Gray in the Garden

The other day it was so hot and sunny that I put the top down on my Miata before driving to the library  to sort book donations, a daily job.  Suddenly  some kind soul hollered down the stairs “It’s raining, Hatsy!”  I raced upstairs (I sort in the cellar)  to put the top up on the Miata. The job is not automatic,  and by the time I got home I was as wet as the driver’s seat.

The sunny day had become a gray day, so I decided to write this column about gray in the garden. The plant world  offers the gardener many choices  -  pearl gray, ash gray, ghost gray, slate gray, mouse gray.  Most of them are that color because they are “dead hairs that have turned white just as they do on human heads.”  I put quotes  around that comment from a book by Helen Fox,  a well-known garden authority, because I don’t quite believe it, do you? A human's white hair is dead hair?

One of the most common plants with gray foliage is Artimisea, sometimes called  wormwood.  It was given that unattractive label because an infusion made from its leaves and taken internally would supposedly dispel worms.  Another gray species is used to flavor vermouth, but I don’t believe martinis are the infusion I previously referred to. 

There are a confusing number of species of Artimisea, and I’ve spent most of my morning trying to sort them out.  I think the one in my own garden is A. pontica, at least the description fits.  It has an annoying habit of spreading by underground roots,  and often manages to spring up in the midst of an astilbe or a day lily, making it impossible to  remove.

This species has stiff stems that grow about two or more feet tall with delicately cut leaves the texture of soft felt.  Their blossoms come in August, panicles of inconspicuous yellow flowers hidden by gray bracts.  This species  provides a nice contrast in flower arrangements and if picked and hung up-side-down  to dry before it becomes spotted with brown, can be used in winter arrangements. 

Silver mound (A.schmidtiana) is another less conspicuous and better mannered Artimisea that only grows 10 or 12 inches high.  Its soft feathery leaves form  rounded hummocks.  It  prefers dry soil, and if it it’s allowed to get too wet or too big it will break down, losing its pincushion look, so it should be divided frequently.

I thought that Dusty Miller was another of the Artimisea tribe, but  my garden books claim it belongs in the Cineraria  family which includes both annual and perennial varieties.  Their leaves are a soft gray or silvery white, providing a nice contrast to the reds , pinks and blues of a flower garden.  The Dusty Miller , Senecio  cineraria,  has very white, finely cut foliage, prefers  lots of sun, and like the Silver mound, is quite small and well-behaved.

There are many other plants with gray foliage  –  lamb’s ears, the one with velvet leaves, one of the everlastings, German statice, and of course many herbs,  sage, rosemary, horehound.  Since I don't enjoy cooking, the only herb I grow is thyme, which makes a nice ground cover, so I know nothing about how these culinary plants grow.  

Ah, the sun has just appeared,  so I can avoid revealing my ignorance of herbs and get out into the garden.  

Those Wretched Dandelions

Such an invasion of dandelions we had this spring! I assumed I'd have no trouble finding one to put in today's column, but I searched all week and that wimpy little one is the only dandelion still sporting a shaggy yellow head. All the others I saw had turned to fluff and were happily spreading their ripe seeds everywhere. 

There’s nothing dandy about a dandelion. Their  motto is “Never say die.” as everyone knows who has tried to get rid of them.  Dig as deep  as your shovel will go, loosen the soil and pull the plant with the utmost care, but I can guarantee  you’ll leave behind the last bit of the root, and that’s all a dandelion needs to produce a new plant.

This clever weed has what are called “contractile” cells living on its meristem that form the weak link, ensuring that the last bit of root will be left behind if the plant is pulled up. The cells living just below the break are called  “parenchyma” cells. They are so versatile they can divide to form any sort of plant tissue –  xylem, epidermis, phloem, etc.  (Good thing I took a botany  course once!)  The same sort of cells exist in the tail of a lizard. so he can grow a new tail.  The dandelion grows a new head.  

When these cells realize there is no longer a plant above their heads, they quickly produce dozens of new buds.  The tag end of the root also does a bit of growing so it can support those new buds, and before you know it a cluster of young plants has popped up in place of the one you thought you’d gotten rid of.

The dandelion’s  flower is actually composed of as many as 20 individual florets containing all the  parts needed to produce a seed.  Supposedly  if each tiny seed were to germinate, the earth  would be knee-deep in this hardy composite.  

Let’s face it, there will always be dandelions, so we might as well use them.  Their leaves can be  cooked  as greens or added to a salad.  Their roots can be turned into a substitute for coffee, although like most wild edible,  it doesn't compare to the real thing.  You really need to be pretty thirsty to enjoy a cup.

Dandelion wine, like dandelion coffee, is complicated to make, as the recipe requires you to pick four quarts of those yellow flowers and remove their bitter green leaves,  but the wine they produce is both palatable and potent.  My friend Edna Ford made a batch every spring, and I still remember the first time she offered me a glass.  

Dandelion wine looks  as clear and tastes as dry as a good commercial white wine,  I was under the impression that it was  a  little old lady’s drink, its alcoholic content inconsequential.  Edna and I sipped two small glasses apiece and much to my surprise, it turned out to be twice so strong that I was in such a fine state of inebriation that I was unable to drive home.

 Yesterday I suddenly remember how many dandelions had blossomed in my asparagus bed in May, and thought I'd get my camera and  go see if  I could find a bigger better blooming specimen.   I didn’t find a single one. What I did find, right nexty door in the raspberry bed, is pictured below.

                         

These are annual poppies.  They appear on Locust Hill every summer. Sometimes when their tiny black seeds are ripe in September I open their pods and sprinkle them here and there, but I’ve never put them up in the raspberry bed.  Aren’t they beautiful!