Garden composted, grill going

Pink Faerie Wings

I once knew a little farm girl who was really cute and a total pill. I can't remember her name, but I do remember that her pet bunny was called Cumbaline, after the flower. This flower.

Isn't that sweet? Maybe you have to love odd words and bunnies and Aquilegia to think so... but I happen to fit into that category.

Finding Treasure

We went on vacation to Acadia National Park in Maine last week. I'm not sure what percentage of the conversation on the drive north was focused on morels, but I'd give it a vague classification of "above average." Even for us.

The first morning in our campground, there were two morels, growing right out of the gravel on the path to the potty. This caused squeals of glee (mine). Matt's delight was more contained, as is generally the case. After a short ethical debate on harvesting a Treasure of Nature in a national park, we said To Hell With It and picked one.

Above, Matt tries to identify the species. We think it is a black morel, but mushroom taxonomy is really confusing compared to wildflower taxonomy...

In other scientific matters, here I am demonstrating that it is really important to wear a hat that bears a strong resemblance to whatever you're hoping to forage, because then you'll be more likely to find it.

Matt sauteed our plump morel up in olive oil with salt and pepper and put it on rice crackers, along with this really good gouda-style goat cheese from a farm in Vermont called Blue Ledge. Oh, yum!

Budding

We are having a long, cool drink of spring in Pennsylvania, and I love it. I disagree with my neighbors... The soaking rain, the frosty nights, the stormy black-and-blue clouds - it all spells spring to me. The longer the low temps last, the more I can admire the unfurlings in my garden, and those rare creatures that break out of the buds on Scranton's back alley weed trees...

Crocus tommasinianus

Not all gardeners have room for drifts. Or copses or swales or wealds. Some of us simply haven't got the space.

...or do we?

If you doubt your ability to cultivate a drift, I present to you: Crocus tommasinianus.

This sweet little late winter bloomer sows itself in patches - with grace, abandon, and good composition. All in the space of a dollhouse-sized acre.

Unconvinced, you say? Your postage-stamp sized parcel could never accommodate any sort of drift, let alone drifts (plural!)?

Well then, I now present to you: documentation of my barnyard, against a backdrop of endless swaths of cottony, sky-blue Crocus tommasinianus.

Dogwood bud, with dog

We picked a little pot of flowers: snowdrops, crocus, silver maple, dogwood.

Clivia miniata

My good friend Nannette gave me this clivia three years ago. The clivia summers under our pear tree and winters in a cold, dimly lit corner of Matt's "office," a small, precarious, dangerous perch above the staircase where a paperwork avalanche-waiting-to-happen also resides. The clivia likes being pot-bound and dried out, and I like providing those conditions for it.

Round about mid-February, I haul the clivia off the perch - in a teetering sort of way - and into the warm, bright kitchen, where a good soaking ensues. I put the clivia on a chair so it can be one of the family, and it responds in kind by promptly (about three days later) shooting up a flower spike.

If it happens to be sunny late in the afternoon, the clivia becomes charged with volcanic energy and turns this marvelous molten color.