Fuchsias

I've never grown fuchsias.  Never heard of them, don't know anything about them.  But they had 'em at Baker's, the saleslady raved about them, and I'm a sucker. 

Now they're opening.  And they're pretty fucking amazing.  

From Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuchsia):

Fuchsia /ˈfjuːʃə/ is a genus of flowering plants that consists mostly of shrubs or small trees. The first, Fuchsia triphylla, was discovered on the Caribbean island of Hispaniola (present day Dominican Republic and Haiti) about 1696–1697 by the French Minim monk and botanist, Charles Plumier during his third expedition to the Greater Antilles. He named the new genus after the renowned German botanist Leonhart Fuchs (1501–1566).

My brief bit of googling indicates that they thrive in places like the UK, and the pacific northwest.  Methinks they will have a short season here.  Still.  Look at these things.  They're so beautiful...

Bees on Broccoli

The broccoli flowered. I ate as much of it as I could, gave a bit away, and even drove one bunch a hundred miles up to my mom in Chino Valley (how's that for local food...)

But alas, I didn't get to it all.  And now it's flowered, each of the individual green bumps that gives broccoli crowns their texture bursted open into an exuberant yellow flower.  It's kind of pretty, and the bees love it.

I was a little disconcerted at first trying to take this photo.  I knelt down in the middle of the patch and was still as hundreds (literally) of bees swarmed just a few inches away.  Their wings brushed my face and hair and I could feel the buzzing in my teeth.  One crawled up my arm for just a moment before deciding I wasn't nearly as captivating as the bright stalks waving a handsbreadth to its right.

The bees weren't interested in me.  They were interested in their own unique brand of bee ecstasy, and sitting quietly in their midst I was a little overtaken by it as well.  Thank you bees, for being here.  I was planning to pull these in the next few days, in preparation for planting peppers and eggplant in this spot, but I think I'll keep the broccoli around a little while longer.  For the bees. :)

Breathe it in.

If you come over to my house in the next few weeks, I'm going to take you by the hand and pull you to my patio, down the steps and to the chain link fence where oleanders guard my eastern exposure.  In their shade I've placed a gardenia, a bedraggled specimen that was falling over and dripping brown leaves when I snagged him from the 50% off rack at Lowes a few weeks back.  It's been trimmed, staked, watered lovingly, and whispered to on a daily basis. And now guys, it's blooming.

It's blooming.

I'm going to lead you to its little corner, bypassing the bright petunias and geraniums, the salpiglossis that stand erect near the front gate and the sweet primroses that edge the border of my blueberry bushes, and then I'm going to ask you to bring your face close to the gentle flower that's been steadily, shyly unfolding it's petals for the past few days.  Really get close to it.  Let the soft folds brush against your upper lip and bring your nose right down into its center.  And then breathe.

No, not like that.  Don't just inhale as if you're taking in the hum drum city air or the scent of a familiar room, as if breathing in was a routine operation that we undertake a thousand times a day.  Close your eyes, quiet the mind.  Really breathe.  Inspire.

Take it in slowly.  Draw with some intention, as if you were taking the first drag of a cigarette after being nicotine withdrawn for days and days.  Let the perfumed air slowly filter through your nostrils and swirl gently against the upper palette.  Let it flow leisurely down the back of the throat, falling down the windpipe and then expanding the lungs from the bottom up.   Let it fill you.

Let it fill you.

You'll become aware of the scent and all its profound sweetness within the first few seconds.  As you delve deeper into the olfactory experience, light shut out and sounds fading away, you'll notice a sharpness, like the sound of an oboe or the taste of ginger.  That will fade to a roundness, a fullness that you will perceive in a way beyond respiration as the beautiful little molecules come to rest in key-in-lock fashion on the neuroreceptors in your brain.

It will make you high.

Gardenias are a tropical, and will thrive here if kept consistently moist and sun-protected during the hotter months.  But they only bloom when the temperature is right, when the nights are chilly but tolerable and the days are blessedly warm.  It's a short, twice yearly window here in Phoenix, and I intend to savor it.

If you come over, I'll want you to savor it too.

Slap Pigs

Of all the plants on my patio, this is today's favorite:

From Wikipedia

Salpiglossis sinuata, Painted Tongue, Scalloped Tube Tongue, or Velvet Trumpet Flower, is a flowering plant in the family Solanaceae, native to southern Chile.  It is as annual, or short lived perennial herbaceous plant growing to 60 centimeters tall, the leaves are 4 - 10 cm long, elliptic to lanceolate, with a wavy, lobed, or toothed margin.

The flowers have a five-lobed funnel-shaped corolla, up to 7 cm (2.5 in) long and 5.5 cm (2 in) diameter, each lobe with a notched apex, velvety in texture, either violet or orange, and have contrasting darker stripes along each petal.

They're gorgeous. 

I noticed them at the nursery a few weeks ago.  There were two, coyly peeking their flowered heads out from behind the counter at me while a nursery employee totalled up the herbs I was buying.  As I handed the woman my debit card I pointed at them.  "What kind of flowers are those?"

She turned briefly, then pulled her attention back to the register.  "Salpiglossis," she said offhandedly.  "I call 'em slap pigs."

I took a moment to process that.  "They're beautiful.  Are they an annual?"

"Yeah," she answered.  "I ordered a hundred of them, and sold 98 to one customer."  She paused.  "Landscaper."  She started fishing around in the drawer beside her, the conversation apparently over.

"Well can I buy those two?"

"Nope," she said, with her back to me.  "Some one else paid for 'em this morning.  Picking 'em up tonight."

"Oh," I sighed, slightly crestfallen."  "Oh, well thank you anyway."  I gathered my herbs, and tried to wash away my disappointment with the fragrance of lemonbalm and lavender.  I started towards the parking lot. 

After a few steps the woman called after me.  "I've got some more coming next week," she hollered.  "You could try back."

I turned with a smile.  "I will," I said, hope rising.  "Definitely.  Thank you!"

I went back the next Thursday, and left with two packs of half priced, bedraggled marigolds and assurances that the truck would be coming in the following morning, salpiglossis amongst its contents. 

I arrived at 8:30, and pulled into a parking lot dominated by a large box truck, nursery employees hopping in and out of it, retreaving paper wrapped pots and spreading them throughout the nursery.  I watched the activity from my car, sharply eyeing each employees burden, looking for the slap pigs' lovely blossoms.

Finally the truck was empty.  The hatch was closed, and the driver strapped himself behind the wheel before driving away.  I left my car and walked purposefully into the nursery, expecting to see them among the annuals that made up a front and center display.  But there were none to be found as I searched the petunias and geraniums, and I reached out to grab a young man's arm as he walked by. 

"Excuse me," I said, a little bit of panic starting to bubble in my abdomen.  "Did you get any slap pigs in this morning?"

"Yeah," he answered.  "Around back."  He gestured vaguely and I released him, striding in the direction he'd indicated.  I came around a corner and there they were, twenty of the lovely little dears, multicolored and brilliant.  The woman I'd spoken with the week before was there, hovering over them possessively.

"These are all spoken for," she said, forestalling the question she could sense coming.  "The wholesaler sent all he had; it was just these twenty, and I've got a waiting list."  I must have looked really disappointed, because after gazing at me a few moments while I fought down this sick, horrible feeling that was spreading through my stomach, her face softened.  "How many did you want," she asked finally.

""Two," I said wistfully.  I really wanted five or six, but I knew I was being offered an opportunity.  I wasn't going to spoil it by being greedy.

"Oh go on then," she said, turning away and dismissing me once again.  "Take 'em."

I thanked her excitedly, which she acknowledged with a wave of her hand.  I picked the two nearest me, and happily made my way to the register.

I put them into 3 gallon smart pots, and planted them with a mix of nutrient rich soil and light planting mix.  I fed them with worm casting tea, and have been murmuring loving sentiments every time I walk by them.  One's here to greet me at home, the other sits in the greenhouse at work, brightening up the greens and veggies around it.

They'll stop flowering when it gets a little colder, but I think they'll make it through the winter, and bloom again in spring.  I'll enjoy them in the meantime.

Vonnegut, if you continue to insist on shedding like this, would you kindly go all the way bald and just get it over with?

On the Menu

I was a little greedy at the greenhouse this afternoon.  But the greens we have growing are too delicious to let languish in the sunshine.  So tonight's dinner was bok choy and and kale with goat cheese and walnuts, and a cheese quesadilla with arugula. 



The bok choy and kale I sauteed briefly.  They were hot and barely wilted, and lightly coated with melted goat cheese.  The arugula I just piled on top of the quesadilla as I pulled it out of the oven*, and the heat from the hot tortilla released an amazing peppery aroma from the sharp little leaves.  That aroma rose to mouthwatering levels when I sliced the quesadilla in half, and the queso and salsa started oozing over the edges.

I feel so lucky that I was able to harvest and enjoy this amazing food that was grown with loving intention less than two miles from where I live.

 

*Tonight was my first experience with the oven in my little place.  I have to call my landlord tomorrow...

We all want to be pretty...