leave you with something to sustain you through the blustery days to come, as we've been working awfully hard at rebuilding our nursery operation over the past spring and summer and have just published our Fall 2009 Catalogue, some of which I thought I would share with you, as well as extending an invitation to come visit us here in Wrightstown over the winter whenever you feel in need of a little R&R yourself.

To me, visiting a cozy, well-stocked greenhouse in the chill of January or February is a surefire cure for what ails you. To be surrounded by tropical greenery and lavish blossom when all the world outside is blanketed in white, to inhale the damp, fragrant, fertile air, drive the chill from your bones for a moment, and come away with a little bit of green to enliven your window sill till spring reappears: what could be more soul-satisfying than that?

We are proud to say we feel our Hortulus Farm Collection is pretty much unique in our neck of the woods, and that we have carved out for ourselves a bit of a proprietary horticultural niche. What we love to grow are unusual trained specimens, like 8 foot solanum and solandra standards, 4 foot tall caged begonias, plumbagos trained on 6 foot balls, single, double, and triple topiaries of hibiscus, liqustrum, lantana, and heliotrope, ivies grown on wonderful frames, giant polypodiun ferns, plus a fantastic assortment of unusual begonias and tropicals. All are guaranteed to add a nice jolt of color and life to your home in the always too long months that lie ahead.

We're only 45 minutes from Philadelphia and under two hours from New York City, and I know Karen, Chris, Colon, and Donna, our stalwarts in the greenhouses, would be thrilled to see you (please call 215.598.0550 for our winter hours). In any event, Renny and I wish you a wonderful winter and hope you'll take us up on our invitation to visit. I will look forward to reconnecting with you come May!

WEED OR WONDER?

2009-08-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

This month, as I gleefully harvest from the vegetable and herb gardens, sating myself every lunchtime on thick slabs of tomato sitting open-faced on country bread slicked with mayonnaise, I am compelled to extoll the virtues of two familar denizens of our greenswards whose culinary appeal may have been lost on you until this moment: the dandelion and our common purslane. Scoff if you like, but I advise you to reserve judgement until you've read on a bit...

The dandelion, eons old and the bane of every lawn fanatic’s existence, is most probably original to Asia in our prehistory, although it had naturalized extensively by the time we slithered onto terra firma, and was introduced into North America with grave purpose by our earliest settlers as a fantastic source of nutritious sustenance. A member of the Compositae family, the dandelion’s botanical name derives from the Greek taraxos, “disorder,” and akos, “remedy,” signaling a clear panacea-like reputation, and in Greek mythology, Hecate, goddess of sorcery, famously fed Theseus, hero of Athens, dandelions for an entire month to bulk him up before his hand-to-hand with the Minotaur.

“Dandelion” originates in the Greek leontodon, which permuted into the old French dent de lion, both meaning “lion’s tooth,” in reference to this food plant’s jaggedy-edged leaf form. Folk names for the dandelion truly are dandy, yielding up such other tasty morsels as “blow ball,” for its signature seedhead and “piss-a-bed,” from the French pis-en-lit, for its legendary diuretic qualities. The truth is, this pesky turf nemesis is not only nature’s richest source of cancer-fighting Beta-carotene, but has the highest Vitamin A content of any green thing on the planet, while also containing impressive amounts of Vitamins D, B, and C, iron, magnesium, potassium, zinc, manganese, copper, and phosphorus, as well as taraxacin, terpenoids, choline, and inulin.

All this makes the lowly dandelion about as-good-as-it-gets for you: the sap, leaves, and root extracts all being recommended as diuretics, to aid digestion, stimulate bile production, treat liver disorders, and help prevent cancer and high blood pressure, and the root also being considered a powerful detoxifier, accelerating the removal of adverse elements from the body. Every part of this remarkably nutritious plant is edible (as long as it hasn’t been subject to chemical or pesticidal spraying!): the young leaves exemplary as a salad green, and also lovely sautéed like spinach. The roots peeled, sliced, blanched, then sautéed are excellent, the young buds fried in butter are a piquant treat, but my favorite for its moniker alone is “yard squid”: cut young dandelion rosettes below the ground with enough of the root to keep the leaves intact, wash well, blanch, dry, dip in a thin egg/milk solution, roll in spiced bread crumbs, and fry. You will never curse your lawn again.

A member of the Portulacaceae family, purslane, also known as “Pigweed,” “Little Hogweed,” and “Pusley,” is believed to be antiquely indigenous to India and the Middle East, although, somewhat mystifyingly, there now seems to be conclusive evidence dating its presence in the New World to a moment prior to 1492. Hippocrates, in the fourth-century B.C., Dioscorides in the first-century A.D., and Galen in the second-century, all regarded purslane as an important “cooling” herb for fever, dysentery, stomach ailments, hemorrhoids, and wounds, and Pliny the Elder was so impressed by purslane’s healing properties, he advised that wearing the plant as an amulet would “expel all evil.”

Pliny had his point as we now know purslane contains a whopping six times more vitamin E than spinach, seven times more beta-carotene than carrots, is nicely rich in vitamins A, B, and C, riboflavin, potassium, magnesium, phosphorus, calcium, and iron, and boasts the potent antioxidants glutathione, alpha-tocopherol, and two types of betalain alkaloid pigments, all offering significant benefits in the treatment of high cholesterol and triglyceride levels, heart disease, and depressed immunity. But, even more importantly, purslane contains more Omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy vegetable, and is one of the very few plants that contains the long-chain omega-3 ALA (alpha-linolenic acid), with recent studies suggesting that Omega- 3s may have a truly important impact on depression, bipolar disorder, Alzheimer's, autism, schizophrenia, ADD, and migraines.

With thick, succulent, rounded, golden yellow leaves far larger than that crawly, red-stemmed thing in your lawn, Golden Purslane is indeed a brilliant garden presence, and its taste is both lemony and freshly astringent. An easy to grow annual with a compact, mounded habit to about 14 inches, sow in a patch and thin to 8 inches. Pickled purslane was traditionally put up in Europe to be served as a winter sallet, so here I will leave you with our own Martha Washington’s 1749 recipe for it: "Gather ye pursland when it… will snap when you break it. boyle it in a kettle of fayre water without any salt, & when it is tender, make a pickle of salt & water, … & when it is cold, make it pretty sharp with vinegar &cover it…."

A BRIEF HISTORY

2009-07-16T07:40:00.000-07:00

I have been working on a history of the farm and gardens for the past few months and thought, this month, i would share a bit of it with you. For those of you unfamiliar with Bucks County, we are a place unusually rich in American history, having been settled in the 17th Century by immigrants from Europe even in advance of the arrival of William Penn in 1682. Our little town, Wrightstown, was first incorporated in 1692 and, by 1787, was a flourishing little township of 4 peaceable hamlets, 364 inhabitants, and 58 handsome, stone dwellings.

Ours, situated in a little valley about a mile east of Wrightstown center, was begun by William Warner, one of Wrightstown’s earliest settlers, who purchased the land from William Penn in 1690, but is believed to have immigrated from Blockley in England, where he was a captain in the service of Oliver Cromwell, as early as 1658. William was a member of the first assembly of Pennsylvania, and both the local deputy sheriff and justice of the peace. Although a primitive timber dwelling clearly existed prior to the present stone one, the earliest part of our house, a modest stone cabin: one room up, one down, was completed in 1723.

The second section of the house was built in 1746 by David Daws, the Wrightstown Quaker minister, who purchased 115 acres of William Warner’s tract, including the rudimentary house. This section was approximately twice as big as the earlier one, with a real second floor and attic, wide plank floors, and ammunition drawers under the north and south facing windows. Tragically, David Daws died a brief two years later, thereupon leaving the property to his daughter Elizabeth, who subsequently married John Warner, the boy next door and grandson of William, happily reuniting the parcels and reestablishing the original Warner acreage. By 1770, the recombined property was a substantial holding of 300 acres known locally as “Warnerland”.

In 1793, when the end of the American Revolution had restored peace and prosperity to the region, Isaiah Warner, son of John and Elizabeth, built the third and final section of the house. It is a courtly box of a stone dwelling, joined to the others like the biggest block in a row of three, with impressive cornerstones and a fine paneled parlor stained “original blue” with essence of blueberry. The "Isaiah Warner House" was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2004.

It was in the 19th Century that the Warners married into the local Thompson family, who had established one of the first, big grain mills on nearby Pidcock Creek in the hamlet of Wycombe. It was then that the road from house to mill was named “Thompson’s Mill Road”. The amalgamated Warner/Thompson clan ran the mill in Wycombe and farmed their property right into the 20th Century, their cleared acreage being given over to dairy herds and corn.

Around 1860, when the prosperity signaling the end of the Civil War again revitalized the region, two immense dairy barns were constructed on the farm, then outbuildings for storing the milk, carriage and equipment sheds, and a corncrib for the storage of winter sustenance for the herds. At the back of the house, across little Fire Creek, a small holding pond was built to keep the big canisters of milk cool in hot weather, as well as a stone icehouse.

And so the family of farmers and millers and devote Quakers of sound fortune prospered until 1918, when the last of the Warners to inhabit the property was forced to sell the historic homestead. By 1933, as the Great Depression tore through the solvency of the district, the fortunes of "Warnerland" hit rock bottom, and the property, by then so derelict it was known locally as “Skunk Hollow”, was sold at sheriff’s sale for $370.91. The former Warner seat continued its slow, poignant decline into disrepair, until 1980, when, by then reduced to a scant 15 acres, we, guided by what was surely blind providence, chanced upon it.

We began the resuscitation of the farm, the initiation of the gardens,and the acquisition of what now constitutes 100 of "Warnerland's" original 300 acres that same year. And the rest, as they say, is history.

ROSES TRIUMPHANT

2009-06-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

The brilliant greening of spring has finally drawn to an artful close as June begins and the gardens here at the farm push towards full throttle mid-summer madness. It's a slightly an in-between time, with only a few perennials (salvia, early astilbe, the last of the baptisia) adding sparkle to the borders, and the mock oranges and deutzias picking up the post-azalea slack a bit in the wooded areas. However, on full tilt, magnificent display right now are roses everywhere I turn my head, and it is a few of these I choose to share with you this month.

As much as I admire them, I eye roses with a slightly jaundiced eye as so many of them can be whiney and tempermental if they're not sufficiently coddled and cosseted, and anyone who has weathered the devestations of an onslaught of Japanese beetles will thoroughly understand a certain amount of hesitancy on my part. Yet, that said, there are plenty of rose types that seem to be doing swimmingly here on the farm right now with only a modicum of maintenance or consideration.

Our most magnificent must surely be the white "Bobbie James" rambler, with a multiple trunk the size of a small grove of saplings, that climbs a Boulevard Cypress in the perennial borders. Planted nearly twenty years ago now, it has consumed the cypress, which it uses for all intents as a servicable tuteur. It's been so successful, that we've planted more "Bobbie James" and "Wedding Day" on the other three of the quartet of cypresses puctuating the middle of the borders, and will simply allow them to consume their proprietary trees as well.

Rivaling it at the top of the pine and dogwood allee must surely be the immense pink shrub rose (name forgotten)that inhabits the 18 foot tall urn that is the visual punctuation point there. The whole affair must be twenty-five feet tall on its stone plinth, which is alot of rose. In the nearby lane to the Italian Garden, Fairy Roses dance above stands of Nepeta and commingle with Pink Carpet Rose, and, in the perennial borders, a quartet of Pink Fairy Roses enliven their space, with white shrub roses cascading on the post and rail fences behind them.

On the side of the chicken house, the marvelous old-fashioned hybrid musk "Sally Holmes" spreads her charms above the herb garden, and, in the French Garden, the 1930 heirloom "New Dawn" is scrambling up the rose hoops around the perimeter of the garden, encircling the box-edged parterre beds in a happy blush of color.

Down below the terraces on the south side of the house, a bevy of the incredibly easy care and long-blooming new Pink "Knock Out" roses are strutting there stuff. A tough and hardy shrub type, Pink Knock Outs are blissfully drought and mildew tolerant, blackspot resistant, and will continue blooming right until first frost.

But my favorits must surely be the exquisite David Austin rose "Sweet Juliet", also currently in bloom down below the terraces. An almost peony-like peachy blossom flushed with yellow, it has the most ethereal, sweet, lemony scent imaginable, and I have cut armloads to lavish our rooms right now. Surely, roses can be a trial to culture but, equally surely, they are one of the garden season's most intoxicating triumphs.

A NEW FRUIT BORDER

2009-05-11T13:51:00.000-07:00

We have been gardening at Hortulus Farm for 30 years now and, in that time, we have established a total of 22 separate gardens, linked by lawns and paths, on about 30 of our 100 acres. In recent years, however, although we have made a few in roads into expanding some of the gardens, I had, frankly, thought we had reached our limit, both in terms of available square footage and our ability to manage another square inch of cultivated terra firma.

Therefore, I was completely surprised two late summers ago to find myself positively yearning for another garden. I had just finished the second volume in my edible gardening trilogy 75 Remarkable Fruits for Your Garden, and had made the acquaintance of so many fascinating fruit varieties previously unknown to me that I was determined to have them for my own. To wit: an exotic fruit border. A strip of loamy, up-turned soil planted just as one would a decorative border, with the crawly groundcover types at the front, mid-sized plants and shrubs in mid-border, and the tall brutes and viners at the back.

But my problem was: where? What patch of our precincts had the requisite amount of sun, was within a companionable distance to the house, and would provide the correct aesthetic particulars? Mother Nature swept aside the veil of improbability as I rounded the corner of the upper barn one August day and chanced upon a stretch of accomodating post and rail fencing enclosing the western curve of the riding ring. Across it, one could glimpse our three Suffolk sheep (the Mitford sisters) in the adjoining pasture and, in the distance, the tumble of the pool garden fountain in its shimmering disc of water: a view that was, in truth, a bit too naked from that vantage point and crying out for some suitable green screening.

I got out my marking paint and described an undulating bed joined to an old stand of elderberry and peonies at the north end and the upper corner of the barn at the south end. Then I started ordering -- mainly from Raintree Nursery and One Green World, two estimable purveyors of exotic fruits. The main anchors would be several Sea Buckthorns (Hippophae rhammnoides) up against the fenceline, a variegated Cornus mas in place of honor, a Wolfberry (Goji) (Lycium barbarum) on the fenceline, and the deep burgundy elderberry (Sambucus nigra) "Black Beauty" up against the barn.

In mid-border, I planted 3 varieties of Honeyberry (Lonicera caerulea var. edulis), "Blue Sky", Blue Pacific", and "Kamchatka", 2 Goumis (Eleagnus multiflora) "Sweet Scarlet, a "Toyo Nishiki" Quince (Chaenomeles), and 2 types of Gooseberry (Ribes hirtellum), "Jahn's Prarie" and "Captivator". And, finally in the front row, some nice clouds of the Strawberry "Tristar" the Lingonberry "Red Pearl", 8 dwarf Blueberries "Tophat", and the Arctic Rapberries "Beta" and "Sophia".

All specimens were mightily infant upon arrival and, now, in their second full season, are just beginning to gain sufficient stature to give a flavor of their future glory. Most have put on a dainty spring show of flowers and I am hoping for a starter crop of berries from a few of them come mid-summer, each of these offering a bandbox complement of health benefits and taste treats. Come back, however, in a couple of years to get the real picture i hold so firmly in my imagination, when I, harvest basket dangling from the crook of my elbow, will truly reap what I have sown. Ah: the glories of gardening!

2008-11-15T10:52:00.000-08:00

Although you would hardly know it with the snows swirling and the winds wailing, there's a touch of spring afoot in Bucks County.

At Hortulus Farm Nursery, we have been busy preparing the greenhouses and perennial fields for a grand new opening in May.

For Hortulus Farm Nursery, Spring 2009 will herald a return to the fine, owner-run and stocked horticultural experience you have so generously supported in the past.

Please visit us then to browse what we promise will be an extraordinary collection of the truly rare and exotic, fantastic standards, topiaries, espaliers, and tropicals, and the most unusual and attractive perennials and annuals available anywhere.

We look forward to welcoming you in the spring. Stay warm!

2008-09-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

This is another moment when, through a sterling combination of impressive seasonal showmanship and tried and true performance, we are compelled to swoon over a particular genus of plant. At this time of year, when we’re awfully happy for any sustaining blossom, our vote goes to that gorgeous autumnal garden stalwart, the hydrangea, so here we will stop to laud a few varieties that have worked well for us on the farm. Probably the world’s most popular hydrangea is the “PeeGee”, correctly Hydrangea paniculata ‘Grandiflora’, which can grow to a spectacular nine feet tall, although ours are grafted as standards onto some accommodating rootstock and stand sentinel in a group of six around our pool. The name "paniculata" comes from the fact that the blooms are cone rather than ball-shaped, ‘Grandiflora’, of course, signifying extremely impressive ten inch panicles of white/green aging to rusty-tipped splendor. Also notable is the brawny Hydrangea paniculata ‘Tardiva’: we have planted an allee of them, interspersed with white pines, caryopteris ‘Longwood Blue’ and bordered with yellow-blooming potentilla, up above our pool garden, and they never fail to impress. All of the paniculatas are nicely hardy to Zone 3, may be pruned anytime save when they begin forming blossoms in summer, and, unlike many hydrangeas, can take a full day of sun if they get adequate moisture.

The hydrangea we most identify with summer, seen in our mind’s eye banking white clapboard houses with blue clouds of blossom amidst emerald lawns, are the lovely white, pink, or blue “mopheads” and “lacecaps” of the species Hydrangea macrophylla (“big-leaved hydrangea”). Some of the varieties that have worked well for us, all being small, deciduous shrubs hardy to minus twenty degrees, are the “mopheads” ‘Ami Pasquier,’ ‘Hamburg‘, ‘Nigra‘, and ‘Nikko Blue‘, and the “lacecaps” ‘Blue Wave‘, ‘Geoffrey Chadbund‘, ‘Mariesii‘, and ‘White Wave‘. Another valuable hydrangea variety is the laudable quercifolia or “Oakleaf” Hydrangea, as its large, deeply lobed leaves resemble those of the oak, which we have used in combination with magnolias and shrub chestnuts (aesculus parviflora) on the southern bank of the big pond.

An all season stunner, the quercifolia’s cinnamon-colored bark lights up the winter landscape as surely as the red or yellow whips of a witch hazel, then is followed by richly textured, bright green leaves green in spring, huge, conical heads of brilliant white florets in summer, and, finally, as autumn arrives, a dazzling show of red, orange, and maroon foliage. 'Snowflake' is probably the most popular variety, with its impressive size, and large pale green flowers turning to white, then gradually fading to a lovely rosy pink. Also nicely hardy through Zone 4b/5a. And finally, let us recommend the fantastic climbing hydrangea Hydrangea anomala petiolaris, which currently decorates the side of one of our barns. Although a bit slow to acclimate, this rangy, hardy to Zone 4 rambler will cling handily to eventually cover a wall with bright, cinnamon-colored branches, handsome shiny green foliage, and gorgeous white blossoms blooming in mid-June.

Let us deal here with the idea of changing a given hydrangea cultivar’s color from pink to blue or visa versa. First of all, yes, it is possible, although it is much easier to change a hydrangea from pink to blue than it is from blue to pink, and one cannot change a white hydrangea at all. Changing a hydrangea from pink to blue entails adding aluminum to the soil; moving the color dial from blue to pink requires the reverse i.e. the subtraction of aluminum from the soil. To get one of those marvelous deep blue types, simply apply a solution of 1 teaspoon of aluminum sulfate per gallon of water to plants throughout the growing season, taking care not to burn the roots. However, to insure that the aluminum is made available to the plant, it is important that the pH of the soil be lower than 5.5: the lower the pH, the bluer the flowers. Plants grown in soil with a pH level higher than 7 may also lack iron, and iron may need to be added in some dosage as well.

Also, a final word on cutting hydrangea blossoms for drying, which is just the thing to do this month. Don’t do it at the height of their color: fresh, recently opened blooms, rarely dry well in the open air. Hydrangeas do best when allowed to dry a bit on the plant before picking, so try harvesting right now when the petals have begun to take on a vintage look. As well, if left on the shrub a bit longer, many blooms will take on interesting shades of burgundy and pink in the bargain. Picked at the correct moment (why not today?), these stately dried blossoms will provide a handsome decorative statement in your home right through till spring.

2008-08-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

Last week I was lucky enough to be asked by my friend Patrick Chasse, the eminent garden designer and founder of the Beatrix Farrand Society in Mount Desert, Maine, to lecture for them and tour a few Maine gardens in the process. For those of you who don't know, Beatrix Farrand, niece of Edith Wharton, was one of our earliest and greatest American female landscape architects, and designed such notable gardens as the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Garden in Seal Harbor, Maine, the gardens of Princeton University and the Huntington Library in San Marino, California, and Dumbarton Oaks in Washington, D.C.

She founded a horticultural study center at Reef Point, her family home, in Bar Harbor, Maine, which she ran until the early 1950's, when she was unable to raise ongoing funding and, dismantling her ancestral home and garden, moved to nearby Garland Farm for the last three years of her life. The mission of the Beatrix Farrand Society is to preserve Garland Farm as a nexus for information, research, and activites concerning Beatrix Farrand, including a Design and Horticultural Reference Library, a Design Archive, and a Center for Internship Studies in Horticulture and Design.

In any case, it's a fine mission and worthy of our suppport, and I was all too happy to donate my lecture to the cause. In repayment, I was happily squired by Patrick to some of the notable gardens he has worked on in Maine, including Martha Stewart's "Skylands" and the aforementioned Rockefeller Garden. "Skylands", a stately Arts & Crafts mansion built for the automotive Ford family shortly after the turn of the 20th Century and adorned with gardens by the noted early 20th Century garden designer Jens Jensen, was a rare treat. However, it is Mrs. Farrand's spectacular Rockefeller Garden that I will share with you now.

Constructed between 1926 and 1930 for Abby Aldrich Rockefeller, wife of John D. Rockefeller, Jr., the garden is actually two splendid gardens, a meditative Chinese Garden know as "The Spirit Walk" existing side by side with a spectacular sunken and terraced mixed border garden of astounding exuberance. The "Spirit Walk" is all moss and ferns and carefully laid stepping stones, redolent with the heavenly scent of pine needles and flanked by massive, mainly 14th and 15th Century Japanese, Korean, and Chinese statuary.

The conjoined great "Lawn" and "Oval" gardens, appearing like a stoutly walled apparition in the midst of the Maine woods, are classic Beatrix Farrand, with a strong nod to historic English borders, one side cool colors, the other "hot", in two tiers of extravagant blossom. Delphiniums dance with dahlias, lilies with larkspur, and phlox and stock, zinnias and artemesias, euphorbias and foxgloves all vie winningly for one's attention.

Patrick oversaw the revived planting of the gardens for David and Peggy Rockefeller, son and daughter-in-law of Abby Aldrich Rockefeller. He explained that the gardens were designed to be in full, glorious bloom for a scant two weeks a year at the beginning of August, which used to constitute "the season" in Maine, and I was fortunate to be front and center for the show. I don't think I have ever witnessed a border so jam-packed with interesting combinations of color and blossom, both annual and perennial, and sensory revelations abounded.

As every avid gardener knows, garden touring is the most blissful form of self-education: pad and camera in hand, the sun on your back, and a garden at your feet. There are lessons to be learned and noted around every corner: this charming plant juxtaposition, that fencing or gate detail, that imaginative way of staking. What makes a garden designer like Beatrix Farrand great may be, at the most basic level, a technical feat, but what really tells you that you are in the presence of something extraordinary is a visceral experience entirely.

2008-07-10T07:18:00.000-07:00

July begins the months of true plenty here on the farm, when the vegetable gardens start to shower us with bounty and the cutting gardens offer up armloads of fetching blossom to bedeck our rooms. This blissful fecundity also describes our animal population right now, most notably in regard to our population of birds, "populate" being the operative word.

We have had a number of females of various descriptions "sitting" for the past month or so and, as in every year, there is some anxiety as to whether all that effort will actually result in offspring. Often, when a female starts to sit, she simply disappears from view, finding some deeply hidden little nook of safety unknown to or unreachable by foxes and racoons. And, often, we have prematuraly mourned the loss of some well loved goose or duck, only to discover her leading a little parade of ducklings or goslings around the pond after a month's absence.

In recent years, however, the geese, especially, have taken to nesting right up against the house so as to thwart the attentions of foxes and racoons, who are leary of coming so close to human habitation. This last month, we have had a White Embden female nesting in our basement windowbox, a gray Toulouse sitting in the crook of our air conditioning unit, another White Embden below the kitchen porch, and our Whooping Swans taking up residence just across the driveway in front of the milk barn.

"Sitting" is far from a solitary occupation. First of all, most waterfowl mate for life and are intensely devoted, so the anxious father is never far away. As well, all the related aunties and uncles stand religious and insanely noisy guard around the expectant mother, warding off anything, including us, that violates their precincts with a great honking and hissing and flapping of wings.

This year our female Whooper sat for at least two months with her devoted husband in attendance, with, sadly, no results from her cache of three eggs. The White Embden beneath the kitchen porch is still sitting, but her nest of eggs has diminshed from a total of six a few weeks ago to just two now as something is eating them (racoon?) when she takes her occasional bath break.

However, the White Embden in the window box, two weeks ago, gave birth to two fine goslings, and, at about the same time, a pair of our mallards materialized from some cloistered spot in the woods with five handsome ducklings. But surely the most amazing birth on the farm must belong to our female Muscovy Duck, who, several years ago, nested eight feet up in the knothole of a tree near the pond. How she got herself and, eventually, her brood, in and out of that tiny space is still a mystery to me, but one morning we awoke to find her proudly leading a family of six tiny yellow offspring around the pond.

The gift of new life is one of the profound joys of the summer season, always balanced, of course, by the losses of winter, and year round fatalities pinned to snapping turtles, hawks, foxes, racoons, and the like. But that's the rhythm of the farm and, in fact, of all of nature: birth, loss, rebirth. To join in it is to reap both peace and understanding, which, as Martha would say, is definitely a good thing.

2008-06-18T12:05:00.000-07:00

As that great American musical Oklahoma so accurately opined: "June is busting out all over!" and, surely, that is the case this month on the farm. After a cool, wet spring, then that spate a few weeks ago of sweltering, record setting days, the gardens are positively gushing with blossom and anything that was loitering in the coolness, waiting for a bit of heat to get it moving, has burst forth most accomodatingly, seemingly growing inches overnight.

There isn't a spot in our thirty cultivated acres that isn't putting on a pretty show right now, which is a very gratifying thing indeed. Finally, it seems these past nearly thirty years of gardening and planting and waiting for things to mature and fill their alotted spots have paid off. It would be foolish to say that it's almost as if the gardens are doing it all by themselves now, but that is close to how I feel as I take a walk around. Certainly, we still work hard at trimming and pruning, mulching and weeding and mowing, etc., but as I meander, I feel nearly like a visitor in my own garden, so happily entranced am I by what I encounter.

Those infant plants we planted ten or twenty years ago in the perennial borders are unrecognizable as the brawny stands of astilbe and iris, clematis and fairy rose currently in bloom. Likewise the red hot pokers, coreopsis, daylilies, and heliopsis blazing away in the summer borders. The tiny tufts of thyme and sedum, gentian, daisy, and evening primrose we tucked between the stones in the pool garden are now great carpets and drifts of color and blossom. The roses we planted at the feet of the hoops that surround the French garden now climb twelve feet to festoon them in the most lavish of flowering arches.

This month, even the annual vegetables in the kitchen garden seem to have taken on a life of their own. The lettuces are in high dudgeon, lasting far longer in the prevailing cool temperatures than usual, and the Ruby Perfection cabbages bordering the bean tuteurs are putting on a terrific blue and purple show right now, looking like big moon blossoms. At the same time, the heat of a few weeks ago has also jump-started the more reticent types like the pole beans and squashes, which are beginning their sinuous coiling out of the ground. A particular joy in the vegetable garden right now is also the big stands of variegated horseradish, which, after five years, have finally stopped reverting to green and are displaying their vivacious true colors in a most winning fashion.

And finally, let me praise some of the trees and shrubs we have planted over the years that have finally reached some kind of arboreal majesty. Chief among these are the California redwood we planted twenty years ago at the curve in the drive that now must stand at sixty feet, and the trio of lacy golden locusts in the yellow garden that are brightening the woodland. I am also forced to toss a few accolades at the great drifts of purple smokebush, and purple and golden barberry that are currently adding drama to the summer borders, as well as the weeping copper beeches behind them that provide such a spectacular visual foil.

This is perhaps the greatest joy of gardening: that moment in time when all the work you have put into your space finally achieves the stature you had envisioned for it in those long ago beginnings. And, as if by magic (all right -- and a good bit of annual effort...), you reach that elusive but completely compelling goal of a surrounding and comforting beauty that makes you sigh with pleasure. Such has been this month for me.

2008-05-21T06:15:00.000-07:00

Here we are approaching the end of May and I have been sadly remiss in terms of reopening this blog for spring, my only excuse being that this has been a month of intensive planting here on the farm and I have found it very difficult to compose with a trowel in my hand. But what a glorious spring it has been: cool and wet, with everything holding long and strong from the daffodils and muscari that carpeted the woodland three weeks ago to the azaleas, alliums and bluebells that are among our chief glories now. We planted a sweep of miniature triandrus daffodils ‘Hawera’, tall purple allium ‘Gladiator’ and short pinky-lavender allium karativiense down by the creek in front of the house last fall, and they have been blooming nonstop, first the daffodils, now the allium, for a full month now. The amsonia, bachelor buttons, and hardy geraniums are currently brightening the perennial borders, the weigelas and mock oranges are getting ready for their heavenly show, and the peonies are just “golf ball size and showing color”, just the way they like them in the flower market, so next week should be a triumph in the peony ribbon.

Of course, as with all things achieved in concert with Mother Nature, every moment of glory will be balanced with a bit of loss or defeat, and this spring is no exception, as we have seen the demise of two of our most true blue perennial stars: the magnificent 75 year old Japanese maple that graced our front lawn, and the ‘Red Delicious’ apple espalier that has decorated the façade of our upper barn for the past twenty plus years. Their time, simply, was up. The maple has been visibly weakening for several years now, it’s formerly lush, burgundy intensity growing more fragile and airy with each new season, and this spring only about a quarter of it leafed out at all. So yesterday, down the great lady came. I saved some of her prettiest branches to keep in a tall vase in the living room for a bit. Luckily she managed to fling off a few offspring before she met her maker, and we have a number of her progeny following in her footsteps on the terrace and down by the stream walk. We have decided not to replace her as the now open vista down to the creek (where those alliums are so perky right now) is a nice change. The apple followed much the same path: a visible weakening over the last few seasons, the entire right side going feet up two years ago, and the middle section giving up the ghost last summer. We’re going to plant a new one this season and trust we’ll be around long enough to see it achieve the roofline of the barn.

In the vegetable gardens, the beds are amended and tilled, and the cool weather crops (brassicas, lettuce, radishes, carrots) are in. Additionally, our bamboo structures for the beans and tomatoes are built in the beds behind the chicken house this year, and they are looking very handsome indeed, although it’s still a bit early for those heat lovers to go into the ground. The triumph of the bamboo structure, naturally, has been balanced by Mother Nature with a galloping case of bursitis in my left shoulder from the overly zealous jamming of canes into the ground and too much working overhead. Humbly, I have learned my lesson: a few aches and pains are surely part of the gardening life and are, generally, ignored, but sometimes it is wisest to listen to your body when it urges you to stop what you are doing. So, as it is the same shoulder that powers my computer mouse, I believe, that is what I will do for now. Welcome to spring and I will see you next month!

2007-11-12T12:34:00.000-08:00

At this point in the garden season, there is always that tug between the impulse to neaten up and the knowledge that dead plant matter left to rot over the winter will provide loads of beneficial nutrients to the soil when forked under in spring. This is all a balance and I have learned that, on a purely visual basis, there are some things I can stand to leave and others that simply must go, however horticulturally beneficent they might be if left to their own devices.

As we all know, it pays to allow most plants to die back to at least that forlornly limp and yellowish stage as this allows the plants to absorb sunlight and strength for next year. This is particularly important to bulbs, like daffodils and narcissus and the like, but also to most perennials. That said, I finally hacked down what was left of the peonies in the white border, as I was sick to death of looking at their blackened remains. Likewise the stalks of the spent shasta daisies, although their leaf clumps still look remarkably fresh, and the big, naked canes of the hearty hibiscus out by the pool.

This neatening impulse also took itself off to the cutting garden, where I pulled out the all dead zinnias, lopped off the tops of the very forlorn looking dahlias, and dug up the tubers to be stored over the winter. For those of you who are dahlia lovers and wish to do the same, the tubers are best stored in a crate of slightly moistened peat moss or wood shavings at a temperature between 40 and 50 degrees. Do check them, however, a couple of times throughout the winter to make sure they’re not rotting or shriveling.

In the vegetable gardens, I denuded the big bamboo structures of their limp bean, squash, and tomato vines, and raked up the remains of the nasturtiums, bush beans, and whatever else had succumbed to frost, leaving the die-hards to provide some becoming human fodder for a few more months. In fact, last night, I had a nice garlicky sauté of kale, chard, and arugula along with some mashed celery root to accompany a grilled steak. Also still thriving are leeks, cabbages, broccoli, the winter squash, which has been harvested and stored, and a good number of the herbs, including mint, parsley, and sage. There are still plenty of good meals to be had from the garden, even as December approaches.

I’m going to dedicate the last portion of this column to the subject of mulch and mulching in general, as this is the time of year when we should all be giving this subject some due consideration. First of all, let’s consider that blanket of fallen leaves that is currently covering most of our lawns. To many, this is a nagging chore involving aching backs and shoulders and mounds of useless debris perpetuated on unsuspecting man by an unfeeling Mother Nature. To others, however, this is certifiable brown gold, as valuable to the gardener as a bucket of earthworms or beneficial nematodes.

For if you rake your leaves into a pile and, even better, one encircled by a perimeter of stout wire fencing so that you can really pack them in, then leave them to degrade for two or three years, you will have achieved the wonder of humus, which is nature’s gift to your soil. As well, if you amend this pile occasionally with animal manures, kitchen waste, grass clippings: whatever presents itself in your household or on your land, and fork it thought every once and a while with a pitchfork, you will be adding veritable gems to your gold. The best scenario, if you have the room, is to have three or four of these piles going, in close proximity, so that you always have one sufficiently “aged” to employ immediately, and so that you can amend the others easily as you’re whipping your way by with your cart.

I'm going to retire this blog for the season here, as I'm sure all gardeners are looking forward to a little down time as winter descends, and I look forward to catching up with you again come spring. A magical holiday and triumphant New Year to you all.

2007-11-12T12:33:00.000-08:00

2007-09-17T07:47:00.000-07:00

If you’re at all like us, you’re about ready to throw up your hands and turn your voices to the sky in extravagant exhortation to the god of rain in the hopes that he will take pity on us and let loose a precious drop or three of that life-sustaining but sadly lacking liquid. I personally am envisioning a blissful, blustery fortnight of a lovely, steady, drenching soak right down to the very tips of the roots of our most substantial trees. Right now, as I look out on the borders and gardens, it seems like what hasn’t bolted has grown to some monstrous, straggly proportion and is littered with spent blossoms and forlorn-looking leaves. One is sorely tempted at this point in a season like this to say the hell with it and let nature take its unpretty course. This, of course, would be exceedingly foolish and it pays for all of us at moments like this to remember who we are, hike up our Wellies, and climb right back onto that currently uncooperative horticultural horse. We are not quitters and we will have the last word. Therefore: what?

Well, the first thing to do is to get back down off that horse, trundle off to the garden shed, drag out your hoses and sprinklers and give some sustenance to the worst victims. Forget the lawn: let it go the gold of prairie grass: it’ll come back as it gets wetter. Instead, give your attentions to any tree that shows signs of stress or drooping or yellowing leaves. Drag the hose over to its roots and just let it run full tilt for a good half hour, keeping in mind that the water’s going to have to permeate a good four or five feet of soil to do any good at all. Secondly, give your attentions to any groupings of shrubs or established perennials that are looking the least bit forlorn. Again, anything with an established root system is going to be overlooked entirely by any superficial watering such as that supplied by your typical lawn sprinkler, which probably only permeates to about six inches an hour, so take the time to stand there, hose in hand, and give each root system its due.

The next thing to do is to get out a good pair of clippers, some garden twine and a bundle of bamboo stakes, throw them into your wheelbarrow, and start doing some aesthetic damage control, particularly in areas like your perennial beds and the vegetable garden if you have one.
In the vegetable garden, if it’s bolted or spent (lettuce… dill… broccoli… corn… cilantro…), yank it out and re-seed with a fall crop of cold-hearty cultivars. Remember to keep these newly seeded patches moist as tender seedlings will fry in a second : a watering every day will be necessary until they’ve got a couple of sets of true leaves on them. If it’s grown into an unkempt, disheveled thicket (mint… lemon balm… New Zealand spinach… sorrel…), hack it back to within its originally prescribed bounds. Also, stake up tall specimens like pepper plants, eggplants, and Brussels sprouts to keep them from prostrating themselves too abjectly. You’ll be amazed how a couple of hours of work in this regard can turn an overgrown eyesore into something that at least has a nodding acquaintance with neat and orderly.

In the borders, follow the same game plan. Deadhead and cutback anything that’s over. Right now, that’s been meaning the big stands of shasta daisy, hollyhocks, stachys, and a good deal of the phlox. Use your aesthetic judgement on what’s left. If it’s sprawling, stake it up. It it’s too out of control to stake, reshape the stand, cutting back the most unruly culprits, then stake it. This has been particularly effective for those alarmingly tall stands at the back of the borders of things like Joe Pye weed (eupatorium maculatum) and purple loosestrife (lythrum salicaria).

At the front of the border, trim up anything that’s grown leggy and is over-spilling the path. In our case, this group includes cosmos, baby’s breath (gypsophila elegans), some hearty geranium, artemesia, and, of course, the lamb’s ears (stachys byzantina). Think of all this as a form of housekeeping: like cleaning up after an overly (or perhaps just sufficiently) festive party. Once you’ve shoveled through the detris, tossed out the garbage, put the plates and glasses away, and straightened up the sofa cushions, you find your living space has been miraculously restored to you, even if, in truth, the whole room could do with a fresh paint job.

So it goes with the September garden. In then end, just try to concentrate on what’s looking lush and lovely despite the heat and the drought, like our hydrangeas for instance. Or the big, sunshiny stands of heliopsis and helianthus at the top of the summer borders. Or the fall-blooming, sweet clematis paniculata montana that’s showcasing it’s frilly snowflakes on the vegetable garden arbor. And keep in mind that there’s still plenty more enjoyment to be gotten from your gardens straight through till frost.

2007-08-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

For the past several weeks we have been fluffing beds and borders like there was not only no tomorrow but perhaps not even this afternoon, as this month is always a moment in the garden when some housekeeping is clearly of the essence. Our largest effort went into the perennial borders, where the first job to be done was some copious deadheading and cutting back of the spring and early summer blooming perennials. Among these were the early astilbes and shasta daisies, the wonderful shrub rose “The Fairy”, the lamb’s ears (stachys byzantina), baptisias, astrantias, and mountain bluets (centaurea montana), and the lady’s mantle (alchemilla mollis). The there was the corralling and shoring up of some the larger, late bloomers, like the lythrum and lysimachia and later shastas, which have the tendency to flop and sprawl come August. All this housekeeping accomplishes two things: certainly a far more orderly garden, but one, as well, that has revealed some clear pockets of want, to wit: blank soil where a stand of something once stood or lounged.

The answer? Popping in. “Popping in” is a twofold idea. First, it entails “popping in” to your local perennial supplier and loosening up your wallet a tad. Then it entails “popping in” what you have just purchased into the spots in your garden that are currently displaying a paucity of bloom and foliage. This is really an extremely enjoyable activity on a number of fronts. For one thing, it’s an excellent time to be shopping for plants not only because prices are excellent as growers look to unload a bit of their stock as fall approaches, but, also, because the gratification is absolutely instant. Unlike spring buying when you’re purchasing a fluff of green in a pot that might aspire to something tall and colorful in the future but is making only a nascent showing at the moment, August perennial shopping allows you to see exactly what you’re buying in all its glory, and have it give your garden an immediate boost.

We make it a point to always “pop in” in increments of three or five plants: one or two is never enough to make a good showing and it seems to me that an odd number will always give you the right “cloudy”, slightly freeform planting effect for which we gardeners strive. We’ll start, then, with the mid-border. There we added some of the prettiest of the blue delphiniums, in mixed clusters of five, specifically the deep purple-y blue “King Arthur”, the lovely, clear, medium blue “Blue Bride”, and the paler, very aptly named “Summer Skies”. In between, with, again, artful randomness, we added stands of white, highly fragrant Casablanca lilies, some of echinacea purpurea “Magnus”, the handsome, pinky-purple cone flower with the yellow eye, and a few of the really stunning phlox “Norah Leigh” with its variegated foliage and pale pink blossom with darker eye.

Of slightly more compact but no less winsome demeanor was the addition of two or three clusters each of physostegia virginiana “Crown Rose” with its pale pink spikes, the veronica “Sunny Border Blue”, which is spiked with blossoms of a true, deep blue, and the achillea ptarmica “The Pearl”, a very pretty white yarrow with tiny, almost daisy-like flowers. At the front of the border, for some nice, low jolts of authentic silver, we added some clusters of the artemesia “Silver Mound” and cerastium tomentosum, the poetically named “Snow In Summer”. For spectacular deep purple foliage, we added two varieties of heuchera, the beautifully veined “Cathedral Windows” and the new, strikingly ruffled “Stormy Seas”, which adds just a hint of green underbelly to the leaf. For further visual upholstery at the edges of the borders, we also added a couple of drifts each of the pink flowering baby’s breath, gypsophyla paniculata “Festival Pink”, and the lavender-hued pincushion flower, scabiosa columbaria “Butterfly Blue”. All in all, it added up to a veritable “border makeover”: from frowzy to fabulous in just a few days.

2007-07-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

Last month I was extolling the visual virtues of our perennial borders: a winsome lane of quiet charms, soft pastels, and unflagging longevity of bloom, rather like a true and steadfast if somewhat unassuming wife. This month, however, I have entirely thrown over that shy and serene companion of the long hot summer for the spectacularly showy if shorter-lived charms of our summer borders, which are just starting their truly riotous display.

This is no retiring, dim-hued beauty. Oh, no. This is a garden that not only sashays right up with a great swiveling of hips and says “Hi, Sailor” but gives you a quick pinch for emphasis. Think Carmen Miranda with her tallest of banana hats, parading her festive wares with not an iota of subterfuge or disinclination. Think scarlet and cadmium yellow, fluorescent orange and fuchsia, and purple foliage as rich as royal blood. This garden’s heyday is from mid to late summer and, right now, it is a fiesta of very gregarious, even outrageous color.

There are many stars to applaud here but, as we have learned over the years, blossom may be enchanting but foliage is forever, so I will start with the big anchors: the shrubs and trees. At the back of these borders, we’ve planted six tall weeping, fastigiate copper beeches (fagus purpureo-pendula), three on each side of the central path. The foliage is black purple and a marvelous backdrop for greens and yellows, and their twisty, weepy forms are magnificent against the horizon. We’ve also added, mid-slope, substantial, ribbon-y drifts of berberis thunbergii aurea and atropurpurea, the yellow and purple Japanese barberry, the purple echoing the deep burgundy of the beeches, the yellow providing a dramatic, white-hot counterpoint.

Additionally, in the center of each half of the borders, we’ve planted a huge aesculus parviflora (bottlebrush buckeye), a member of the horse chestnut family, each about 10 feet broad, which are currently extending their magnificent, vanilla-colored panicles skyward. On the right side, where the half of the border is broader and meets up with an adjoining slope, we’ve planted a couple of impressive stands of purple smokebush (cotinus coggygria purpureus). For those unfamiliar with this large-growing tree-shrub (to as much as 15 feet), it is a rare, visual treat. It’s foliage matches the deep hues of the red barberry and the copper beech, but it is it’s astonishing clouds of pink/gray blossom – literally clouds like puffs of smoke, as airy as baby’s breath -- that are it’s unique attraction.

Perennially, up under and around the weeping copper beech, we’ve planted big stands of plume poppy (macleaya cordata), growing to about 7 feet, with its lovely, glaucous, brassica-like blue foliage and magnificent plumes providing very nice contrast. Also at the top of the borders, large stands of helianthus petiolaris (prairie sunflower) and heliopsis helianthoides (sunflower heliopsis), two tall-growing varieties of perennial sunflower, providing lots of yellow sparkle to joust with the surrounding hues of burgundy and blue. As well, a grouping of yucca filamentosa (Adam’s needle) with their marvelous, succulent, lance-shaped foliage and towering stalks of bell-like white blossoms. All together, a very nice show for these tall cultivars.

Farther down the slope, about on a level with the barberries, are substantial stands of red hot poker (kniphofia uvaria), which I would certainly rate as the top bananas in this particular Carmen Miranda’s hat. Also in this mid-range, some rudbeckia Goldstrum and triloba (Brown-eyed Susan), both members of the coneflower family, and achillea filipendulina “Coronation Gold”, providing some surprising yellow accents themselves.

And finally, filling in at the bottom of the borders, just inside the edging of coreopsis “Zagreb”, are three varieties of day lily (hemerocallis “Rozavel”, “American Dream“, and “Frances Fay”) in shades of deep, yellow-throated crimson, clear lemon yellow, and salmon, and a bit stand of flaming red crocosmia. These are all brought into sharper focus by a few, interplanted stands of the yellow-eyed, pure white faces of shasta daisy (chrysanthemum superbum). This is another lesson we have learned overtime: always add a dash of white to any border for it invariably enlivens every color that surrounds it. Not that that the colors in this particular border need much enlivening… See you in August!

2007-06-18T10:13:00.000-07:00

This is the month when all of our perennial plantings really start to strut their stuff. I am lucky enough to write in a converted space in one of our big, former dairy barns, overlooking the entrance to our perennial borders. The borders I refer to are two broad beds flanking a grass lane leading out to the visual destination of a fountain and pool, which are plopped down in a circular lawn which had been a cow pasture in a former life. The borders, anchored with substantial box and yews and flowering fruit trees, are planted in a soft, hazy, pastel palette of blues, pinks, and whites, accented with the occasional jolt of silver/gray foliage (artemesias powis castle, silver king, and silver queen... stachys byzantina (lamb’s ears)...) or purple-leaved plants (heuchera “palace purple”, for instance). Right now, they are singing the blues, though luckily without even a hint of heartbreak or hand-wringing. More of a clear, sky blue or the blue of a child’s eyes: pure and wondrous.

Some of the early stars in these borders are the tall, true blue spires of baptisia australis, the wild blue indigo, with its lovely blue-green, pea-like foliage, and big stands of mountain bluet (centaurea montana), the perennial form of bachelor’s button, with that wonderful thistle-y, deep blue flower. Another blue girl not to ignore is veronica incania (wooly speedwell) with its white, wooly stems and 6’ spikes of an enchanting porcelain blue. Also, the native columbines (aquilegia canadensis), members of the Buttercup family, with their dainty blue, white or purple spurred blossoms borne high on upright spikes, and the lavender-violet clouds and tall, airy foliage of thalictrum rochebrunianum (lavender mist), a native of Japan and a real star for the back of the border.

The front of the border is currently being brightened by cerastium tomentosum (snow-in-summer) with its gray foliage and pretty, spreading carpet of dianthus-like white blossoms, and several varieties of hearty geranium and cranesbill, with their attractive, deeply-cut leaf clumps and pink-to-white blossoms. All of this is punctuated with the occasional exclamation point of a grouping of giant white allium Mount Everest. Very nice indeed from my office window.

2007-05-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

I, personally, have been involved in a sizeable frenzy of bamboo construction: sizable both in terms of magnitude of structure and energy level. This year, I was determined to build some trellising for the tomatoes and some of the climbing beans and gourds that would place them in pendant, overhead positions in the garden, like the late and most assuredly great Rosemary Verey’s famous Labernum tunnel at Barnsley House in England.

What I have finally achieved are 3 square pergolas: one centering the main vegetable garden and the others centering each of the Siamese twin plots, one up a step from the other, in back of the chicken house. In each case, the pergola sits astride the crossing of the cruciform paths and is tall enough for me to walk under without stooping. Each has a peaked roof running to about ten feet tall, and is about six feet square.

The pair in the tomato gardens are each composed of four cylindrical bamboo columns eighteen inches in diameter and eight feet tall, rather like a quartet of immense tomato cages, which is, of course, what they’re meant to be. Resting on the shared inner circumferences of these is the square, peaked roof. My plan is to grow each of the eight columns with a single type of tomato, then let them all meet in the center to decorate the roof. I think I’ll also grow a couple of Caracalla Bean vines up each as a companion planting, which will provide a little late summer dazzle as well as a bit of green coverage when the tomato vines start looking rotty.

The one in the center of the main garden has quite an elaborate, almost fish scale looking roof treatment I constructed out of bamboo edging hoops. These I had purchased in massive quantity to make an overlapping edging for some of our island beds, an effect I absolutely detested. However, they turned out to be perfect for adding architectural interest to and providing tensile cross-bracing for these large-scale bamboo structures, which just goes to show you that the worm can turn nicely when it wants. Also, do use “zip-tie” rather than twine or waxed string to make your joins: their supremely tight grip will make the structure substantially more sound.

I’m planning on growing that pergola with Sun Bright Runner Bean, a new variety from Thompson & Morgan which has yellow foliage and brilliant scarlet blossoms, and Malabar Spinach, with its handsome reds stems, tiny pink blossoms and succulent green leaves. It should be quite a happy pairing. To be brutally honest, Runner Beans as edible “green beans” are never as tasty and tender as your basic Blue Lake or Fin De Bagnol or Kwintus varieties, but their blossoms make up for everything, and they’re excellent for drying, shelling, and using during the winter.

2007-05-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

This month, as in all Mays, we are in positive swivet of activity, from reseeding the lawns to amending the planting beds to coaxing along countless trays of seedlings destined for glory in the ground in what will now be a matter of weeks if not days. Despite what seems to be an abnormally high pollen count, which makes me rather dopey, it’s been blissful work as spring beauty abounds.

The reseeding of the lawns just turned the corner form tedious to triumphant as we’ve started to rake up the hay we scattered over the reseeded lawns two weeks ago. This year, this was a major project, especially on the slope above our largest pond, which the ducks and geese use as their marching ground when they are not “flap-running” down it into the pond, wings and feet slapping the air, with our young hound Chester in playful pursuit.

At any rate, this large area had seen so much use that it was virtually bald, with the roots of the trees poking like knees and elbows through the ground. We had to haul in a truckload of topsoil first, rake it over the offending limbs, then seed, then top it all off with a good mulching of hay, not only to help keep the seeds damp but to prevent the geese from eating them. Today, two weeks later, we started raking up the hay and, mirabile dictu, there was the yearned-for, lush carpet of green, which I thought fairly instant on the gratification scale.

Now is also the time you should be eyeballing your perennial beds with an eye to editing the sprawlers and filling in the blanks. Start making a list in preparation for the frost date (May 15th), always remembering that a cluster of three or five of any given cultivar will always be more effective (and instantly gratifying) than the lonely single specimen.

And, finally, I’d like to dedicate this column to the memory of our dear dog Casper, who we had to put to sleep 5 years ago this month. In moments of contemplation, I go and sit with him on the hill above the summer borders, where we buried him. This is infinitely calming to me. Although we are fortunate to have the new and much loved presences of our most recent SPCA adoptees Zack and Chester, I still do not garden a day without wishing Casper were there beside me.

2007-05-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Right now is the blissful time of the bulbs and azaleas here on the farm: blue bells, Leucojum aestivum (Gravetye Giant), thousands of daffodils and narcissi, and the vibrant Muscari 'Valerie Finnis' and armeniacum. The lily of the valley are just starting, with the may apples leafing the woods and the fruit trees flinging their pastel petals about like confetti. And, of course, the dogwoods flitting through the trees like the most wonderful and elegant of ghosts. You wonder if you really need summer at times like this.

Our frost date here in Pennsylvania is May 15th, although I am always tempted to rush the season a little. However, one important thing we are doing right now in preparation for it, and something you should be considering as well, is getting out your saws and shears and, finally, getting rid of all the winter-kill and shaggy-headedness of your trees and shrubs and roses and vines before the growing season starts to overtake you. Tie up the climbers, too, while you’re at it. This week I sheered the tops of the Euonymous around the lily and cutting gardens ('Silver King' and 'Golden Queen' respectively, both wonderful variegated varieties that really add visual punch to a border in a green landscape), as well as the Lonicera Bagusson’s Gold that surrounds the two most visually prominent beds in the vegetable garden.

It really pays to crisp up things like edging and hedges at this time of year. Top your beds off with a nice mulching around the perennials and the place looks quite spiff, whether there’s a blossom in sight or not!