Spring Plant Fair 2022

Our spring plant fair was held this week, and it far exceeded our expectations. In just a couple of hours, we broke all our past records for amount of money raised at a plant sale! For me, what mattered most was seeing the hard work that our students put into making this event a success and then seeing such a positive response from the public. My team of student apprentices were absolutely elated. These events are an open house for the public to come see how students grow plants, and since all funds from the plants purchased come back to support educational endeavors, it is also an opportunity for visitors to see what new projects students have been developing. Follow along below for photos from the event and a few great plants that look good as we near the end of the semester.

The glasshouse quickly filled up with patrons. Eventually, there was a line out the door for a solid 45 minutes!

Plantery apprentice Ben (far right) gives a tour of the gravel bed and new willow fence students built.

Here’s a ground-level view of the spectacular willow fence that our students built this spring. It won’t last forever, but having this ephemeral and functional art really encourages creativity within the Plantery.

Bonfires for s’mores and karaoke enlivened the event.

Hannah (L) managed the karaoke booth while singers like Hailey (R) took the stage and sung their hearts out.

My colleagues Drs. Stephanie Jones and Michael Maurer enjoy the s’mores campfires.

Kathryn (L) and Hanna (R) are all smiles during a brief moment the greenhouse isn’t packed with people.

And, we can’t have a plant fair without amazing plants! Gaura lindheimeri ‘Sparkle White’ was just coming into flower with its charming gossamer blooms.

The blooms on Manfreda ‘Spot’ had been much anticipated for weeks as students watched the inflorescenses rise. We were glad they were still in flower for the plant fair.

One of my favorite contrasting flower combinations of late is this pairing of the giant golden flowers of Oenothera macrocarpa with the deep purple Glandularia canadensis ‘Homestead Purple’. They are both thriving within our gravel garden strip alongside the headhouse.

The flower on this Astrophytum myriostigma had just closed for the night.

We tried an aloe in the gravel bed in a very protected location, and we were delighted to see it return and start flowering this spring.

Verbena bonariensis bloomed above a carpet of Oenothera speciosa.

And, one of the highlights of the spring plant fair was seeing all the plants we grew for the fall plant fair at their peak. Here a carpet of Jacobaea cineraria (Senecio cineraria) ‘Silver Dust’ and a few plants of ‘New Look’ in the container brighten a bed near the headhouse.

The Peculiar Pedicularis

It is April, and a myriad of greens have replaced the drab browns outside our kitchen window. It’s a color I haven’t seen in abundance in some time, and my mind’s eye begins to sort them. It’s not just plants, either. Even our driveway sports a verdant color this time of the year with the coating of pine pollen.

In the orchard glaucous-green Baptisia alba shoots pierce from the ground. The ancient water oak on the west corner of our property is clothed in a muddy-green from all the catkins hanging from the branches. There’s the fading red-green of the spring beauties as they wrap up their almost four-month floral display to go dormant again until next year. I also spy the moss-green blades of Leucojum aestivum ‘Gravetye Giant’, dotted with with flowers above the tips.

And, there’s the chartreuse Pedicularis canadensis growing under our large white fringetree. Or, at least it appears chartreuse from this distance. Upon closer inspection, the colors separate out. The bloom is a soft yellow that fades white on the lower lip, and the developing buds are light green. But, from here, the colors in wood betony’s blooms blend together to a hue between yellow and green and together brighten the shade underneath the Chionanthus virginicus. The tree’s swelling buds nearly match the color of the flowers beneath.

In growing it I’ve learned just how interesting this little native is. Last year, the clump only had a few blooms. But, this spring it has started to show off. At first there was one, and then two more, and now I count at least 40 inflorescences on this 2 × 2 foot clump that’s taking hold in the shade. I suppose it is following the perennial rule of leaping in the third year. And, other clumps are beginning to appear nearby. It seems happy, as am I.

The first Pedicularis canadensis I ever saw had more red coloring in the flowers. I’ve since learned their colors can be variable in the wild.

It’s as if the flower is caught in mid twirl and making Pedicularis pinwheels.

For me it brings back memories of visiting Greenbriar campground in the Smoky Mountains. Over the roar of the Little Pigeon River, I had my first encounter with Pedicularis. I crouched to look at these curious red-and-yellow flowers growing on a grassy knoll under the shade of the emerging foliage in the forest above. Looking at it from the top, I noticed how all the flowers have a slight bend to the right and appear as mini pinwheel galaxies held above feathery foliage.

My first encounter with Pedicularis here in east Texas was also in a forest. Or, what used to be a forest. I found a large mass of yellow wood betony alongside a clear cut and decided to save some from their recent introduction to full sun exposure. I’ve learned in transplanting these that they don’t move well as single pieces much like a yarrow or mountain mint would.

No, Pedicularis is best moved in sheets of shoots and roots, perhaps because of its leaching tendencies. A peculiar aspect of this plant is that it is a hemiparasite, as are many other members of the Orobanchaceae family. It not only can photosynthesize but also is able to rob surrounding plant roots of water, nutrients, and possibly even sugars.

In an interesting flip of expectations, research has shown that Pedicularis canadensis actually increases the number of species in prairies. One might think a parasite would cause them to dwindle. However, the theory is that because wood betony is a hemiparasite, it checks the growth of more vigorous competitors like Solidago or grasses on a site and thus allows other species to naturally develop.

One last note on its peculiarity. While I much prefer the common name wood betony for the inflorescence’s similarity to Stachys, it also goes by the name Canadian lousewort. Farmers in Europe thought that Pedicularis in meadows would give sheep lice. The Latin pediculus even means louse.

Well, I can attest that I don’t have lice from growing this wonderful native. No, it’s just a great plant to provide another shade of green in the garden.

On Pruning a Peach

I spied a solitary bloom on our peach tree in the orchard, and I knew it was time to prune.  Removing branches from fruit trees in the south is typically a fall or winter task.  However, after losing a couple of small peach trees last year from the extreme cold, I erred on the side of caution and waited until the last possible moment to correct the tree’s architecture.  That moment had arrived.    

I scurried inside to review the art of pruning as if the minuscule time I saved meant less sap flowing toward the soon-to-be-removed buds.  Pruning is a commitment, like promising to cook a once-a-year meal for the family.  It is good to refresh the mind on technique. The last thing one wants is regret for years to come from a simple mistake, whether it be a bad cut or a burnt dish.   

I pulled The Holistic Orchard by Michael Phelps off the shelf and flipped through the pages.  Many things I knew. Prune for an open center, check.  Prune out branches that grow back inside the tree, check.  Prune above the bud that you want to grow outward, check.  

It was good to read again how light needs to penetrate into the tree and to imagine how the radiant energy would hit branches.  “Be the bud,” I am told not once but twice.  I chuckled at advice he received from a Vermont farmer in the book, “You done [sic] a good job at pruning if afterward you can take the family cow and fling her between the branches.”  

I don’t have a cow, and I wanted a second perspective. Therefore, I pulled up Dr. Mike Parker’s extension videos on pruning peaches.  I never had Mike for a class, but I considered him a friendly colleague while going through grad school at NC State. Since my tree was a couple years old, I opted to watch the video on pruning two-year old specimens. His discussion on heading cuts and scaffolding was helpful to think about maintaining good architecture.

Back outside, I grabbed my loppers.  My pruners were already in the holster I wear on my belt.  I would need both for the different sized branches.

I pruned the easy twigs first—the thin whips that grew into the center and on the bottom of the branches.  I next set about heading back branches to remove apical dominance and encourage them to strengthen and become more bushy in habit.  Then came the hard part—to reduce the upright growths down to nubs.  I should have pruned them last year, but I’m just so used to encouraging vertical growth in trees that it feels weird to make such cuts. The branches rose a good 10-12 feet up in the sky, and in a moment of, “Here we go,” one swift chop reduced the growth by half to stubs.  I felt like an accomplice to crape murder.  

Hatrack, anyone?

I always feel bad after a harsh pruning.   But, I know it’s better for the fruit tree—to encourage outward growth, an open center, and denser branches that can actually bear the load of the fruit.  And, having a well-pruned peach tree is better for me and my summertime cravings for cobbler.

Another benefit to pruning is the beauty I could bring inside afterwards.  Since I waited so late, the the buds were all primed to burst open.  I went through the clippings and chose the best I could to force indoors.  They have slowly opened over the past week becoming a beautiful sweet pink.  Now, I can’t wait for our trees to start bearing.  

The thinnings of ‘Tropic Beauty’ gain a second life with forcing. These peach blossoms are such a welcome sight after the buds pop open.

Bringing Daffodils In

Last Saturday was one of the rare days I actually donned more layers as morning progressed into afternoon.  Shorts were replaced by pants, then long sleeves went on over the t-shirt, and then I put on a rain jack to shield against the blustery wind, which would soon be accompanied by a cold drizzle.  I was hoping for warmer weather over spring break, but alas, it turned off chilly.

Before heading in, I decided to pick a bucket of daffodils. I never know how they’ll take the freezing temperatures, so I wanted to bring in what I could just in case the next morning they were all frozen and laying on the ground. The forecast for the night showed a low of 28°F, but I knew that we would register even colder. (In hindsight, I was right. I woke the next morning to 23°F.)

Daffodils are some of the first flowers to grace the house in bulk in the new year, and we now have several posies sitting in bottles on a rustic metal tray. Over the past few years, I’ve been accumulating types that grow well here.  Some have come from back roads and old homesteads, others from friends and companies who have promised their success in Zone 8B.  

First is the short, soft yellow Narcissus pseudonarcissus I wrote about recently. More have been opening as the month has progressed.   Also present is Narcissus jonquilla, or jonquil named for the thin, rush-like (Juncus) foliage.  The tiny flowers are incredibly fragrant for their size.  Their offspring Narcissus × odorus sits between the two. It is a vigorous hybrid that wouldn’t win any awards for the frequent misformed corona and odd number of petals, but its heterosis is welcome in my garden. My patch of over 1000 bulbs will bloom for weeks, and the thin foliage isn’t too overbearing in the landscape after flowering.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus

Narcissus × odorus

Narcissus jonquilla

I also have a few selections that do well here in east Texas. One is a lovely Narcissus tazetta, likely ‘Grand Primo’, that sports white petals and golden-colored cups that fade to an off-white (banner photo, second from left).  Like the jonquil, the fragrance is intense. As I sit here writing, I keep catching a whiff of Narcissus, and it’s probably a blend of the jonquils and ‘Grand Primo’. Another selection is the double Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus, which is also known as “Butter and Eggs” for the scrambled white-and-yellow petals. Their scapes are usually not strong enough for the hefty flowers to be held upright, so it’s worth picking them and putting them in a bottle.

I have two cultivars that are fairly easy to find on the market. ‘Carlton’ features large, bright yellow petals and a similar colored corona, and ‘Ceylon’ has an orange cup perched against warm yellow petals.  ‘Carlton’ has a tendency to flop in rain, so I prefer the more stolid ‘Ceylon’.  The orange is a bit of a challenge to pair with companions in late winter, but I’ve realized they will go well under the ‘Flame’ willows I’m propagating.

Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus

Narcissus ‘Carlton’

Narcissus ‘Ceylon’

I’m glad the cold forced me to bring them inside. I’m always hesitant to pick some because I know the minute the flower leaves the plant, its demise is only a matter of time. But, I forget how much fun it is to bring the outside in and to have little bottles of sunshine on a gray, dreary day.

Returning to Wild Daffodils

The weather has been volatile this week. It’s the start of the battle between the lions and lambs as spring arrives and the sun warms the northern hemisphere.  I enjoyed sitting on the porch Monday evening in shorts until almost 10 pm, and now we are inside feeding the fireplace on this cold, rain-soaked day.

I feel for the plants that emerge early this time of the year. I seem to forget every spring just how tough they are as they thwart the frosts scattered amongst the warm spells. I suppose these early adopters have lived this life for thousands of years, and I underestimate their perseverance each year.

Take Narcissus pseudonarcissus, for example. On frigid mornings the flowers of wild daffodil kiss the ground, but as the day warms they return more upright to greet the sun.  I’m always tempted to pick the solitary blooms for fear of loosing them to the freeze, but they always surprise me with their toughness.

It was one of the first flowers I learned as a child. I would find them massed in pastures where they served as the only remaining evidence of an old homeplace. Near our house they survived in a fence row alongside a creek, planted long ago when bulldozers had cleared the land. They grew through barbed wire, and it amazed me they had survived all that disturbance. I would pick fistfuls and bring them inside to enjoy.

I don’t think I appreciated them in my youth enough.  When planting garden beds, I overlooked their use and moved on to the more flashy hybrids. But, after a few years, the cultivars petered out, and the wild daffodils continued to shine.

A naturalized colony of Narcissus pseudonarcissus grows near an abandoned house in east Texas. How long ago were the first bulbs planted?

In Texas the heat limits our options for spring bulbs much more than my previous haunts north, and I find myself returning to these species types that will grow and bloom here.

Growing them in my garden I’ve been able to get to know them even better than in my youth. I’ll say for years pseudonarcissus always threw me for a loop.  How could it be a false Narcissus?  But, I learned that the epithet refers to it being a false poet’s Narcissus, the smaller cupped form that blooms later.  

I do hate it when the epithet is so bland. Why not name it after the flowers? They are so charming and smell sweet. I love when they emerge and brighten the dingy detritus of the garden beds. The six light yellow petals has a slight twist, and they serve as a nice back drop to the darker yellow corona. And, I find myself admiring the skirt of blue-gray green foliage below the blooms.  I’ve been tucking some in around Eryngium yuccifolium and Rudbeckia maxima to echo their glaucous color.  The later emerging foliage of wild daffodil isn’t seared like many of the flagrant blades of the paperwhite types whose foliage appears in late fall, and the leaves are less conspicuous than many of the modern varieties after flowering. 

For me in Tennessee they lived up to their other common name Lent lily by blooming during that season, but often in Texas they start before Ash Wednesday. There have been years I’ve noted them flowering in the last days of January. However, this winter, they’ve been much later due to our La Niña induced dry spell.  The ones close to the house with no tree root competition have just started flowering good while the plants further back near trees are barely poking through the soil.  

I took advantage of the latter’s delayed emergence this week by digging a few clumps of wild daffodils to divide and replant in the front of my garden patch. I set them a bit higher than they were, and firmed the soil in around them. And, now the rain pitter-patter I hear above the crackling of one of the last fires of winter is settling them in so they can produce flowers for many years to come.

Magnolia 'Susan', Just One of the Girls

Midwinter has arrived, and from the emerging Narcissus to the early slivers of buds swelling on trees, it is good to see more color manifesting in the landscape.  

Over the past month I’ve also spied Magnolia popping out of buds around town, especially the starry blooms of Magnolia stellata.  However, most show some burn as they’ve had a roller coaster ride through temperatures this winter.  They’ve gotten mixed signals from an extremely warm fall followed by a sudden drop to 22°F on January 2. But, my ‘Susan’ has had a decent show of late. The warmth the past few days has coaxed the flowers further into bloom.

As the flowers of ‘Susan’ open, they have a bit of a twist to the petals.

When we bought our house, I counted myself fortunate to have three Magnolia on the property.  There were two large 30-to-40 foot tall Magnolia grandiflora out front, and off in the side yard was a shrubby deciduous Magnolia I couldn’t immediately identify in mid-summer.  

The following late winter when it bloomed, I was rewarded with rich deep pink flowers.  I posted photos online, and Greg Paige and Barry Yinger helped me identify it as ‘Susan’, one of the Little Girl hybrids that came from breeding work at the US National Arboretum (USNA).  Key features that helped them key out this cultivar were the presence of 6 (rarely 7) tepals per bloom, each having a slight twist.

The “girls” were bred to develop selections that would bloom a little later than Magnolia stellata and miss the early frosts that plague many of these early magnolias.  According to Dorothy Callaway in The World of Magnolias, four of the Little Girl hybrids come from the breeding work of USNA horticulturist William Kosar.  In 1956 he fertilized Magnolia lilliflora ‘Nigra’ with pollen from Magnolia stellata ‘Rosea’.  This cross resulted in not only my ‘Susan’, which was named after the director of the arboretum’s daughter, but also ‘Betty’, ‘Jane’, and ‘Pinky’.  The other four girls (‘Ann’, ‘Judy’, ‘Randy’, and ‘Ricki’) were from breeding work done earlier by Dr. Francis deVos.

‘Susan’ is an award-winning plant; Andrew Bunting wrote in The Plant Lover’s Guide to Magnolias that she won the RHS Award of Garden Merit in 1993. This cultivar has a shrubby habit similar to Magnolia stellata. Ours is not much over 10 feet tall and approximately as wide; however, one that I saw at the Scott Arboretum in 2014 was at least 15—20 feet tall and had a much wider spread. I see the benefit of using ‘Susan’ in smaller landscapes.  The plant grows lush in the spring and is enjoyed by not only me, but the blasted white-tailed buck that decided to use a side stem as an antler rub.  It is healing well from that injury.  And, I never irrigate ‘Susan’, and yet she keeps blooming and thriving year after year.

A mature ‘Susan’ Magnolia at The Scott Arboretum in full bloom in mid-April.

Buds emerge fairly dark, almost a black-purple but lighten to a vivid pink when coming into bloom, and there is a gradient of lightening color as one follows a tepal toward the outside of the flower. Acclimated buds survived two nights of 19°F and 20°F last week and have begun to bloom in earnest the past few days celebrating the arrival of midwinter.  Of course the running joke is that it coming into full bloom is a sign that another freeze is upon us.  I’m sure it’s about as accurate as the groundhog seeing its shadow, but coincidentally, we will be in the low 20’s the next few nights with the cold front that moved through yesterday.  

Nevertheless, I still love having magnolias like ‘Susan’ in the landscape for the good years when they liven the bleak midwinter with their brilliant color. For now, I have just one of the girls, but seeing how well ‘Susan’ has done, I can’t wait to add more of them to our garden. 

Our ‘Susan’ has a ways to grow before it reaches the size of the one at The Scott Arboretum, but I enjoy its show each spring.

Wire Weeding

The lengthening daylight is now imperceptible. A month ago when I got home from teaching, there was barely enough twilight to do anything outside. However, now I find that I can see easily until about 6:15 pm, giving me almost an hour of time gardening in the evenings.

My recent task has been cleaning out the vegetable garden for the coming peas and potatoes. The freeze that hit over the holidays while I was gone was severe, enough to tank the broccoli, mustard, and Swiss chard that I’m usually continuing to harvest. By now, the mustards are usually bolting to provide some early season nectar for insects, but they’ve just turned to mush. I’ve learned my lesson for next year. I’ll cover plants with floating row cover before traveling for the holidays.

The biggest surprise is that the soil is fairly clean of weeds, even more so than it has been in the past few years.  It’s not because I used my leaf mold mulch; no, I’m saving that precious resource for the tomatoes in the spring.  

I credit the practice of using the wire hoe.  This ingenious tool was my favorite discovery of 2021. It features a long wooden handle that holds a thin piece of wire bent into a triangle and attached to a hex head insert, much like the head one would use in an interchangeable cordless drill. There are four sizes of these triangles from roughly 8 inches wide to barely over 2 inches that can be changed out based on plant spacing.

Wire weeding is a pleasant task in the garden. Doing it regularly beats hand pulling all those weeds.

The wire is not sharpened. No, the strategy here is to get weeds while they are mere threads through shallow cultivation, perhaps only disturbing the top 1/2–1 inch of soil. It’s almost like sweeping the garden of weeds, much like one would sweep the kitchen regularly to get the crumbs up from making dinner. If weeds are controlled early in the first several weeks of plant growth, the plants will typically then cast enough shade to discourage other weed growth.  

It is incredibly pleasant to use. The handle is long enough to allow the user to stand up straight with both thumbs facing upward and weeding the garden.  I was amazed years ago when reading Eliot Coleman in The New Organic Grower write about the four thumb positions on a handle while weeding.  I mean, who thinks about these things? But, such a consideration has a big impact on the ergonomics of the tool. Both thumbs out or both thumbs in don’t make much sense, so I won’t discuss those. Both thumbs down toward the blade is horrible on the back and how most gardeners have to hold a common hoe to actually cultivate the soil due to the head length and angle.  Both thumbs up away from the blade is how one wants to hold a handle to be to minimize back issues, and the wire hoe allows for this position.  

I made it the first task in the garden, and in 15 to 20 minutes I could weed over 700 square feet by shallowly cultivating the top layer of the soil.  They key is not digging deep; it is actually better because that will reduce the number of new weed seeds brought to the surface.  I had students use this tool on campus last fall, and it did a good job of keeping the beds clean of weeds as well where they used it.  You can use it in perennial beds, too, but I find that Roy Diblik’s Dewit diamond hoe works better.

The design of the wire hoe is so simple.

Working with this hoe has given me that this-tool-is-so-simple-I-could-have-created-it-and-been-a-millionaire feeling. But, it was the brain child of aforementioned Eliot Coleman. On the episode of the Winter Growers podcast (1:01:30), Eliot notes how he was first inspired by Michael Fitzpatrick who said that his favorite tool was this little hand held device that had wires on it for cultivating in the greenhouse. He went back and made a version that could be attached to a long handle using a bolt you screw onto the handle. Conor Crickmore then took the design and put hex head inserts on the wires and ran with it making several versions of the wire hoe. And, really it has been Conor who has helped popularize it and get it into mainstream horticulture.

You’ll note earlier I didn’t just say that it was the wire hoe but the practice of using the tool. The key to weeding in the vegetable garden is developing it into a routine to see results. It becomes something you do frequently, every day or a few times a week.  Seth Godin shared Elizabeth King’s quote in the front of his book The Practice, “Process saves us from the poverty of our intentions.” And, wire weeding has saved me from a wealth of weeds.

Tomato and Carrot Soup

It’s cold. Well, cold for Texas. I love winter, but these days where the clouds dim the sun and frigid gusts cut through clothes, its requires more to be outside.  So, I bundle up head to toe with layers. And, with the neck gaiter I’m sporting, the band around my eyes is the only skin visible. 

A sane person would wait it out inside, but I find these dreary days good for tackling projects that have been on my to-do list—woodworking and building fences, cutting out invasive plants along the fencerows, raking leaves, and earthworking.  Planting is out of the question until the weather moderates as I don’t want to to have the desiccating winds dry my new installs out.

I find myself craving soup after being outside in this weather as it warms the soul.  And, one of my favorites is tomato and carrot soup. I love the blending of summer and winter in this flavorful dish.

We entomb the taste of those hot days long gone by freezing tomatoes we pick in June. We process those delicious orbs into crushed pulp and juice and save both for cooking later in the year. The former makes delicious spaghetti and chicken cacciatore sauce, and the latter stores well in large glass jars for later soups.

And, then there’s the carrots from the dark side of the calendar. My carrot tops are blemished from the sudden cold snap we had earlier this month.  But, as they emerge from the ground, I find they are beautiful. And, sweet!  As Eliot Coleman described in his book The Winter Harvest Handbook, he sells these overwintered carrots as “candy carrots,” and kids go wild over them.

When carrots are exposed the cold temperatures, the roots accumulate sugars to help act as an antifreeze.  So, I like to harvest carrots in January once we’ve had some chillier weather.  They taste sweeter than those harvested in warmer spells.  The roots come out of the ground all shapes and sizes, but they taste and cook the same. Often, I will harvest a whole batch, steam them, and freeze them at this peak of taste. Once they’ve been vernalized (chilling exposure that induces flowering), it won’t be long until they start bolting, which for us can start as early as February. ‘Rainbow’ is a favorite cultivar of mine for its incredible sweetness, and I like ‘Napoli’, ‘Mokum’, and ‘Bolero’, too.

Sweet multi-colored ‘Rainbow’ carrots picked and ready to go into soup.

I had not thought of adding carrots to tomato soup until we travelled through Washington, Connecticut a few years ago. I still remember our visit as clear as ever.  Karen had wanted to see the town that inspired Gilmore Girls, and after walking around for a few hours on a cold, sunny day, we were hungry. We made our way up the hill to G.W. Tavern, a quaint restaurant in an 1850’s colonial home. On a whim, I ordered their tomato soup, and it was THE most delicious tomato soup I’ve ever eaten in my life. There was a texture and especially a sweetness to it that I had never tasted, and it wasn’t too runny. They even had these little harvest crackers to go along with it that were made with sunflower seeds and other grains.

The revolutionary styled G.W. Tavern where I first had this delicious soup

I immediately got online and found a copycat recipe from whenwegettoit.com. We made it after returning home, and it was very close to the original we had on our trip.

But, I realized over the holidays that the website was no longer active, and that recipe was gone! Fortunately, I had saved it, and I want to welcome this delicious dish back to the internet with a few changes of my own.

Let me know what you think. We serve ours with gooey grilled cheese.

Ingredients

Two tablespoons olive oil 

Two medium-sized onions

Two large carrots (or several small-to-medium-sized carrots if you like more texture)

Two cloves of garlic

One 32 ounce jar of tomato juice frozen from the summer (or tomato juice from the store)

Additional fresh or canned tomatoes as needed (depends on how tomatoey you want it)

One 32 ounce container of stock (chicken or vegetable)

Fresh or dried basil

1/4 to 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

Sugar, salt, & pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS

1. Peel and chop up carrots, onions, and garlic.

2. Heat olive oil in a big soup pot.  Add the vegetables and cook for 10 minutes.  Cook until onions are golden and carrots are just getting soft.  A little water can help prevent the vegetables from browning.

3. Add stock, tomato juice, and additional tomatoes. (For the additional tomatoes, I’ve used diced, stewed, paste, crushed, or fresh. It just depends on how much tomato flavor you want or what you have available in the pantry). Bring to a boil, then simmer for another 10 minutes. If the tomato juice is too runny, you can simmer for longer periods of time to boil off more water.

4. Turn off the heat and add dry or fresh basil leaves to the soup. 

5. Blend the soup with a hand blender until smooth or in batches in a normal blender.  Mix in cream as needed until soup reaches the desired consistency, usually 1/4 to 1/2 cup for me.  Add sugar (I like to add at least 1 tablespoon to help play off the sweet carrots), salt (I add 1 tsp as a general rule), and pepper to taste.  Place back on heat to warm if needed.

6. Enjoy after a long day of winter gardening.

The Winter Foliage of Parlin's Pussytoes

We had a hard freeze while we were traveling for the holidays.  The weather station at the airport registered 22F on January 2.  Collards, mustards, kales, even winter weeds like chickweed I found blistered upon our return.  Normally, these plants can survive low temperatures, but they had not acclimated because for weeks we were in the 60’s or 70’s each day.  Even Christmas eve was 80F. 

But, this week feels like winter.  There’s a persistent chill in the morning air that hasn’t been there that I feel now.  The growing season has ended, though some late season perennials were waiting forever for their closing call. And, in their absence, I see so much I didn’t see before.

Verdant basal growth becomes apparent through the remaining tattered brown stalks and duff as I walk through the garden.  Many perennial species have foliage that hugs the ground during winter that then shoots forth an inflorescence.  They are not dormant.  No, they are bidding their time, accumulating what little sunlight they can muster for when the days warm and they can rise from the ground.  

There’s the web-like foliage of Viola pedata gearing up for flowering.  I even saw a lone bloom on one the other day.  I’m surprised how large the foliage of Delphinium carolinianum already is.  It seems to have thrived with the warmth, but winter did nip the new growth a bit.  Even Callirhoe alcaeoides has emerged from dormancy and is readying its green palms for the coming spring.

One plant that I’ve become quite fond of for its winter basal foliage is Antennaria parlinii.  At first I was curious if Parlin’s pussytoes would knit together to cover the ground well since my transplants seemed patchy. But, now in its third year, the silver foliage has grown into a circular patch that is three feet wide.  The foliage is robust and has a thick feel as many polyploid plants do. It has six sets of chromosomes, likely from outcrossing with other species over the eons.  As the plant creeps out slowly via stolons that begin to emerge at this time of the year, I find it helpful to throw some fine mulch down on the edges and brush it in between the foliage to further discourage weeds ahead of the advancing front.  It seems to thrive as it grows and spreads out through the light organic matter.  

The winter foliage of Antennaria parlinii grows around a lone, tattered Carex glaucodea in the top left. It may not look much to some, but with the dearth of plants in winter, I welcome the green groundcover. If you look closely you see threads of Nothoscordum bivalve emerging and even an early Trillium!

I can’t let you get away without seeing the sweet, dainty flowers of Antennaria parlinii. These will rise in a few months with the arrival of spring.

With all this winter basal foliage, I can see spring even though it is officially two months away. The flower show of Claytonia virginica is crescendoing, and the last of my Narcissus to emerge are pushing up foliage.  I hear the American Robins sing again in the mornings, their sweet song.  It won’t be long now.

A Walk to See Possumhaw

“This looks like Antarctica.” I stare off to the blinding south, the albedo glaring from the snow with the sun halfway up in the sky, lightly filtered through some high cirrus.  However, some trees on the horizon make me reconsider.  “No, perhaps the far north.  Antarctica doesn’t have trees.”  

But, I’m in neither place.  I’m visiting family back home, and I’m out for a walk on the edge of our property in Tennessee.  Two and a half inches of snow fell yesterday, and the field that was once soybean roughage has now become a beach of white glistening sand.  

I love these winter walks to see what beauty snow has wrought.  It’s cold, 25F, and mostly calm.   The landscape is quiet, minus the Horned Larks that pipe their sweet song as I stir them up.  To my north is a field of winter wheat, which looks more like a raked zen garden with the alternating lines of green and white than an agronomic crop.  I dare not disturb either pristine scene, so I trod the path between the two where the wheat stopped the snow and made it more shallow along this edge of soybeans.

The field to my south…

…and the field to my north.

I have a destination in mind.  I’m going to see an old friend.  On the corner of our land is an old possumhaw that I remember from childhood.  And, I’m curious if there are any berries on it this year.  I catch a glimpse of red jutting out of the grays and browns of the fencerow, so I at least know I’ll see some fruit.  

Ilex decidua is a wonderful, often overlooked plant.  As I walk, I remember the many memories of them along fencerows.  In some areas you couldn’t drive a quarter mile in Tennessee without seeing a flash of red from this deciduous holly, and now having made the Texas-to-Tennessee trek many times during the winter, I can say the same about Arkansas.  They hide all year, but once the leaves fall and their berries burn bright, they can’t be missed.  Their locations became etched in my mind. 

Well, at least the females couldn’t be missed.  They flower as separate male and female plants, so the males would never be conspicuous.  In these wild places, concern about pollination doesn’t seem to be an issue as there are berries a plenty, but making sure a male is nearby should be considered when we welcome berry-bearing possumhaws to our gardens.  Even male Ilex opaca can serve as a pollen source for crossing.  

Hello, old friend. Possumhaws are stalwart shrubs that thrive much of what mother nature throws at them.

I make it to the corner where two fencerows converge and end, one running north-south and the other east-west.  Here, the possumhaw grows with heavy fruit on the branches, not all of them, but enough for a winter smorgasbord for birds.  While we call them berries, technically the fruit are drupes and consist of fleshy tissue that surrounds one or multiple pyrenes, the nut-like seed inside.  And, on snowy days like today, the red orbs pop against the bleached white background, like tomato sauce spots on a white table cloth.  They also glow against the sky, as Joseph LeMay sang,

“Possumhaw up against a pale grey sky

Tennessee winter, man the sun don’t shine”

But, the sun is shining, and the berries beam bright.  I’m surprised there’s not a Northern Mockingbird nearby to taunt me.  I usually see them standing guard over a fruit niche this size.  But, this one is just for me to enjoy today.  

I begin wondering what other creatures have found shelter and forage with its arching branches?  While Eastern Bluebirds, Northern Bobwhites, and Wild Turkey feast on the fruit , they don’t compare to the onslaught from Cedar Waxwings.  I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve watched a flock mob a possumhaw as they stripped the plant bare in late winter. Here today, gone tomorrow.   And, while I know that some holly berries can ferment and cause intoxication, I haven’t found a good source stating that this shift occurs with possumhaw. From personal observations and research, I know the birds tend to wait until later in the winter to gorge themselves on the fruit.

Though I have never seen one in it, evidently opossum like the fruit, hence the common name.  And, in case you’re wondering, the -haw comes from the fruit resembling those found on hawthorn (Crataegus). 

In the bleak midwinter, possumhaw brightens life.

A closeup of the hawthorn-like fruit of possumhaw.

I also ponder how many moons this plant has seen.  Multiple, thick gray stems rise out of the base and reach out to capture what light they can under the hackberrys and oaks above.  Possumhaws are tough; they have to be to survive on the fragmented and disturbed habitat of fencerows.  Possumhaws can live for many years, and thrive in full sun or dappled shade, though the more light, the more fruit one will get.  And, while this one shouldn’t face flooding anytime soon, there is a record of possumhaw surviving 105 days submerged under floodwater.   

Another shot of Ilex decidua a few miles from our house. Possumhaw thrives even in the dense shade and competition of this fencerow. This ditch will frequently flood over the road during the winter, submerging the possumhaw root systems for a few days.

Can you make out the floodline from where this possumhaw was submerged for a few days? Note the color shift from red at the top to orange about midway down.

Because of its ecological value and resilience, I’m working to add more possumhaw to our garden in Texas.  There’s ‘Finch’s Golden’ I have rooted as cuttings; this variety has brilliant yellow fruit.  I have seed of a nice red-berried form that we found in east Texas.  And, I’m not beyond purchasing a reliable fruiter like ‘Pocahontas’; I saw an excellent specimen of this cultivar at Nancy Goodwin’s Montrose Garden recently. For me, there’s also a nostalgia to them; seeing them brings back memories of my long winter walks.

Ilex decidua ‘Finch’s Golden’

Ilex decidua ‘Pocahontas’

By now the sun is getting low, and the vanilla cirrus are starting to swirl in some caramel from the golden light.  As I start my walk back, a Northern Harrier beats its wings half a dozen times and coasts mere feet above the field hunting for life in the winter amongst the snow.  I found some, and I hope it does, too.  

One final look back at the fencerow corner that my possumhaw calls home.