Bookish Gardener

Incredible edible

In the modest 48-square-feet-plus-whiskey-barrel allocated to edibles in my garden, form often trumps function in the things I grow to eat: lemon cucumbers, red okra, scarlet runner beans (two varieties), rainbow Swiss chard, Chinese long beans, Green Zebra tomatoes, purple-black Diamond eggplant, Jimmy Nardello's red sweet chili pepper, a collection of herbes de Provence + herbs of "Scarborough Fair", and the 6-foot endive that looks like a big weedy mistake for all but the first hours of the morning, when it blooms with the blue that I cannot live without.

I've purposely stocked my vegetable beds with ornamental edibles, but the balloon flowers in my perennial back border are a surprising edible ornamental, as it turns out. Platycodon (platy, the prefix, meaning "broad", and codon, the suffix, meaning "bells": thank you, Dictionary of Botanical Epithets!) grandiflorum's an invaluable garden citizen. It blooms tall and long, and the blue velvet texture of the specimen in the photo above (looks much better "in person", trust me) is a knockout against bright pink phlox or lemon yellow daylilies.

Platycodon is doraji in Korean, celebrated in folk song. What's edible is not above-ground, but below: the fleshy taproots (pictured here, if you scroll down some) are peeled, soaked, julienned and spiced, and eaten as banchan. It's crunchy and very yummy; I'd been eating it for years and years before finally cluing into its floral connection.

I'd never sacrifice the balloon flowers in my garden just to get to their roots, but they're prompting a summer day's fantasy: a platycodon farm, with acres planted to billowing fields of the broad bells, in blue, pink and white. Mmmm.

Will yew be my valentine?

The yews made it out of rehab this year, and the garden is benefiting from their triumphant comeback. Five years ago, they were the typical overlooked foundation hedge, trimmed into the classic crew cut, barely concealing barren, knobby-kneed branches and a hollow interior of brown and dying needles. They're planted in a tough site—fully shaded northern exposure in inert subsoil, "mulched" with black pumice stones that look like charcoal briquets—so the thought of tying them to the bumper of a pickup and extracting them like an achy tooth was briefly tempting, but impractical.

Instead, I pruned them severely, especially trimming the tops and sides with the hope that it would allow more light and encourage new growth from the bottoms up. The four little evergreen stumps looked ridiculous for a few years, but growing they were, and every spring, I kept trimming, and trimming. And, finally, this spring:

Gentle, lush sprays of succulent, lime-green growth. Look; touch.

Mullein spice

I'm told that our house sits on what used to be farmland not more than a generation ago, and mullein (Verbascum thapsis; common mullein, wooly mullein, flannel plant...you get the idea) is a farm weed that shows up here and there every season. I'm fond of this weed. The leaves are softer and silkier than lamb's ear (but to describe them as "a kind of Native American Charmin"? Eeuuww).

Mullein in the wrong place at the wrong time is gangly, ugly, and yes, weedy. But sometimes it just shows up where, it turns out, it needed to be. This summer, it's next to the David Austin rose 'Graham Thomas', punching up the yellows in a mostly bronze-leaved bed, and helpfully obscuring the rose foliage that's already tattered and pitted with blackspot.

Last summer, it added heft and textural contrast to the agastaches and penstemons:

In the early days of this garden, I sought out and planted the verbascum 'Helen Johnson', enthralled by the description that I'd read in Jamaica Kincaid's garden book. Her delicate buds were pretty, her dusky peach-salmon color unusual, and she didn't last more than one season. I think I'll stick to the great mullein, and look forward to its surprises in the seasons to come.

Long live Sempervivum!

Power to the flower! The solitary fist (with a few extra knuckles) is upraised in a final, defiant, dramatic gesture. "Mansei!" (Korean for "10,000 years,"  equivalent to the Japanese "banzai") it cries, but it's this monocarpic hen's last stand.

Eminence verdigris

Statue of Linnaeus, The University of Chicago, early fall 2005.
Photo credit: Jessamyn Roll

When they named any thing, they turned toward it, and as they spoke, I saw and remembered that they called the thing they would point out by the name they uttered.

        Saint Augustine, Confessions

Linnaeus was born about 300 years ago. (His birthday is officially commemorated as May 23, 1707, but given the fits and starts of Sweden's Julian-to-Gregorian calendar transition between 1700 and 1753, I believe I'm within the grace period of not having to turn to the "Belated Birthday" rack at Hallmark just yet.) His father, Nils, created the surname "Linnaeus" after the littleleaf linden tree (Tilia cordata) on the family homestead.

His love of flowers developed an an early age, and it is recorded that when only eight years old he was nicknamed "the little botanist."

        Encyclopaedia Brittanica (1958 edition).

The Prince of Naturalists, Barton called Linnaeus. The Great Architect. The Swedish Sage. God's Registrar.

        [Narration of the imagined Meriwether Lewis]

        Brian Hall, I Should Be Extremely Happy In Your Company: A Novel of Lewis and Clark.

I love those botanical names, even when I'm bamboozled by pronunciations (Cotinus coggyggria, anyone?) and frustrated by the it's-Mahonia-no-it's-Berberis types that keep rearranging the sock drawer. Forest for the trees, folks, forest for the trees:

The first word in his scheme of Latin binomials tells the genus, grouping diverse plants which nevertheless share a commonality; the second word names the species, plants alike enough to regularly interbreed and produce offspring like themselves. It is a framework for understanding, a way to show how pieces of the world fit together.

        Sue Hubbell, A Country Year: Living the Questions.

"It is a marvelous creation, isn't it? Linnaeus's system? The most valuable contribution to natural history since Noah put saw to gopher wood. His binomial standard reminds me of terrestrial coordinates, the genus, say, representing latitude, and the species longitude, so that the two of them in conjunction enable you to pinpoint the one precise location or the one recognized scintilla of Creation, that is here, this one, and no other."

       Dialogue of the imagined Thomas Jefferson to Meriwether Lewis, from I Should Be Extremely Happy In Your Company.

This statue and I arrived on campus the same year, 1976, but it wasn't until one spring morning last year that I spent more than a passing moment in its company. I was at the medical center to accompany a family member (with an ailment favorably resolved for now), for a procedure that would take most of the morning. I was reading King Dork, and figured that my steady stream of low chuckles occasionally punctuated by the poorly suppressed outburst of laughter would be inappropriate comportment for the waiting room of the PET scan department, so I walked down the Midway and visited Linnaeus. The statue's surrounded by beautiful gardens (which wasn't always the case), and I sat down on one of the garden benches. Across me was a crabapple tree, every limb full and drooping with blossoms, and behind me another, which pelted me with petals like ticker tape with every musky sweet breeze.

This statue of Linnaeus is uncommonly expressive. He's on the go, with one foot stepping off his pedestal. A book is tucked under his arm, and he's clutching a bunch of flowers—could they be of his beloved tea plant (Camellia sinensis)? The visage is intelligent, engaged, and even a little bemused:

I read in one of my handbooks, written before it was considered necessary to be dull to be taken seriously:

"Delightful Linnaeus, who dearly loved his little joke, himself confesses to have named the day-flowers after three brothers Commelyn, Dutch botanists, because two of them—commemorated in the showy blue petals of the blossom—published their works; the third, lacking application and ambition, amounted to nothing, like the third inconspicuous whitish third petal."

    From A Country Year: Living The Questions.

To the man, our latter-day Adam, who named living things: Happy three-hundredth birthday.

Put on the red light

Geranium 'Rozanne'

Ah...the weekend that was. Three Whole Days of weeding, and mulching, and (plant) shopping, and (plant) planting, and (picture) snapping, and (garden) gazing (the peonies this year are early, tall, and gorgeous), all under temperate skies—not too hot, not too cold, not too sunny, not too rainy. Heavenly!

Or so it would be, but for the strange syndrome that affects me after extended periods of silence in the garden: the uninvited earworm, summoned by the merest and feeblest association with a plant name:

Roz - anne
You don't have to put on the red light
Roz - anne
You don't have to put on the red light

Last summer, growing tomatoes, it was:

Cherokee Pur - ple
Cherokee Tri - ibe
So proud to live,
So proud to dieeeeeee

And, judging from the self-sown seedlings showing up in the back border, later this summer it'll be:

Love - cle-o-me
Cle-o-me
Cle-o-me

Won't you please, please help me?

Try to remember

Last summer's June: Lavender, penstemons, mullein, petunias, snapdragons, hops, marigolds and cabbages.

Snow Friday, snow Saturday, snow today, snow tomorrow, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The shrubs are waist-deep in it. The night sky, glowing white, softly pelts its flakes, interminably, inexorably, down, down, down.

Bud by bud

Afghan iris. I saw this flower open last spring. The blossom was furled in a tight, pointed whorl. I looked away. When I looked back, one of the falls had snuck out from behind the curtains, as if to say "Ta da!" with its tongue out. I vowed to stay and watch the pot come to boil. (My patience would be rewarded sooner than I expected.) As soon a gnat-sized flying something-or-another alit on the bud, the petals sprung open with a whfft and the minutest of tremors. Then there it stood, in pristine glory, sky blue and heaven-scented.

Oriental poppy. This treasure emerged last spring from the one-inch crack between concrete patio and concrete foundation, the product of my poor aim in scattering seed two seasons before. The petals are softer than tissue, but saved from preciousness by the edgy, contrasting, lush, weedy foliage. The purplish-black stamens undulate in the breeze like the tendrils of a sea anemone, guarded by Haman's hat. In twenty-four hours, the petals are gone with the wind.

Blackberry lily. I don't know why, but I think this flower's botanical name, Belamcanda chinensis, is indescribably luscious. The provenance of my garden's blackberry lilies is the garden right next door, courtesy of my neighbor friend's gift of a generous stalk of blooms gone to black-berry seed. All the seeds were meant to be scattered near the stand of Russian sage in the perennial border, but one must have slipped out of my hand right here, just outside the back door, where it took root behind a trellis container and, last summer, flowered more vigorously and more colorfully than its brethren (who keep getting elbowed out by the Perovskia).

Worth the wort

The dowdy shrub in the background is shrubby cinquefoil. Cinquefoil, used to be Potentilla fruticosa...and now (depending on the source) Dasiphora fruticosa, or Dasiphora floribunda, or Pentaphylloides floribunda. (Ahem...taxonomists! This kind of thing does nothing...nothing!...to bring those skittish about botanical nomenclature into the fold.) But, as I was saying, this potentilla is mostly a disappointment on its own. It's unable to thrive in the deep shade and chalky soil of this north foundation bed, and bears a paradoxical habit of being too upright and shapeless at the same time. It's never thickened up enough to allow its tiny yellow flowers to accumulate any visual impact, and demands too much pruning of its tiny gangly winterkilled stems every spring.

The shrub in the foreground—Hypericum 'Hidcote', or St. John's Wort—is helping uncover the potentilla's potential. (And as beautiful as it is, the hypericum doesn't have the stature of a specimen, so the potentilla's contrasting foliage color and size repay the favor.) The hypericum's stems arc elegantly to soften the unkempt bristling of its neighbor, and draw attention to the five-petaled miniature blossoms of the potentilla through the amplified echo of its oversized, waxy, warm yellow single blooms.

Good sports

Light green Nicotiana alata 'Limelight', started from seed three years ago, has helpfully reseeded everywhere it's needed, every summer since. Last year, one of the volunteers showed up in pink-purple, and my wish that there'd be more of it this year has come true. I'm seeing a few this year that are leaning red (confirming my suspicion that this wasn't a spontaneous sport, but a souvenir of cross-pollination with the store-bought red miniature nicotiana I had in one of the whiskey barrels a few summers ago), and even one which seems quaintly old-fashioned, with tea-stained petals.

And this? Mutant Rudbeckia hirta, crinkly and green. I'd love to get a bunch of these into a green glass bottle, surrounded by the nicotiana of many colors.