Witch Hazels at The Scott Arboretum

I’ve been enamored with witch hazels ever since I realized they were a thing. As a young horticulturist, I was amazed to discover that a species could flower in the dreariest of winter weather.  And, bloom they do, their petals blazing yellow, orange, red, and even purple against a cold winter sky. These pompoms of color warm the heart and say spring is near.  Where I’ve lived in Tennessee and North Carolina, these have been planted in the gardens I knew and visited, but now living in Texas, they are largely absent from the landscape, save for a few native species.

So, I was happy a few years ago when Karen and I travelled to Philadelphia for a business trip in February.  I wanted to show her The Scott Arboretum where I had interned 10 years ago at the time.  (Wow, has it really been that long?)  I had visited this beautiful campus in spring, summer, and fall but never winter.  I was hopeful that the Hamamelis would be in full bloom. The collection features all kinds of Hamamelis vernalis, Hamamelis × intermedia, and Hamamelis mollis.

We made our way through campus as a cold rain diminished and left a dismal sky in its wake. Yet near the Cunningham House, the pale yellow ‘Luna’ glowed. It is considered by some to be one of the lightest forms available. 

The honey colored ‘Luna’

Around the back the short and dense ‘Quasimodo’ echoed the color of the stem colors found in the Cornus planted nearby. It is such a good cultivar for small spaces.

‘Quasimodo’ is such a cutie. It is short and sweet.

The colors on the petals of 'Quasimodo' were echoed by the nearby Cornus alba ‘Bud's Yellow’ (front) and Cornus sanguinea ‘Arctic Sun’ (back).

We continued past Parrish Hall in the center of campus and the long allée of swamp white oaks to find a few witch hazels on the other side just above the famous amphitheater.  ‘Strawberries and Cream’ had this delicious red to yellow fade outward on the petals that mellowed the color.  Also nearby was a young ‘Diane’, one of the best red witch hazels. She still clung to her marcescent coat of leaves, but I found a perfect spot to navigate a photo without the clingy foliage. 

‘Strawberries and Cream’ just looks delectable, doesn’t it?

‘Diane’ is considered one of the best red forms.

I can’t talk about Swarthmore and The Scott Arboretum without showing you the beautiful natural amphitheater with the scattered tulip poplars.

I almost missed my favorite specimen of the day.  On our way to the main collection, I passed by the Clothier courtyard, but with a quick glance back my eyes caught a blob of yellow and I stopped in my tracks.  Espaliered against the north wall of the courtyard in the fragrance garden was Hamamelis mollis ‘Early Bright’.  Reading in Chris Lane's book Witch Hazels, I realized that this cultivar was found at The Scott Arboretum as a chance seedling, and the name was registered by my friend Andrew Bunting who was curator there for many years because it bloomed a few weeks earlier than other Hamamelis mollis forms.  Seeing it espaliered gave me some serious plant lust for wanting to grow witch hazels in east Texas.  Alas, we lack the winter cold that fans their buds into flames.

Clothier Hall. The courtyard is to the right of the bell tower.

My jaw dropped when I saw this incredible espaliered Hamamelis mollis ‘Early Bright’.

This espaliered ‘Early Bright’ was quite large.  Karen helps us get a sense of scale.

Our arrival to the collection proper near the tennis courts was quickly evident as hazes of crimsons, tangerines, and saffrons filled the drab landscape with color.

Hooray! The main witch hazel collection is in bloom!

I was so impressed by the sheer size of the plants.  Most of the time I see young developing witch hazels in gardens, and I had never seen Hamamelis this large.  Two behemoth specimens were ‘Jelena’ and another ‘Early Bright’, this time allowed to grow into its true form.

Ah, what an incredible specimen of ‘Jelena’. I would say this cultivar is one of the best and most popular forms in the US. Sadly, my two-year old plant is about to die here in Texas due to the lack of winter chilling.

Staring at ‘Jelena’ is like looking at a fiery sunset.

And, here is a large ‘Early Bright’ in full flower.

A close up of ‘Early Bright’.

I really like collections like this because it allows one to study the plants and see their growth and seasonal differences. Some like ‘Primavera’, ‘Feuerzauber’, and ‘Wisley Supreme’ were in full bloom while others like ‘Gimborn's Perfume’ and ‘Sunburst’ had yet to flower.

‘Wisley Supreme’ is one of my favorite yellow forms.

Another good red is ‘Feuerzauber’. It tends to grow more vigorously than ‘Diane’

I love seeing the curls in Hamamelis petals like you see here on ‘Primavera’.

‘Red Imp’, a fun named selection of Hamamelis vernalis, held onto its leaves.

Having seen most of the flowering specimens in the collection and with light waning, we left. It was so much fun to visit this collection and get a better idea of which witch hazels deserve more use and attention in gardens. I hope this overview provides a few ideas and inspiration about using witch hazels in your garden.

Winter Sowings

Sowing perennial seed is one of my favorite tasks of winter.  There's so much anticipation wrapped up in this simple practice, even more so than sowing say lettuce or tomato seeds with their quick germination.  Perennial seed, both woody and herbaceous, may take weeks or months before the first hint of green is seen, so even in this waiting there is an air of mystery. My eyes hover over the trays as I search for life, and I find myself wondering if and when.

Many perennials have evolved to use the exposure to wet cold as an indicator for when they should emerge from dormancy and resume growth.  When I teach the concept of this physiological dormancy to students, I liken this period to an alarm clock.  Seeds have to get the appropriate amount of wet chilling time for the maximum number of seeds to germinate (or “wake up”).  Without this exposure, none or only a few may start growing (as far as the few goes, variation does exist within a population!).  This moist chilling results in physiological changes to the embryo that then allow the seed to overcome dormancy. You can hypothesize how this could be selected. Those that emerge early die in the cold. Those that bide their time awake to a glorious spring and can pass on their traits.

The staggered germination of Echinacea sanguinea. Note that there are a few larger ones with two or three true leaves that evidently didn’t need any chilling to enhance germination, but many seeds did and have only their pair of cotyledons. Don’t mind the wavy-leaf Streptanthus on the bottom or the couple of Penstemon tenuis that creeped into this block.

While this method of overcoming of dormancy occurs in nature, we horticulturists call the practice where we expose seeds to cold and moist conditions cold stratification (there is also warm stratification for some seeds, hence the addition the modifier).  Usually the seeds are placed in moistened sand, perlite, vermiculite, peat moss, or some blend of those; I've even used paper towels and coffee filters if they go into the fridge.  Now, mind you, all seeds don’t need this exposure.  Again, I recommend Norman Deno's wonderful online Seed Germination Theory and Practice to investigate the requirements. 

I've always wondered about the etymology of the word stratification. Strata means layers, not seed. Then, I read in Hartmann and Kester’s Plant Propagation: Principles and Practice how nurseries used to make layers of seed that were separated by moist substrate in outdoor pits. These “strata” were allowed to overwinter there.  One of the earliest historical writings about stratification is found in Sylva by John Evelyn in 1664.  I've shared his writing below of how he recommended stratifying, and to save myself from writing "[sic]" every other word, just note that spellings back then were a bit different. 

“Chuse your seed of that which is perfectly mature, ponderous and sound; commonly that which is easily shaken from the boughs, or gathered about November, immediately upon its spontaneous fall, or taken from the tops and summities of the fairest and soundest trees, is best, and does (for the most part) direct to the proper season of interring, according to institution.

Nature herself who all created first,
Invented sowing, and the wild plants nurs’t:
When mast and berries from the trees did drop,
Succeeded under by a numerous crop.

Yet this is to be consider’d, that if the place you sow in be too cold for an autumnal semination, your acorns, mast, and other seeds may be prepared for the vernal by being barrel’d, or potted up in moist sand, or earth stratum super stratum during the winter; ... Chuse a fit piece of ground, and with boards (if it have not that position of it self) design it three foot high; lay the first foot in fine earth, another of seeds, acorns, mast, keys, nuts, haws, holly-berries, &c. promiscuously, or separate, with (now and then) a little mould sprinkled amongst them: The third foot wholly earth: Of these preparatory magazines make as many, and as much larger ones as will serve your turn, continuing it from time to time as your store is brought in. The same for ruder handlings, may you also do by burying your seeds in dry sand, or pulveriz’d earth, barrelling them (as I said) in tubs, or laid in heaps in some deep cellar where the rigour of the winter may least prejudice them; and I have fill’d old hampers, bee-hives, and boxes with them, and found the like advantage, which is to have them ready for your seminary, as before hath been shew’d, and exceedingly prevent the season. ”

Don't you just love the poem in the middle there?

Of course our technique has improved since the 1600's.  In the past I have put the seeds in the fridge, and I have colleagues who also use this cooler method.  But, I like to take advantage of natural winter chilling to germinate seeds.  It is so much easier than bagging seeds up, putting them in the fridge, and then remembering to sow them later on.  Why artificially create what nature already offers?  Also, there is some evidence that the diurnal changes in temperature may positively promote germination. 

Last winter, I filled the cold frame with 4 inches of growing substrate and sowed several different species directly into that media.  We were traveling for the holidays, and I was worried about the seeds drying out too much in individual cells while we were gone. This method worked well.  I got good germination on most species, but sowing en masse made it difficult to separate them when planting up later on. 

The cold frame last winter. Old, used labels that were headed to the trash became block edges for different species.

This year, I sowed the seeds into trays to make it easier on me.  We didn't travel over the holidays, and I was able to more closely monitor their moisture levels.  Because I knew I would run out of room in my cold frame this year, I built a small low tunnel frame where I can cover a 4 × 8 ft area with floating row cover supported by the same hoops I used to cover my vegetable beds.  The floating row cover provides just enough protection to keep the frost off. 

In my rush to get the seeds sown and because a few of them of them still have fluff or chaff on them, I don't fret much about trying to get one seed per hole.  I can always transplant or move seedlings around later in their cells.  I will note that I flame some seed like Liatris, Andropogon, and Asclepias in a bucket to get the fluff off the seed. 

I am fascinated by seeing the differences in germination time, even for some species in the same family.  For example, Penstemon tenuis germinated fairly quickly within a week while Penstemon digitalis took a month from sowing to start showing cotyledons. 

Penstemon digitalis takes longer to germinate than Penstemon tenuis (not pictured).

Winter is a good time to clean out the fridge for seeds and go through old boxes.  I had hoped to be done by now with my winter perennial sowing, but I keep finding more species that I saved earlier this year to sow now.  For most of the country you should still have a little time to get seed that need stratifying sown outdoors or just use the fridge method I mentioned earlier. Either way is sure to result in more plants this year for your garden.

Ipomopsis rubra was another fast germinating species. I transplanted them out shortly after this photo.

Amsonia hubrichtii emerge from their cigar-shaped seed.

The thread-like cotyledons of Lilium formosanum

A Snow Day at the JC Raulston Arboretum

This is post 1 of 12 of a series I’m doing this year reflecting back on some of my favorite plants from visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum while attending graduate school at NC State in Raleigh NC. Check back next month for more.

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It has been seven years since I left graduate school in Raleigh NC. At the time it was a challenge living in an apartment without a garden. Even though I had 100+ plants on my balcony in containers, I missed being able to roam through a garden and observe the minutiae of the day-to-day happenings in the plant world.

The JC Raulston Arboretum became a garden away from my home garden for me. It was started as in 1976 by the late Dr. JC Raulston as a living laboratory for students and the North Carolina nursery industry, and it has blossomed into one of the top university botanic gardens in the United States. (If you want to learn more, read Chlorophyll in His Veins by Bobby Ward). I visited countless times and amassed probably over 10,000 photographs over my time there. So, in what has started as another sedentary year for us with no travel in sight, I’ve decided to plunge into my photographs to share some of my favorite plants each month from this incredible place.

One of my most memorable experiences visiting the arboretum was my first winter in Raleigh. When I left Tennessee to head to North Carolina, I assumed that I would never see snow again. But, in early 2009, 3–7 inches fell on a Tuesday. My official measurement at the arboretum with a ruler was 4 inches.

I remember the day vividly because that Tuesday was January 20, 2009, and Barack Obama was being sworn in as president. Being an independent and political junkie, I had the news going on in the background as I labored on graduate school projects. My desk was right against the window so I would shift screens between the TV, the computer, and glancing up to see the snow flying outside my window. Thinking back now, it was nice to see so much white and peace in a world where red and blue seem to dominate.

Around lunch I headed over to the arboretum once the snow had abated to enjoy the winter wonderland, and I spent at least two hours roaming the collections. Below are some of my favorite photographs and plants of the day.

I loved seeing the screen garden with where the leaves on Agave and Yucca became needles emerging from white pincushions.

You can really appreciate how well the Agave captured snow on this Agave parryi ssp. parryi var. truncata J.C. Raulston’.

I loved seeing how each blade of these Yucca aloifolia were laden with the snow.

The snow highlighted structure of trees. One that was particularly striking was Firmiana simplex. The dull viridian trunk resembled a dinosaur leg.

And, how can you not love this cinnamon-colored bark on Stewartia sinensis var. sinensis?

One plant that I fell in love with the first winter was Salix ‘Flame’, and it is still at the top of my list of favorite plants. I find myself gravitating to colorful stems for winter color, and this orange-twig willow had such a rich, warm hue.

Going through these photographs I realized I had forgotten about Acer negundo ‘White Lightning’! Most consider boxelders trash trees, but wowzer, these stems shine against the white and brown of winter.

And, one cannot forget about the finicky red-twig dogwoods. Here the thin twigs of Cornus sanguinea ‘Midwinter Fire’ glow bright.

In the Japanese garden the black lines of Phyllostachys nigra pop against the white.

The snow adds another dimension to this Tsuga canadensis ‘Curley’. The laden branches look die cut.

The needles of Pinus virginiana ‘Wates Golden’ glow with the afternoon sun.

Osmanthus heterophyllus ‘Goshiki’ was one of my favorite broadleaf evergreens in the garden. The sun-splashed foliage was particularly effective in the winter.

And, then of course were the flowering plants on my snowy visit. Another winter favorite I learned about at the JC Raulston Arboretum was Edgeworthia chrysantha ‘Winter Gold’. At the time paperbushes were fairly unknown, but I would say that their popularity has really grown in the past 10 to 15 years. You can see some flowers opening yellow in this image.

Many members of the witchhazel family flower in winter. Here the buds on the interesting hybrid ×Sycoparrotia semidecidua begin to pop. They are small, but they somewhat resemble exploding figs.

Hamamelis vernalis was also in full bloom on this snowy day and their sweet smell—though some say sickly sweet—perfumed the air.

Looking back I realize just how many of my winter favorites I learned from this garden. Here is Chimonanthus praecox ‘Luteus’. It, too, has an incredible sweet fragrance that can travel far in the garden. Often I smell this shrub before I see it.

Growing up, I always admired the deciduous hollies on the fencerows back in Tennessee. I think they look best with some snowy adornments.

I was tickled pink seeing just how colorful these Symphoricarpos × doorenbosii Magic Berry were.

It is always fun to see how seedheads interact with snow. Here Rudbeckia fulgida ‘Viettes Little Suzi’ appears to be wearing white toboggans.

Serendipity. The syncarps on Liquidambar styraciflua ‘Frosty’ look a little… well… frosty. In case you’re curious about the cultivar name, this selection has variegated leaves.

Even the fading flowers of Schizophragma hydrangeoides ‘Moonlight’ were effective snowcatchers.

Yes, it was a truly memorable day walking through the JC Raulston Arboretum after a good snow. One last photo of the White Garden covered in white. Little did I know at the time that Karen and I would get married here in seven years.

An East Texas Snow

This week has been crazy. An initial forecasted slight chance of snow showers turned into a snowstorm last Sunday that killed our power Sunday evening through Tuesday afternoon and threw my teaching schedule off for the week. The official measurement in town was 5.5 inches, which was the third largest snowfall in Nacogdoches since 1900. But, at our house we got 7.5 inches on a flat surface, and 8 to 8.5 inches at open exposures in our yard.

It’s funny. When I planned my writing schedule out earlier this month, I wanted to do a reflective blog post for this week on visiting a botanic garden in the snow. I planned to start it out saying that I enjoy looking through snowy pictures because we never get that much of the frozen precipitation in Texas. It seems Mother Nature wanted to prove me wrong and keep my computer from having a charge so I could work on that post.

Even with the hectic nature of the past few days, I enjoyed every minute of the snow and spent hours out playing in it and documenting all I could. I love the white stuff and the magic transformation that it brings to the landscape and garden.

And, in perfect timing, I ordered a drone with some Christmas money that came early last week to start getting more aerial photographs of our property and gardens. So, enjoy these photos I took this week as a winter wonderland descended on our 2.5 acres here in east Texas.

SUNDAY 10 JANUARY 2021

At the beginning of the snowstorm, I took the drone up to get some photographs of the accumulation. However, I soon realized that the drone was getting too wet, so I paused flying it and picked up my DSLR.

Focusing back on subjects on the ground, the birds were going crazy at our feeders. Northern Cardinals, Purple Finches, American Goldfinches, and more species flocked and fought over seed. I kept throwing more out to try to keep up with the increasing precipitation.

Once the snow really began to accumulate, our new gate stood out. Note the perennial seedheads in the foreground as you will see what this area looks like tomorrow.

Another photograph of the gate with our garden chairs behind.

I decided to leave our Christmas lights up a little past Epiphany so that just in case it did snow I could get some shots. Soon after this photograph, the lights blinked a few times, and I rushed in to start dinner. Fifteen minutes later, our power went out for good.

MONDAY 11 JANUARY 2020

The snow fell until 11 PM Sunday night. We woke the next morning to find everything covered in white. The few areas that are still dark green are where branches broke during the night.

Using the drone, I was able to get some photographs of the landscape around us. Here it captured the sun shining through the breaking clouds.

A nearby pond surrounded by snow was a nice juxtaposition of the solid and liquid phases of water.

A shot of the pine forest that backs up against our house.

The pines seemed to be coated in gobs of sugar icing.

The dingy blacktop provided a beautiful contrast against the pure white snow.

Looking over the fencerow toward our patch that houses our vegetable, cut flower, and propagation beds.

Here’s a more direct view down. You can also see the diagonal swale that runs through the middle of it as well as our double fence.

A photograph towards our patch with the perennial beds in the foreground. (But, Jared, you think, I don’t see any perennials. Yea, because they were all flattened! I was amazed to see a couple days later that even Pycnanthemum and Andropogon would bounce back up.)

This shot in our patch looks back on the vegetable beds.

I’ve long thought I would never need to worry about snow loads on my floating row cover and hoops. I was wrong!

In the patch one of the few plants that wasn’t flattened by the snow was my Salix chaenomeloides 'Mt. Asama'.

The snow decided to have a seat in our garden chairs in the patch. The height of the snow really gives you perspective on the depth.

In a way, we got a second snow the next day when the accumulated snow in the tree branches would fall and send the white stuff flying again. I love how the cold snow and warm marcescent foliage of this Acer floridanum contrast.

Our evergreens took the snow hard. We lost all three of our Prunus caroliniana (pictured here), which to me was a good thing since one was half dead at the base and they seed around prolifically. I was also surprised to see so much damage on our live oaks. During the snow, at times I could hear trees all around us popping every 30 seconds or so as they succumbed to the snow loads. Even in the house Sunday night, some cracks were loud enough to hear through the walls and the hissing fireplace. It was like a monster was roaming around outside.

TUESDAY 12 JANUARY 2021

By Tuesday morning, I had put photography out of my mind because we had no power, no hot water, and no idea of when these niceties of life would be restored. But, freezing fog was forecasted. I took my camera to town with us, and I’m so glad I did. Right down the road, we found the fencerows covered in hoarfrost, a phenomenon I’ve rarely seen save for in the Appalachian mountains. Here a still standing Tridens flavus is coated in white.

Barbs on barbs…

…and needles on needles.

Even small trees like Juniperus virginiana were coated in hoarfrost.

That Tuesday evening, with our power back on and a chance to finally take a breather, I built a gardening snowman. The snow was a little dry the day before, but now it was the perfect packable consistency.

Reflections on Season Extension

I love winter.  Yes, it may seem odd to hear this coming from a horticulturist as with it comes the end of the main growing season, but there is something about the cold, the starkness, and the frost (and potential for snow!!!) that enchants me about this time of year.  In Tennessee where I grew up, this shift in seasons was a bit harsher than it is here in Texas.  But, winter can still have its moments here in zone 8b, too. A few years ago, we experienced 11F, 12F, and 14F three nights in a row.

Even though much of our plant activities are on pause, I like to cheat the these colder months out of a little more with season extension. Extending the growing season for cool season crops relies on two principles, simple, unheated structures + cool-season crops. 

My first forays were simple straw bale cold frames that I saw in gardening books.  I didn't have the means to get glass panes made, so I would get old windows from my family and neighbors nearby to use as a covering.  The straw was good insulation.  It was in these structures that I started my tomatoes and other vegetable transplants. 

One of my first cold frames. You may be wondering about the hog wire. That was used to keep the dogs out.

Eliot Coleman really helped to open my eyes on season extension with his book The New Organic Grower.  In 2014 I built my first ever plastic covered low tunnel in my garden.  I didn't know much about what I was doing.  I used PVC pipe and painters plastic from the hardware store. Within a couple of months, the cover split right down the middle.  But, I was delighted to see that what I was growing in this structure actually worked and that you could continue gardening through the winter in Tennessee.

My first two low tunnels in my garden in 2004.

A rare eight-inch snow event showed me just how sturdy these structures were.

I buried the edges before I realized that sand bags were a thing. It was hard to take the plastic off, and I got down in them and crawled around. It's fun thinking back now about how I got under those covers and scurried around working in my covered beds. 

Fun as it was, the strain on my neck made me want to build something larger.  So, I experimented around next with an A-frame made out of electrical pipe from the local hardware store.  Armed also with more weather resistant plastic, this structure could be walked into, and I did not have to worry about the cover degrading.  I learned about wiggle wire, this simple wire-channel combo that helped to hold plastic down, and I used it on the A-frame end for quick access to my plants.

My A-frame in 2006 after another snowfall.

Inside, mizuna, beets, and spinach are happily growing in the cold.

As my love for season extension grew, I convinced my parents to let me build a small 16 x 24 hoop house at our home in 2008.  Just like the other structures, this greenhouse was unheated and relied on natural heating from the sun. But, it allowed for more experimentation. Inside it was a cold frame; putting protection within protection helped to increase the season extension effect.

Yay! My first greenhouse!!! This snow event was a rare sight in March. You can see the Narcissus foliage on the side poking through the white.

Inside the hoop house, spinach, cabbage, beets, carrots, and more are visible.

Spinach, onions, kale (left, front to back), corn salad, and mache (right, front to back) all survived multiple nights of below freezing temperatures during the 2007-2008 winter.

I decided to track night low temperatures using thermometers over two weeks in January 2008 outside the hoop house, in the hoop house, and under cover, just like the young scientist I was. You can really see the effect of this cold frame in the unheated hoop house in the figure below. While the outdoor low and hoop house low were close to each other most nights, the cold frame temperature registered consistently higher than both of them. One other thing that I’d like to point out is that even with temperatures as low as 8F, crops like spinach still were able to survive in the hoop house with one layer of cover.

The outdoor, hoop house, and cold frame low give a sense of just how cold these plants can tolerate.

However, after winter that I left for grad school, and I had to put my season extension experiments on pause while I lived in an apartment. Now that I have a garden again, I’m back to covering crops during the winter to see just how much I can squeeze out of the growing season. I’ll add that in the six year hiatus the technology has advanced so much. Now with pipe benders you can make hoops out of electrical conduit pipe for around $3 a pipe, and then cover these arcs with floating row cover that lasts for a few seasons if you treat it right.  These permanent hoops are great.  Not only do I use them in the winter, but I also cover squash in the summer to prevent squash vine borer.

My latest iteration on season extension uses bent electrical conduit and floating row cover.

To me, it’s fun to be able to go out in the middle of winter and harvest a salad grown right in my backyard. It is so simple I believe that everyone can do it. So, experiment around with season extension to see just how much can be grown by pushing the limits beyond frost. You’ll be pleasantly surprised

A New Gate for a New Year

One of my goals for 2020 was to build a gate for the front of our garden patch. A double fence surrounds our vegetable garden, cut flowers, and propagation area, and thus far, this enclosure has been effective at keeping out the critters. Our current gate was a makeshift covering of bird netting that would get tripped on, ripped, and a pain to deal with when mowing. But, it worked to cover the entrance while I decided what kind of gate I wanted.

Winter is the perfect time to tackle such tasks that were pushed off during the fray of the growing season when plant cultivation took center stage. While it may sound like I was procrastinating, I was really iterating on what kind of design I wanted. I decided on the classic barn door X pattern for simplicity, low weight, and strength. As I learned in geometry class, putting a diagonal across a rectangle means that it can't sag into a parallelogram. After getting the marbled pink eastern red cedar wood from a local sawmill, Karen and I spent a warm afternoon in our garage this week building both gate doors. I was surprised how fast it went together. The first door we raised an hour before sunset, and the second we attached in the light of an early rising moon. When it was all done, I was proud to see that my measurements were right. Even the posts I sunk many moons ago and to which we attached the doors were level with the top of the gate. Seeing something that I've crafted with my mind and body manifested before me is so fulfilling.

At this point you may be thinking that this blog is shifting more toward woodworking than gardening; however, enclosures and gardening are closely connected. In Public Garden Management, Christine Flanagan writes that the words garden and yard come from geard, an Old English word that means fence. Jennifer Bartley further expands on this connection in Designing the New Kitchen Garden. She writes the Persian word pairidaeza that means "a wall enclosing a garden or an orchard" is where we get our word paradise. Even the Greeks used a version of this word (paradeisos) to describe the garden of Eden in the Bible. Gardens have long been refuges from the outside chaos of the world because of the protective barrier that surrounds them. However, the gardener still needs a way in. That is the utility of the gate, to act as a filter for what may enter and what may not.

Having a new gate is also symbolic of entering a new year. We are now in a new enclosure of 365 days to do with what we want. This starting point is as arbitrary as where I set the dimensions for my fence; however, having structure helps us as humans have order in our lives, and after a rough year, it is nice to have a fresh start with optimism for the new year.

I also hope that as we enter the new year, that we gardeners will open our gates wide for others as we welcome more people into the gardening world. Plants helped so many people get through this year with the pandemic. We are not out of the woods yet, and I believe they will be center stage again this year as we hopefully find a paradise beyond the chaos of 2020.

So, here's to a new year of gardening and accomplishing goals, even if they are right up against a deadline.

Napa Cabbage and Kohlrabi Salad

Karen and I were craving Pad Thai the other night. In thinking of what else could go with this Asian dish, I remembered that we had some Napa cabbages (aka Chinese cabbages) in the fridge that I saved from a hard freeze a few weeks earlier. They were the beautiful 'Red Dragon' variety, a new cultivar that has crinkled purple foliage. Napa cabbages amaze me because they grow so fast, but these heads were a bit smaller, perhaps because I got them in the ground a bit late. I like the petite size, though. They fit well in the fridge where they will last for several weeks in a bag after harvesting.

‘Red Dragon’ Napa cabbage after a few weeks in the fridge still holds up well.

Because these heads were so beautiful, I wanted something more than just throwing them into a stir fry. I remembered this Napa cabbage salad I had a restaurant once with a sweet vinaigrette and these crunchy noodles and almonds on top.

I walked through the garden to see what else I could throw into my salad. I noticed my kohlrabi that I covered to protect from the hard freeze looking good and ready to harvest. It amazes me how such a thin layer of floating row cover is so effective at preventing freeze damage. Even the cauliflower and kale leaves in the next bed over were burned, and yet the kohlrabi that was covered showed no damage.

The corm of kohlrabi

Some of you may not be very familiar with kohlrabi, which roughly translates as cabbage (kohl-) turnip (-rabi). It is the same species as broccoli, cauliflower, and cabbage, but instead of an enlarged head or flower, kohlrabi has been selected for its swollen stem or corm. It frustrates me to see people (even prominent magazines) call this structure a bulb. A bulb, of course, is modified leaf tissue wrapping around a central meristem, or growing point. Just cut a kohlrabi open, and you won't see layers like you would a bulbous onion. No, instead you'll see an off white, delicious stem core under the green or purple exterior. I tell those who have never tried it and are missing out to imagine the crunch of an apple with a sweet, nutty broccoli flavor. Yes, this vegetable with its crunch would go very well with the ramen noodles and almonds I would use as a topping. (Side note, even the leaves of kohlrabi are edible. The main reason I like to protect the plant during the winter is because the foliage sweetens a bit after a freeze, and I cook it like collards.)

Kohlrabi and Napa cabbage being prepped for the salad.

I modified a recipe I found online, and after making it, I can happily say that I have added another dish to our kitchen repertoire. Even Karen thought it was so good she went back for seconds.

If you don't have either of these vegetables in your garden, both of them grow fairly quickly. Therefore, consider adding some Napa cabbage and kohlrabi to your spring seed orders. With this delicious salad, you won’t be disappointed growing something new.

INGREDIENTS

THE GREENS

1 Napa cabbage

1 bunch scallions

2 corms of kohlrabi

THE TOPPING

1/3 cup butter

1 package ramen noodles, broken

2 tablespoons sesame seeds

1 cup sliced almonds

A pinch of salt (if using unsalted butter)

THE VINAIGRETTE

1/4 cup apple cider vinegar

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1/2 cup white sugar

2 tablespoons soy sauce

DIRECTIONS

1. Thinly chop or shred the head of the Napa cabbage. Mince the scallions. Peel the exterior of the kohlrabi corm and thinly slice or shred. Mix all three together for the green salad base.

2. For the topping, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Melt the butter in a bowl, and mix the ramen noodles, sesame seeds, and almonds into the pot with the melted butter. Put the mixture onto a baking sheet, apply a pinch of salt to the toppings, and bake this topping in the oven. You will need to watch them and stir them often to make sure they do not burn. When the topping is golden brown, remove from the oven.

3. For the vinaigrette, in a small saucepan, heat apple cider vinegar, oil, sugar, and soy sauce. Bring the mixture to a boil for 1 minute. Remove the pan from heat, and let the dressing cool.

4. Combine the vinaigrette, the topping, and the greens immediately before serving. The ramen noodles in the topping will get soggy if premixed for a while before eating. Enjoy!

Delicious Napa cabbage and kohlrabi salad with toppings and vinaigrette.

Christmas 2020

Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. It marks a new beginning in the garden as the days start getting longer. However, the shift is slow. Even after a week, we only gain a little over a minute of light back here in Nacogdoches. Daylight is like interest in a bank, it is going to take a while to really see those seconds accumulate.

While we wait, Karen and I both revel in dressing up our house with more greenery and light during this darker part of the calendar. The pandemic has made it even dimmer this year, and we’ve decided not to travel to Tennessee and Texas to keep ourselves and our families safe. Thus, we’ve decorated more than we have in previous years both inside and out.

Karen and I like foraging on the fencerows near our house for boughs to deck the halls. We threw together a pot by our doorstep using the greenery of Juniperus virginiana and Magnolia grandiflora and the fruit on Ilex vomitoria and Rhus glabra. Behind those cuttings are some bare branches of Ulmus alata. Even going back to when I did Christmas decorations for clients back in college, that species has been one of my favorite plants to find. It different from most of the other branches you see in winter decor, and the winged, gnarly twigs add such texture to an arrangement. This year, I went a step further and added a few dried oranges to the branches as natural ornaments. We have a new dehydrator, and we tried drying oranges for the first time this year. Their windowpane appearance allows one to play with them against the light.

The pot we decorated by our door houses winter greenery during the Christmas season.

These dried oranges make such lovely ornaments on the branches of winged elm.

Inside, Karen also used dried oranges on some candle arrangements she made. She sunk Salvia rosmarinus (I know, it is still hard to type that new name for rosemary) and some late season Amaranthus to create colorful floating candle holders for our table. The end result was her wanting even more plants next year to use for Christmas decorations. I see that as a win-win!

Karen’s natural table arrangements made our dining room brighter.

Not only do we enjoy more light inside from candles but also outside with our holiday lights. Our log cabin is lit with twinkle lights that wrap the house. While we run them each night during the holidays, they occasionally make an appearance throughout the year when we have guests over. These are joined by our Moravian star and Christmas lighted balls.

Electric lights and the full frost moon brighten our garden earlier this month.

While the Christmas oriented decor will go down around Epiphany, I’m not ashamed to say we’ll keep these decorations up on into January. It seems silly that five days after the winter solstice we are supposed to take down all this green and lighted decor that so enriches this dark part of the calendar? Bah humbug!

Christmas Cheer at Williamsburg

This holiday season I’d like to take you back in time to 2010… and the 18th century. Each winter when living in Raleigh, I liked to take a weekend trip to see something Christmasy on the east coast before heading home for the holidays. Ten years ago almost to the day, I planned a Sunday get away to see a rustic, foraged Christmas at Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia. In an age before the crafting of Pinterest and Instagram became more prevalent in our lives, it was so inspiring to see simple, everyday plant parts used in such clever ways to bring a bit of joy and delight to this darker season. And, I return to these photographs each year to see ideas and inspiration I got from my visit. So, enjoy the below photos that I took that dreary day walking the old-timey streets of this historic town.

As you’ll see in these photos, fruits played center stage in many winter arrangements. Here, pomegranates, lemons, and apples are set with dried artichokes and coniferous cones.

The acid green osage orange plays well here with pineapples and apples. Sumac seedheads, wax myrtle fruit, and catalpa pods are up top.

Here the halls are decked with apples and deciduous holly.

Some of the wreaths and designs were a bit less traditional. I loved this banner above the door.

Magnolia leaves were used in many wreaths for their evergreen nature, and I loved how they incorporated clam shells and dried yarrow heads to create a faux magnolia flower in this wreath.

Many decorations were primarily made from dried goods like the chaste tree branches and sunflowers here.

A bundle of wheat makes a striking door accessory.

Here dried plant parts make up the red, white, and blue.

The peels of dried oranges were used to add some zest to this arrangement.

And, here we see slightly dried oranges used as pendulous ornaments with pomegranates and acorns.

Even dried oak leaves were incorporated into some wreaths.

This wreath was my favorite of the day. Not only did I love the use of cotton to simulate smoke, but the color echo of door and wreath and the asymmetry of the cotton with the variegated holly was spot on.

In the south I worry about fruit having holes punctured in them for wreaths. This design solved that problem by wrapping the fruit with colorful fabric.

Occasionally, I saw doors with blue ribbons that were awarded for the most creative designs. To make the designs in the spirit of the place, there were rules like one could only use materials that colonists would have available to them back in the day. So, here you see a fish made out of gingerbread.

This design was another blue ribbon winner. A gingerbread queen bee watched over her hive and honey.

And, I was delighted to see a Star of David with adorning dreidels.

And, I can’t leave showing you photos of horticulture in Williamsburg without a picture of the vegetable garden and the clever techniques displayed for how early gardeners could have extended the harvest! Here you see cut branches, cloches, mulches, and paper frames used to protect early crops. The paper frames were the most interesting to me. From the gardener Wesley Greene, I learned that day they were made from cotton and coated in linseed oil. These designs date back to the 1770’s. So, if colonists can extend the season, so can we.

Feather Bluestem against a Golden Sunset

Driving to and from town I’ve admired a big patch of Andropogon ternarius in late season splendor right up the road.  It's pretty easy to spot once it comes into flower.  The inflorescences have this sheen to them, almost like long silver paintbrush bristles.  A month or so later, the bristles fray as the seed ripen, and the plant forms a pair of feather-like infructescences.  The seed heads glow a white blush no matter how the sun shines on them. Most people call this species split-beard bluestem, but I’m partial to the common name feather bluestem for its twin inflorescences that resemble bird plumage.

Before metamorphosing into the feathery seed heads, the flowers of Andropogon ternarius look like silvery paintbrush bristles.

I stopped the other evening as the sun approached the horizon to take some photographs of this colony of feather bluestem.  Just like the rest of the landscape, the grasses glowed warm in the waning light of a cool evening. 

Andropogon ternarius en masse. I wonder if the purpletop grass behind it to the right is a bit jealous just how good the feather bluestem looks?

The culm colors were variable, but some were a vibrant cinnabar.  I pondered if the coloration I saw was more an effect of genetics or the stresses of the site.  I could see drought or low phosphorus bringing out these red colors more. 

The cinnabar-colored culms warm the heart on a cool evening while photographing Andropogon ternarius

While the primary role of the hairs, technically trichomes, is to help the seeds disperse in a stiff breeze, I’m amazed at how well they capture light and diffuse it. From a distance they look like lines of white dots, a natural pointillism if you will.  However, up close when I stood behind the plants and squatted down to see the sun through them, I noticed an interesting phenomenon with how the waning light interacted with the seed hairs.  The light formed concentric circles around the sun as each bristle became a mini light reflector. 

The light orbits the sun in the seedheads of Andropogon ternarius

In my photographing the plants against the light, a Carolina Wren popped up to the barbed wire fence and sang its cheeseburger–cheeseburger-cheeseburger song.  It pranced a little bit, perhaps curious who was disturbing its niche, before flying off home. 

The bird of a feather bluestem. I wonder what this Carolina Wren thinks of Andropogon ternarius?

I'm so glad I stopped to enjoy the beauty of these feather bluestem late that Wednesday afternoon. Two days later roadside mowers came through and cut the whole patch to the ground.  It is sad the feather bluestem won't be there for me to enjoy it all winter as I drive to town.  But, in their clearing the roadsides, they just propagated more of the plant by dispersing those seed for me to enjoy in years to come.

I, too, will be propagating this plant via seed. You see, having lived here for four years, I was anticipating their autumn cutting, and I collected some seed that evening in the twilight. I’m just glad they waited long enough for me to enjoy this final show and let the seed ripen. And, soon I won't have to just enjoy the patch down the road.  I'll have my own feather bluestem here glistening in the setting sun for my enjoyment and the Carolina Wren’s.