Branches of blossom & the growth of weeds
Monday 15 March
Tulips. The brownies are first and utterly glorious they are too. One of the many benefits of having committed to this daily journal is that I can now compare the years with each other. These brownies are some three weeks earlier than last year. Last year, they were later than the pink quince and the Tai-Haku cherry. At first glance, a coppery orange, strong and bold. On closer inspection, there are the most beautiful streaks along the side. A slice of green. A touch of pink. A wrinkle, as if there is a little parrot somewhere in their genetic heritage. Tulips are a true cutting flower. Those fields of millions in Holland, reds and yellows as far as the eye can see, leave me cold. It is the intimacy of tulips that makes my heart rise and my fingers tingle. One stem, a bunch at a stretch, cut and placed in a vase so their beauty is at eye level as I drink my morning coffee or sit down to my supper. That is how tulips should be enjoyed, admired, appreciated, devoured. How can you not love anything that dies so dramatically?
A note: Snakeshead fritillaries are similarly compelling when viewed at close quarters. Have you ever seen anything so compelling?
Tuesday 16 March
I am all for flowers, evidently, but not in everything. The endeavour cabbages are bolting, a complete failure of nurturance on my behalf. Some pak choi is now twelve inches tall and covered in tiny yellow buds. Even the cavolo nero is falling drunkenly and throwing out long spears of fine, intricate flowers of stalks. I heard that these were as tasty as purple sprouting broccoli. Do you know if this is true? I haven't tried them yet. Flowering vegetables are usually equated with bitterness and so I am not sure this is true. Maybe before the yellow flowers have burst into full bloom. Predictably, the only thing not running to seed is the purple sprouting broccoli. I give it encouraging words as I go past although I also wish I had given it more room. It is so hard to remember when you put a tiny seedling in the ground that, one day, they will take up so much space. There is a metaphor in there somewhere. That we must tolerate apparent waste and negative space in the short term for abundance in the long. Or maybe I just need a longer stick to use for my spacings.
Wednesday 17 March
Branches of blossom are now scattered around the cottage. Even the autumn flowering variety has put on a flush of blooms. The softest of pink, hanging downwards to show the delicate outers. Plum blossom is open and honest, a perfect flower, like one doodled on a notebook during a long science lesson. Sloe is a disappointing blossom though. It is shaggy and ragged. The air only has to be damp before it browns at the edges and looks even more tatty. If it wasn't for the need to have a constant supply for gin, I would replace the lot with greengages.
Thursday 18 March
I put the forcer over the rhubarb. There is a time in the new year when one is eating the harvest of the last; chard that is doggedly holding on, leeks that have been standing through the long winter. The house is still decorated with dried honesty, although Clare Bowen says that it is key to financial prosperity in her new book, The Healing Power of Flowers, so maybe I will keep that. I have started to crave fresh. Sharp pink rhubarb on the plate. A hot red tulip with an elegant curving shape on the bedside table. Fresh clean linen sheets. A new start. Change. Difference.
Friday 19 March
I am going to confess to the heresy of not really liking wild garlic pesto. Maybe I leave it too late in the season before I get round to it, maybe it is just me, but it always tastes a bit grassy. Mixed with nettle tops and goats cheese and baked in a tart case though? Now you are talking. (Recipe by Gill Meller in his wonderful Root Stem Leaf Flower.)
Saturday 20 March
A day in the field. It is slightly overwhelming at this stage of the season. Growth is fragile (I have lost more seeds to mice this year than ever before and I wonder how any of my tulips bulbs made it through the winter...) but weeds are robust. I keep meaning to buy that book that lists what weeds are telling us. A bit of preliminary research suggests that the thorns in my particular side (groundsel, nettles, docks, and henbit) are all indicators of rich, fertile and generous soil so I really shouldn't complain too much. I am also plagued by hairy bittercress, a weed that pops thousands of seeds out as soon as you touch it. What does that tell me? I didn't get on top of my weeding last year either and I need to get my hoe out sharpish.
Much love,
G x
