Green on Black Friday

So while a zillion people are engaging in the rituals of Black Friday, I’m sitting at my laptop, thinking about Green on Black Friday, which is my horticultural take on what’s happening outside in my front garden. Of course most plants have already retreated underground of their own accord (bulbs, herbaceous perennials), have been cut down to neaten the landscape (again, lots of perennials and of course frost-blackened annuals), have not been cut down because I’m hoping they’ll look good with a mantle of snow (especially the volunteer coneflower, which every winter wears perky little snow caps perched on the dark brown, pointy flowerheads), or have been allowed to remain because I haven’t felt like making the effort to remove the remains (most notably the big sweeps of lady’s mantle – Alchemilla mollis – and catmint – Nepeta x faassenii ‘Walker’s Low’ – which would take more than a little time to trim back, and does it really need to be done now?).

But not all is dead and gloomy in my late-November garden. Yes, I have included a few evergreen conifers – such as the undemanding, patiently spreading mat of Siberian cypress (Microbiota decussata, sometimes amusingly but aptly called “shade juniper”), a pleasant pancake of bird’s-nest spruce (Picea abies ‘Nidiformis’), and the imposing arborvitae or white cedar, as it’s more commonly called in these parts (Thuja occidentalis) that towers over and dominates its part of the garden. However, they can wait to be included in another post, because right now I want to share some pictures of and thoughts on three of the green survivors out there.

I use the word “green” loosely: a gardener’s palette offers shades of green-green, those more yellow than green (chartreuse), purplish/bluish/reddish green, and more gray than green. So given it’s the day after Thanksgiving, let’s start with a frequent companion of a Thanksgiving turkey, namely gray-green culinary sage (Salvia officinalis).


For many years I’ve grown various culinary sages strictly for their earthy scent and appealing foliage colors, especially the neutral gray provided quietly by the common selections. The colors of many garden elements are complemented by their grayish tones, including but not limited to the foliage of companion plants, their flowers, and garden features (especially gray stone and weathered wood, including cedar mulch). You can determine your favorite combinations by cutting off a sprig of sage (or any plant, to make this a broader lesson in garden design) and holding it against other plants and features. If the match looks good to you, make a note of it, then perhaps next year you’ll plant some sage next to a late-blooming, luscious violet-blue selection of aromatic aster (Symphyotrichum oblongifolium ‘Raydon’s Favorite’), to borrow an example from my garden. After you’ve completed your sage color-observation exercise, take the sprig into your kitchen, gently macerate the leaves in some melted butter, and then drizzle it over some cheese-, cheese-spinach- or cheese-mushroom-filled ravioli. Skip the tomato sauce for once: the sagey butter allows the flavors of the ravioli filling to shine through.


I must confess that I wasn’t expecting the green fronds of autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora ‘Brilliance’) to hold up this late into November, given that all of the other ferns (except for the marginal fern, to be described on another day) have vanished from the scene. Perhaps back in a dusty corner of my memory lies the fact that this fern is evergreen or nearly so in other climates; nonetheless, I have been pleasantly noting the freshness of the fern in that part of the garden for weeks now. This fern is probably most widely appreciated for the red tones of its expanding fronds, and does it in fact take on red shades in autumn in those other climates referenced above? Also, will it still be green after winter finally departs, providing the garden receives enough snow cover to protect the fronds from below-zero temperatures as well as the desiccating effects of high winds and sun? Time will tell. Note the sad-looking lady’s mantle (Alchemilla mollis) foliage accompanying the autumn fern. Yes, it will more than likely stay in place until new leaves emerge, at which time I will frantically cut away the dingy, winter-worn foliage and haul it to the pile behind the garage. Spring cleaning in the garden will just have to wait.


Speaking of semi-questionable evergreen-ness, here’s a treat for your eyes if perhaps not your nose. I planted three good-sized pots of Euphorbia x martinii ‘Ascot Rainbow’ about a month before this summer’s much anticipated Sheboygan Area Garden Walk, mainly because I gave into the seductive appearance it presented at a local nursery that I frequented during the runup to SAGW. I value the contrast that variegated plants can offer when used in the landscape in reasonable quantities, and I’ve always been intrigued by the unconventional “flowers” (technically referred to as “cyathia”) borne by the members of this enormous genus (2,000 species or so, I’m told. Why haven’t the botanical splitters blown this genus up as they have done with Chrysanthemum and the lily family? More on that topic inevitably later). So yes, this euphorbia is eyecatching, and it grew without making too many demands on me (other than frequently expressing its thirst until it rooted in and/or the air temperature grew cooler). However, sight is not the only sense with which this plant interacts: during the first couple of weeks after planting this seductive beauty, I would catch a strong but evasive scent in the air, reminding me of the distinctive odor of Fritillaria bulbs and foliage . . .  and of skunks. Then during a notably warm afternoon, after having earlier neatened up the succulent euphorbias in my greenhouse, I put 2 and 2 together: that scent is the same as that of the smelly, sticky, irritating, fairly toxic white sap that oozes from the cut ends of euphorbia stems and leaves. Not a nauseating deal-breaker, but not roses and lilacs, either. However, since not a single garden visitor asked about the funny smell in the front garden (were they being polite? maybe they had not noticed the scent?), I turned the other nostril for the remainder of the season and enjoyed the visual delights of this plant, which continue to this Green on Black Friday. It’s marginally hardy, but if my plants perish over winter, I have a feeling I can get more at that nearby nursery. Or listen to another Siren’s call.

A Passion for Gardening

OK, I admit it . . . it’s been a long time since I posted my last blog. However, I am offering a good reason for my absence: it was a splendid summer here on the tundra, and I gardened like a guy who was experiencing his first full growing season as a retiree, totally immersed in the joys of horticulture. Over the next few months my plan is to share with you on this site many of my recent gardening experiences and thoughts. Think of it as an extended gardening-themed vacation in a not-so-far-away land, not so long ago.

While the above picture was taken today (November 19, 2019), I think it aptly recalls the past and conjures the future. Before I tell you the name of this plant and show you what it can do, let’s delve into what the picture and the plant represent to me.

First, let’s remember to look beyond the identity of this plant and ponder the image itself. While I’m not even remotely pretending to be a great visual artist or poet, I will honestly tell you that I view recording images as a way of capturing and expressing emotions and memories (and, more mundanely, information). I often find myself reaching for my phone to take a few (or many) pictures, not just to have records of a plant or other subject, but to help preserve a thought or feeling or perhaps to make a reminder to look into/do- something later. So as I was heading out to check today’s mail, I noticed the attractively backlit foliage and other attributes of a plant that I propagated a few months ago, and I decided a photo of it would make a good starting point for a reboot-worthy blog post.

Which brings this account to an exploration of one of my personal Joys of Horticulture: propagating plants.  I have been making more plants (to describe the term “propagation” perhaps inelegantly, but accurately and succinctly) since my earliest days as a gardener. I never tire of the thrill and satisfaction of watching a seed or cutting or other plant part transform into an entire plant, ready to be planted out or given away or sold or selected as a bit of germplasm for continuity through space and time. Hmm, there’s another blog post just begging to be created: “germplasm for continuity through space and time.” Stay tuned.

But I will briefly address that (you might regard as) spacey concept here. The pictured plant represents a living thing that I’m intending to nurture somewhere in my garden next year, because to an inveterate gardener like me, there’s always next year. I will be able to enjoy this plant in my summer garden in 2020 because in 2019 I rooted a stem cutting from the magnificent parent plant as insurance against the parent not making it through winter in my front room. Also, I’ll have a much smaller plant that I can raise into a new parent plant to replace its parent. It’s the circle of life, you know, plus it’s a stark reality that the current parent plant, assuming it survives the winter and grows even more exuberantly than it did this past summer, will simply be too big to manage once the 2020 growing season draws to an end. So in this example, propagation = backup plan.

I’m curious if anyone out there thinks the introductory image is vaguely familiar. Well, those of you who know my last book effort, The Encyclopedia of Container Plants, might recall the photos on pages 256 – 258 that accompany the entry on Passiflora (passionflowers). Yep, my mind immediately went back to that entry as I noticed the plant that prompted me to take the image that inspired this post.

And now I can reveal the identity of the plant: it is Passiflora alato-caerulea, or what I always offer as “the preserved-ginger-scented passionflower” when someone requests a common name. A cumbersome moniker, yes, but precisely descriptive and olfactorily evocative of sushi and several summers here on the tundra.  This is, without reservation, my favorite passionflower, notable for its gorgeous, dreamily scented flowers and easy, vigorous growth. I’m looking forward to enjoying another replay of its virtues.






In case you’re wondering, here’s the parent plant as it looks today, dominating a section of my front room, where many plants in my collection spend winter (in other words, six months, from mid-October to mid-April, if the weather gods allow). Before spring comes, this plant will almost certainly be leafless and trimmed back extensively, but for now it’s still lushly green and comfortably chilling, patiently waiting to wake up and put on another show.