The Jill Jar

Lots of my friends stopped by on my Birthday - for a doggy play date, to see how Wally was doing (drippy and sick), to bring chocolate.  The Gossip Girls and family brought the coolest gift - 

It's  jill jar.  Inside, like fortune cookies but curled, and with things the family thinks about me.  

It has cheered me immeasurably on these cold sick days.  I have it on the counter in front of me now, and when I'm feeling a bit low (you know who you are) I pull one out and read it, and laugh, and remember all the fun we have had together - the meals cooked and shared, the "we're not really a sandwich family" converted by a panini press, the walks up the mountain, the Mr Toad's Wild Rides in Italy...friends are the best.  

Thank you.  

The Wisdom of Yellow

This is the time of year I am so glad I planted yellow in the fall.  Here, if you don't get it planted by September it won't grow.  You think your teenagers can pout?  You've never met a four inch annual planted in muddy soil in late fall.

Late August seemed too early, the days still hot and sunny, the nights just beginning to cool and lengthen.  Yet the Icelandic poppies I planted then are huge, with nodding cups of coral over the leafy mess that the garden has become since this year's freeze.  The one I found in its pot in December, the one I missed?  Still no bigger than its pot, but the rest are bushy, shaggy, floriferous (love that word).

Daffodils on the hill under the oak trees have joined the paperwhites that have been blooming since Halloween.  I keep saying I'll plant under the oaks, perhaps Douglas iris, the California native.  But I love the bareness, the sweep of land, the only color the daffodils of winter (it's California - they bloom here in winter)  and the self-seeded spring surprises.

Last year there were forget-me-nots and California poppies under the oaks, the orange of the poppies made more brilliant by the pure blue of the forget-me-nots.  

There were a few Campanula primulifolia last year, and there are hundreds of babies now.  Neatnick gardeners think I'm lazy for letting things go to seed, but I have masses of foxglove and forget-me-nots, of campanulas and hellebores.

Annie's Annuals has the campanula, and many more wonderful things besides - this is their photo.  Doesn't do the plant justice, but so many gardeners are seduced by pretty flowers.  (It is fashionable in some quarters to make fun of these people and sniff that they're not real gardeners.  Grow up.  We are all captivated by something, it's why we garden.)

Hellebores have been blooming since Christmas, and have seeded in the paths and rock walls where they're not supposed to thrive.  Live and learn.  I pull off some of the old leaves so the mother plant doesn't smother the babies.  Pinks and whites, and one so dark it is nearly black.  I have seen some yellow hellebores in English gardening magazines, but I'll wait 'til they work out the kinks - just yellow is not enough, I want beauty too.  And for the price to come down.

Outside the kitchen window, yellow pansies join last year's primroses - plant primroses high and in summer shade and they'll come back for years.

At Christmas I almost ripped this all out in favor of white cyclamen.  Then we had a few cold nights, and last year's cyclamen growing under the oak tree turned to slime.  And during the cold gray days (remember those?) just looking at this made me happier.  

Fragrance is one of winter's gifts, an apology that there are not more flowers, a compensation for the smallness of winter's blooms.  Daphne is the classic, but I have been seduced by Sweet Box, Sarcococca ruscifolia and aren't you glad you asked.  Last year I cut small sprigs to bring in the house, then in summer I cut the plant to the ground.  What a waste.  This year I cut many long branches, and my house is full of the sweet kind smell.  And when I prune in summer I won't have as much work, and I will remember the gift of fragrance in the dark of winter.

It makes a fabulous hedge for shade, it's not fussy, and the branches I cut last year lasted for three months, until I noticed the roots they had grown and planted them out in the garden.  So there may be a sweet box hedge in my future...or yours, if you come by.  Stay for tea.

Cheese, please

"They can tell you about torment. They can describe long, frustrating hours sitting in dark, stinky basements and caves, pen in hand, trying to get the flow of the words just right.

"They can tell you, too, about how it feels to be engulfed in a blaze of inspiration. They’ll describe the delirium of bliss when the right lines come. Like all writers, they are keenly aware of the competition, and envy eats away at them when they detect, in one of their comrades, a candle-flicker of genius.

"We speak, naturally, of cheesemongers."

Intrigued?  Check out this NY TImes article on cheese mongers...or should they be called cheese muse?   cheese prosers? poets of the washed rind?  writers of the ripe?   And when you're done I'll meet you at the cheese shop...I'm hungry now too.

Bamboo

Paula opened the back hatch of her Prius, and it was stuffed with beat-up wine cases.  And no, we don't have a drinking problem, they were full of carefully wrapped bamboo segments.  Ceramic.  The only kind you want to let loose in your garden (and I speak from experience).

Edward and Wally unwrapped them and laid them on the outdoor dining table by color (on its last legs,  that table, but that's another story).  

Paula told me where to pound in the rebar.  I moved the ladder into position, said a silent prayer that I wouldn't hit a sprinkler line, and whammed away.  Over and over.  Then Paula handed me segment after segment, and we gently slid them into place over the rebar.  From the top of the ladder I handled the top - Paula lowered them into place and twisted them to make sure they were seated.

I can see them from my bed.  You could see them from the guest room if you were here.  They shine in the low winter light.  They sparkled in the summer, partly hidden by leaves.  Every time I look at them I smile, and think of Paula and her incredible strength and creativity.  And all the years we've known each other, all the stories we have shared.  Lucky me.  

bamboo you

Bringing the mountain

My friend has white mulberries in her garden, and huge peach trees she has raised from seed.  Lemons and kumquats, figs and pomegranates, a glasshouse full of seedlings ready to plant out.  And a motorized scooter to get around her garden.  She used to come walk around my garden, but no more. When I go for tea her house is full of lilacs or roses, lilies or iris, and she always asks me "How is your garden?"  How do you answer that? A garden is never just one way.  But this spring my garden is the best it has ever been.

So last week I took my garden to her.  I brought her a small bouquet of what's blooming now, and my laptop with photos of my garden.

The spanish bluebells came from my friend Sylvia - her garden is a sheet of blue in spring.  Mine are more numerous each year, and I finally have enough to share.

The columbines came from Carol.   I can feel her gentle presence when they bloom.  I miss her.

I don't remember who first told me they got their name from the ring of doves kissing.  Remember your Latin? 

Rhododendrons light up the shade, and caress me with a faint spiciness as I brush past.  They will be sticky and brown soon, and the stickiness will coat my fingers as I snap off the endless spent flowers, but they're worth it.

I showed her the old apple tree just budding,

and the forget-me-nots that stick to your socks.  My mom says when that happens the best thing to do is plant your socks.  She's right, the seeds never come off.

There are bright bergenias with leaves like glossy cabbage.  A granny plant, very out of fashion.  Too bad. I love it.

The first roses of the year are opening outside the bathroom window among the spent peach blossoms, where it is sunniest.  When she saw this she said "Climbing Peace!  That is my favorite rose!"  When a few more have opened I will take her armfuls.

If you can't bring your friend to your garden, get out your camera and your laptop, and bring your garden to visit your friend.  And don't forget the bouquet, for no matter how small, a bouquet gathered by your hand from your garden will always speak of love.

Cooking Lessons

My friend Maryam called and said "I have your dinner - come by and get it."


As she is a fabulous cook and a commanding presence, I hopped in my car and zoomed over.  She was standing by the stove, with a huge pile of rice and a thick round-bottomed saucepan next to her.  


"I have Cioppino for you, but you must have it with garlic bread..." check.  "...and Persian rice.  Nobody ever makes this right, so I have started it for you." Okay.  My favorite recipes have been handed down hands-on.  


"I melted about two tablespoons of butter in this pan, and I added two tablespoons of olive oil and a pinch of saffron.  Use really good saffron, the best you can find.


"Now you put in the rice" and she scooped about four cups of cooked rice on top of the melted butter and oil.


"Then you add dried Persian cranberries.  You have to get them at the Persian store, you can't use those American ones."  I tasted one - they were tiny, like dried pomegranate seeds, and quite tart.


"You just mix them into the top of the rice, you don't want to disturb the part that is in the butter and oil.  When you cook it, put it over high heat until it starts to sizzle, then turn the heat down to medium-low, add a tablespoon of water and another tablespoon of butter, just put them on top of the rice.  Then put three paper towels over the top of the pan, put the lid on, and cook it for 45 minutes.  When it's done take off the lid, put a plate upside-down over the top of the pan and flip it over onto the plate."


I did as she said. I must confess I folded the edges of the paper towel in a bit so they wouldn't hang over and catch fire - I once nearly set my friend Cathy's kitchen ablaze. As it was cooking the most wonderful nutty smell filled the kitchen.


When we cut into it, it was crispy and creamy, sweet and crunchy where the rice had crisped, and tart where the cranberries were lurking.


The next day I took her this photo...

...and she laughed with delight.  "You did it perfectly!" she said.  "Even my grand-daughter has to call when she's making it!"  She did of course start it for me, so I suppose that's cheating.  But I'm making it again, and soon. With chicken, with salmon, with  shrimp in garlic butter...come for dinner!