Winter Blooming Jasmine

There’s a vining bush on the back wall of our house.  It’s supported there on a simple trellis and stands, if you can call it standing, about five feet high.  It has long willowy branches that sweep all the way back to the ground.  Wherever it meets the ground it sends up shoots and a new generation is born.

It’s Winter Blooming Jasmine, or just Winter Jasmine (Jasminum nudiflorum).  It’s not native, at least not to our area, but that’s okay.  Not everything we grow needs to be native.  It has a perky bright yellow flower that blooms so early it is often covered with snow.  Even before the snowbells

Winter Jasmine in snow

pop up, Winter Jasmine has its flowers out laughing at Old Man Winter.

Our specimen was given to us by a neighbor as not much more than a willowy stem with a few roots hanging off the bottom.  We planted it (temporarily, we thought) on the back wall of our house where it seems to have found a happy home.

It’s not supposed to be happy there.  All the experts tell us that winter jasmine does best in full sun.  Our specimen is on the north wall of our house in full shade.  If there’s a place on our property that gets less sun, I don’t know where it is.  Still, it thrives Winter Jasmine in snowand those bright yellow flowers really brighten up that shady spot.

The flowers are particularly obvious this time of year since they bloom well before any leaves appear.  The nudiflorum in its name actually means naked flowers.  Its dark, shiny green leaves will pop out later this spring, well after the flowers have passed on.

We train our jasmine to a trellis, but if you have space, it makes for a great shrubby ground cover.  It roots easily wherever its drooping branches touch the ground.  If you have a slope or hillside that’s prone to erosion, give it a try.  It’s also great for softening a retaining wall or some other hardscape feature you’ve been struggling to hide.  Don’t worry, it’s not invasive!

If jasmine brings to mind summer evenings, fragrant breezes and mint juleps, put all that out of your head.  Winter jasmine has no fragrance.  That’s especially unusual when you consider it’s a member of the olive family which has many of the most fragrant flowers in the world.

But nope, not winter jasmine.  It’s strictly a one trick peony.  (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.)  If we love it, we love it for its flowers.  But after a cold, colorless winter maybe those early bright flowers are enough.  I know they are for me.

Thanks,

Bill k

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Princess Pine

It’s Christmas!  It’s that time of year when we seem to have more greenery inside our homes than out.  Tradition tells us that holly and ivy are Christmas favorites.

But I have to disagree.  Growing up, they were never my favorites.  In fact, I never remember them being in our house.

We had no holly trees on our farm.  We did have some ivy here and there, but it always stayed outside.  My grandmother who lived with us, had once been badly startled by a snake hiding in amongst some ivy plants.  Ever since, she equated ivy with snakes and refused to allow either one inside the house.

That was fine, though.  Instead of ivy and holly adorning our home, we had “Princess Pine”.  For those who aren’t familiar, Princess Pine was and still is a low growing evergreen plant.  The scientific guys labeled it a club moss.  Lycopodium obscuruma they called it, but that didn’t begin to do it justice.  It was way too clumsy a name for such a delicate plant.

By itself, it resembled a miniature Christmas tree and was used to decorate all sorts of seasonal arrangements.  But more than that, it had a longish flexible stem that allowed bunches of them to be tied together to create beautiful wreaths and garlands.

By-Katja-Schulz-from-Washington-D.-C.-USA

Princess pine only grew in rather damp marshy areas and there was just a small window of time when it could be collected.  The timing had to be just right, and it depended on several factors.

The weather had to be cold enough for the marshy ground to solidify enough to be walked on without sinking in as far as our ankles.  Also, since Princess Pine grew so low to the ground, it had to be collected before any heavy snowfalls.  That usually meant late November or early December.

It also had to be after hunting season which in our neck of the woods was late November to early December.  We were never allowed in the woods during hunting season.  Those crazy “Jersey hunters”, you know.  We always had to wait until after the season was over.  It was always a race to collect what we needed and get it woven into decorations in time Christmas.

We’d dress in old clothes that included as much “red” as possible.  That usually meant squeezing into last year’s, or maybe even the year before’s, hooded red pullover sweatshirts.  Those things were great when they were new, but they would shrink a bit with every washing, and fade a bit as well.  The more they were washed, the more shrunk and faded they got.

By the time Princess pine season came around, those bright red pullovers had faded to the color of last year’s fallen leaves and if the sleeves reached beyond our elbows, we considered ourselves lucky.  Rather than stand out from our surroundings, we blended right in.  I sometimes think old red pullovers might have been the original camouflage suits.

Originally, we would collect the sprigs of Princess Pine in burlap bags and tote them back home.  As time went by, the burlap came to be replaced with modern plastic trash bags.  Yes, picking had gone hi-tech.

The commercial industry became aware of it after a while, and for a season or two Princess Pine was a hot commodity.  It didn’t last long though.  Princess Pine was just too slow and difficult to grow in controlled environments.  Nowadays, it’s reverted back to its local roots and personally, I think that’s a good thing.  It’s nice to still have a tradition or two that hasn’t been totally commercialized.

I didn’t collect any princess pine this year, I haven’t for a few years now.  But I know where there’s a thriving patch just waiting for me, and I have a brand-new red pullover sweatshirt.  Maybe by next season that sweatshirt will be faded and shrunken enough to qualify for Princess pine picking.  I sure hope so.

Until then, to all my friends and readers, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a Happy and Healthy New Year!

Thanks,

Bill k

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Indian Summer Again

The late October sun is just dipping behind the trees and the warm day is chilling down into a cool evening.  Smoke wafts over the recently harvested fields bringing with it the scent of burning leaves.  Nearby an old man smokes a pipe and tends a small fire while spinning yarns to a young boy.

Cornstalks, stacked across the field like teepees, cast long shadows over the landscape.  Way across the field, where the briars back up against the stone wall, there’s a bit of a haze settling in.  There’s more gathering just beyond the old barway.  It’s probably just smoke from the burning leaves, but maybe not.  Maybe, just maybe, it’s something more.  If you listen to the old man’s yarns, there’s a bit of magic in the air…

Our local newspaper used to run a short essay in its Sunday edition every October,  Injun Summer by John T McCutcheon.  The scene I just described is pulled straight from that essay.  It disappeared sometime in the 1990’s.  I suppose it was a PC thing and if it was, that’s a shame.  Some of the language is a bit off by today’s standards, but it wasn’t written with any malice back in 1907 and we shouldn’t be reading any into it now, over a hundred years later.  It was always a bit hoaky, even back then, with its corn shuck teepees and spirits dancing in the smoke.  But it was a tradition and it evoked a bit of the mystery of that time of year.  And isn’t October the time when our thoughts naturally seem to turn to spirits, and ghosts and times past?

Growing up in the Catskills, we used to call this period Indian Summer.  It always arrived after most of the leaves had fallen from the trees.  The autumn days would have gotten frosty and the nights downright chilly.  Jackets would come out, and sweaters.  But then suddenly, it would be Indian Summer and the warmer days were back!

They never lasted long, those warmer days, but they weren’t really supposed to.  They were just there long enough to offer one last taste of summer.  It was a final chance to gather up summer memories–warm days, good friends and happy times.  All those things that made the summer special.  Memories enough to carry us through the cold winter and last us into spring.

Maybe it’s those memories that make Indian Summer so special.  But then again, maybe not.  Could there be a touch of magic as well?  After all, what about that haze settling in across the field?  Is it really just smoke?  Or could it something more?  Indian Summer.

Thanks,

Bill k

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Malabar Spinach

I love spinach. It’s one of my favorite salad greens.  More flavorful than lettuce, it’s also packed full of vitamins like A, C and E.  If you’re looking to get more folate or potassium into your diet, spinach is the way to go.

There’s just one problem, with it.  It’s seasonal.  It does great during the cool days of early spring and late fall, but during the heat of our long hot summers, forget about it.  It bolts and gets bitter.

Now I know I can always run down to my local supermarket and buy spinach. After all, there are no seasons in a supermarket.  But since commercially grown spinach has more pesticide residues, pound for pound, than any other crop (based on USDA testing), I seldom indulge.  I go most of the summer without.

That all changed for me recently during a visit to Penn State’s Brandywine campus.

Brandywine Campus Garden

While I was there, I spotted a red stemmed vining plant with dark green leaves growing on a trellis and really relishing the 90+ degree heat.  I tasted one of the leaves and … Spinach!?!!

Yes, that was my introduction to Malabar Spinach, Red Malabar Spinach, to be precise.  There are two varieties, red and green, named for the color of their stems. Since, as far as I can tell, they taste identical, I chose to grow the red variety simply because it looks prettier.

Red Malabar Tower

In spite of its name, this Malabar variety isn’t really a true spinach.  But if it looks like spinach, walks like spinach and quacks like spinach, what is it? It’s not a duck, I know that.  Just like regular spinach, the Malabar variety is high in vitamins A and C, iron and calcium. It’s also a good source of magnesium, phosphorus and potassium.

Malabar spinach, as you might have guessed, originated on the Malabar Coast in western India. It’s an area that’s long been famous for producing some of the finest black pepper in the world.  You can’t help but think of that when you go to plant Malabar spinach. Its seeds look like dead ringers for peppercorns.

Malabar spinach thrives in the heat.  When your regular spinach starts to bolt and get bitter, it’s time to plant Malabar.  Actually, since it’s rather slow to germinate, you probably want to start it 1 to 3 wks. beforehand.  I found mine germinated in 10 days, but it was another week before they could be set out in the garden.

Give your plants something to climb on and plenty of water.  They love the heat, but it seems they are constantly thirsty.  The leaves are more succulent than regular spinach and that might be the reason.  As far as climbing, a fence, trellis, or some sort of tripod will all work well as supports.  A porch column works great if you have limited space.  The spinach will make a colorful display and you can harvest it at will. Don’t worry about over-harvesting.  The more you pick it, the more it grows.

Malabar spinach! I’m loving it, it’s healthy and beautiful both.  Keep it in mind for next season.

Thanks,

Bill k

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Evening in the Garden

The heat of the afternoon has finally moved on, up to the rooftops I suppose, with the last patches of sunlight. The evening has snuck in and taken over. Critters, including myself, that couldn’t take the afternoon heat are returning to the garden.

Across the patio the brilliant red flowers of the monarda have attracted the attention of a hummingbird, a male, judging by his red throat. He goes from flower to flower for a few seconds and then zooms off to the feeder, takes a haughty sip and moves on to the salvia. Hummers love the red of the monarda, but the brilliant purple of the salvia attracts them as well.

Next to my chair something is causing the lavender plumes to bounce up and down. When I look over, I see it’s a large bee. I hope at first it might be a bumblebee, but that’s just wishful thinking. Its shiny abdomen identifies it as a honeybee. Nice to see of course, but I wish it had been a bumbler.

Another hummer on the monarda, a female this time. She must have waited for the male to get distracted. They tend to be very territorial, and he’d chase her off if he noticed her. That doesn’t happen tonight. She drinks her fill and then, in an instant, she’s vanished. There’s no going or coming with hummers. They’re just either there, or they’re not.

Darker now and close by a firefly lights up, then another one across the yard, and then another one. Not as many as some nights earlier in the spring, but for tonight, it’s enough.

It’s enough to take me back to a long-ago time and place, when kids would spend the evening chasing fireflies around the lawn. We’d try to catch them just so we could watch our hands light up. It was always a bit magical, watching their light shining through our fingers. There’s nothing quite like the greenish gold of a firefly light. It’s silent, cool and unhurried, much like this evening.

Another firefly, close by. I reach out and snatch this one. I can feel it buzzing for a moment and then, marvel of marvels, my hand is aglow with light. The magic is still there. We just need to reach out and snatch it.

And preserve it for the future!

Thanks,

Bill k

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