Candy Land

Years ago, we made a pilgrimage to Mr. Mulch's homeland -- Sweden -- to trace his roots and introduce our younger daughter to her distant relatives.  She was at the time a very cute, blonde, freckle-faced 10 year oldinclined to wear her hair in long braids, which of course encouraged all her cousins to call her Pippi Longstocking.  To her great pre-adolescent dismay and embarassment.  

We tried to find sights of interest that might compensate for this humiliation, so
on our drive from Stockholm to the family homestead in Växjö in Southern Sweden, we  stopped in Granna, the Peppermint capital of the world!  The Swedish word for peppermint is Polkagris, which means Polka (the dance) Pig (which apparently was an endearing term for candy back in the day -- go figure), and it was invented in Granna in 1859 by Amalia Eriksson, a poor 35-year-old widow trying to support herself after the death of her husband.  Little did she know that she was starting an industry that would support the entire town!  There are at least a dozen shops where you can watch it being made and even more where you can buy it -- in just about any color you want, and some you might never have thought of.

Red, Green, Yellow, and many other colors of Peppermint... Polkagris!

What on earth does this have to do with my garden?  Ummmm... tulips?!
 
I know, I know.  Two posts on tulips risks overload.  But I planted soooooo many last fall, and they don't last very long, so they must be savored, and I promise this will be the end of the topic this season.  So humor me for one more post.

Since I have virtually no recollection -- and stupidly, no record -- of what I planted where, their emergence has been a delightful surprise in general.  There has been one specific stretch of blossoms that is a particular delight, and my amnesia regarding both their provenance and their name is total.  But based on the digression above, I have the perfect moniker: I shall christen them Polkagris.

It appears that I bought and planted about 100 tulips which bear a striking resemblance to the product that put Granna on the map.  Red and white, purple and white, and yellow and red candy striped tulips populate a big swath on the west side of the mound garden and flank the entry to the house. It's hard to really appreciate their sweetness in a long shot...

 But up close, they look like something you'd fine on the shelf in Granna...

Your classic red and white Polkagris

Grape Polkagris

And the fiery Dragon Polkagris

Happily, these bloomed about a week later than the other tulips, so they'll probably hang around a bit longer too, prolonging the season.  But I promise not to write about them again.  Really.

Despite my fascination with these fleurs, I am a gardening realist.  In fact, I've already laid plans for the post-tulip garden.  If you look closely in that last picture on the lower left, you'll see the nasturtiums I planted this past weekend.  There are now plugs planted throughout the tulips bed, so by the time the tulips are gone, nasturtiums will populate the mound with their colorful, and edible, veil.  

I hope they do as well in this location as they did on the rock wall of the herb garden, where they draped the entire area in a green cloak with an endless supply of red, orange, and yellow blossoms, many of which found their way into our salads.  So much as I love the first blooms of spring, I have no problem succession planning -- or planting.  But do me a favor, and don't mention it to the tulips... I don't want them to give up any sooner than they have to!

 

Ssshhhh... tulips!

Growing tulips in these parts is either an act of 1:folly, or 2: defiance.  1: Folly, in the case of those new to the area who don't realize that deer view tulips after a long winter with the same enthusiasm as a one lost in a desert views an oasis.  Defiance, as in one who believes that their stalwart deer defenses will hold against #1.

We fall into the second camp.  And last Fall I had the crazed fantasy that I could create a symphony of early blossoms without tempting the hooved fates.  In the early spring, I can also hope that there are enough young shoots in the woods to keep the deer otherwise occupied so that they don't notice -- or sniff out -- the temptation that hides on the other side of our meager, but mostly effective, defenses.

Against all odds, I planted 250 tulips bulbs.  Several kinds.  And no, I have no idea what I planted where.  This, despite the fact that I always mean to jot down this information somewhere... and in fact I sometimes actually do, but put it in a location that is unfindable anywhere on my hard drive.  Thankfully, the bulbs remember, and even though spring is cold, and slow in coming, the tulips are here!  And on the front mound, where I planted most of them, they have emerged like sentinels of the new season.

Standing guard all around the front mound

Catching some early Spring sunshine

So the tulips have discovered themselves, but for the life of me, I can't remember what varieties I've planted.  Happily, they do distinguish themselves by color -- it's a rather crude descriptor, and certainly will win me no gardening prizes, but it will have to suffice.

Close up on the yellow and red ones

Rose tulip about to open

And apparently, I've also planted a whole batch of pale violet tulips.  Who knew?!

All these amazing blooms are not only visible to me and to the walkers who exercise along our road, but they must also be visible -- and perhaps smellable -- to the deer who would love nothing better than to reduce them all to itty bitty stumps.  

I wake every morning hoping that a) there are enough tender shoots in the woods to keep Bambi, her friends and family occupied, and b) our defenses will hold... at least until the end of the season when they always... inevitably... relentlessly... breach them and eat all the hosta.


In the meantime, I'll continue to document and share their progress; the first of in a succession of perennials I insist on growing that do not appear on the "deer resistant lists."   
Just for the record, hellebores are on that list and are, in fact, poisonous.  But that didn't stop the deer from eating the hellebores we planted outside our fence last year.  And since they subsequently did breach our defenses in the desperation of Fall and eat every single hosta, it clearly didn't kill them.  Proof that they definitely do not read those lists, and the only thing that works is constant vigilance. Excuse me while I go patrol the perimeter.

Andromeda

PS.  While patrolling the perimeter, I noticed that the Andromeda are also in glorious, full bloom.  Here's a sample of the garlands that adorn them, as they ring the very top of the hill behind our gardens like a coral reef come ashore.  

Close up on the Andromeda galaxy

 


One of the nicest things about Andromeda is that it's an early spring bloom that sticks around for quite a long time.  But even more attractive is the fact that it's something that even the hungriest deer will never, ever eat!







 

And the last shall be first

The vegetable garden always has a few surprises for us each new season.  There are edibles that are expected -- the garlic bulbs planted last fall, the scallions we put in at the end of the season -- and they do show up on schedule.  But every so often, a crop that failed abysmally last season rises phoenix-like to say "Not dead yet!"

We tried a new variety of radicchio last year called radicchio di treviso, which looks like a cross between a head of romaine and a belgian endive, distinguished by it's classic deep radicchio plummy red color.  Ours, not so much.  Oh, they grew happily enough.  But all they did was send up long bitter green fronds which never headed and never lost their definitely-not-red deep green color.  We tried reading the description from the catalog to the plants, but they ignored us.  We returned the lack of attention and at the end of the season, simply left them alone to face their fate at the hands of old man winter.

To our delight, about half of the crop apparently read the instructions over the winter and had a change of heart, emerging from the just-barely-warm beds in tight heads, each leaf tinged with the radicchio-appropriate red hue.  So now we have about 6 heads sprinkled amidst the kale and kohlrabi seedlings we just transplanted, lending a happily contrasting burst of color to our early plantings.

Radicchio di treviso finally behaving!

There was also some spinach we had neglected at the end of last season that managed to winter over and was growing nicely in a bed we needed for another crop. These two holdovers became our first harvest of 2013 -- and between the spinach and radicchio, plus a sprinkling of chives -- we had our first salad of the year entirely from the garden.  With a light Dijon viniagrette and a slice of locatelli romano, it was indeed a spring treat!

Radicchio and spinach ready for the salad spinner

The first harvest is always a clear signal that spring has finally arrived, but I don't really relax and trust that it's here until I can get my herb garden in.  

There's nothing I dislike more about winter than the fact that I have to actually buy fresh herbs elsewhere.  I've tried growing them indoors over the winter, but one consequence of having created a Craftsman-inspired house is the deep roof overhang characteristic of that style.  While a 2' soffit creates enough shelter that we can leave windows open in all but the most driving rain, and helps keep the house cool throughout the summer, it also creates enough shade so that there are virtually no windowsills where plants can soak up sunlight.  There's plenty of light inside; just not the direct kind herbs like to bask in.

The soffit is great for energy efficiency, but not for indoor plants

I nurse my herb garden as late into the fall as I can, and then grudgingly fill in from the grocery store or market until that singular day in the spring when it's safe to start all over again, trying to remember the lessons learned from the previous season.  Such as, the nasturtiums were gorgeous, but way too rambunctious; I will plant them again, but not where they can smother the sage and tarragon as they did last year.  Or, there's no such thing as too much parsley. 

I'm happy to say that yesterday was that day.  It's not safe for everything yet, so no basil or bay leaf, but with parley (never enough), sage, rosemary, and thyme, at least I've got a enough for a song.  And with the return of perennials like oregano and chives -- the jury is out on whether the tarragon will return or I'll need to replant -- I can look forward to bypassing the herb aisle altogether in another week or two.

Herb garden in and mulched

About those nasturtiums.  I'm thinking that once the tulips are finished on the mound garden that they would look lovely there cascading over the stone wall.  And still easily accessible for culinary experimentation!  

Nasturtiums could work well once the tulips have faded

And finally, I continue to be fascinated by the progression of the tree peony blossoms.  Last week they were hiding shyly behind their fringy fingers.  This week, the buds have revealed themselves, and appear to have their necks wrapped in feathery boas. 

We're probably a week or two from full blossom. While that's an eagerly anticipated event, I'm thoroughly enjoying each stage of this transformation and the opportunity to simply marvel at the wonder of nature.

Come a little bit closer...

We live in the exurbs of New York City.  It's commutable. Barely.  But for City folk, it's far enough away for them to think it's "upstate."  It's not, but it is remote enough to have some of the country character about it, particularly in the number of folks that like to bike, walk, and run on the local roads when the weather is nice.  We live on a dead end that's quiet enough for those activities, but a big chunk of the road is a steep hill that discourages all but the hardiest cyclists and runners.  But walkers?  They abound!  And while some are our neighbors, there are many that we know only by the nicknames we've given them -- "The Bouncy Walkers," for example -- a trio who seem perpetually jolly and apparently have springs in their shins causing them to bob up and down with every step.

In the height of gardening season, all of these perambulators frequently slow down to check out our gardens, see what's blooming, and exchange greetings and the occasional local gossip.  It's very gratifying (and not a small ego boost) to see others enjoy our gardening efforts as much as we do.

But today, though the sunshine and not-chilly-but-not-really-warm temperatures drew several walkers out, none of them stopped.  Oh, they cast a glance or two, but spring is so late that there is no opportunity for long distance admiring.  Everything is still in a state of imminence.  As in everything is budding and swelling and greening to the point where blossoms are imminent, but not here yet.  So, from the road, things still look pretty barren.

However, there is plenty going on if only you get close enough to see it.  In fact, in many ways, some of the most amazing plant forms appear long before they resolve themselves in the plants we can actually recognize.  

So, come a little bit closer, and look at some of these small wonders...

The most fascinating forms show up on our Chinese tree peonies.  While they are glorious when they are in full bloom, and attract audible "oohs and aahs" from passersby, the early buds have a beauty all their own. 

Delicate fringes shield the emerging flower buds, like lace fans wielded by skilled courtesans.  The buds appear to be peeking shyly, enticingly, between the slats, offering promises of blooms to come.

Each bud is clasped within its own protective tendrils

Up close in the sunshine they are truly remarkable

These seem to be praying for more Spring warmth

While the tree peonies may be the most exotic denizens of the Land of Small Things, they are by no means the only ones I eagerly anticipate.  There are, for example, the chives.

 

Chives are the earliest edibles to emerge.  And the first to grace our plates.  And I must confess, I really don't give them much of a chance to grow before I hack off the first green shoots and sprinkle them on the potato/endive puree that accompanies our other spring favorite, shad roe.  About an inch and a half –- as you see above -- and that qualifies as the first crop!

As for the rest of the garden's imminence, it really requires some close scrutiny.  So here, in quick succession, a look at what else is about to burst on the scene:

Lilacs

Clematis

Weeping Cherry

Herbaceous Peonies

Hydrangea

Sedum -- a variety so tenacious, we call it "weedum"

The forecast for next week is temperatures around 60... which means that all of this imminence will explode, and by next weekend, perhaps we can once again entertain the walkers!