Let me give you my best Andy Rooney impression. Ahem…

“Ever wonder why we call light red pink? We don’t call light blue or light green anything but light blue or light green, unless you are one of those fancy pants designer people, which I am not.  If I call pink light red, people would look at me like I had my eyeballs painted on my forehead.   I think that we call light red pink just to confuse people, which in my opinion, just isn’t right.” Thanks, Andy.

As confusing as it might be that light red is called pink, there is an actual reason for this. The flower called pinks.  The color was named for the flower and the flower was named for a sewing term. I’ll pause and let you digest that one.

I don’t name the plants, I just question the sanity of the people who name them. So here it goes, the edges of the flowers are pinked (frayed), so they got called pinks. The pink variety were so popular at one point in time that their color just became synonymous with the name of the color. Kind of like we Google to search, Xerox to copy and use a Kleenex to blow our nose.

Anyhoo, pinks’ (the flower) latin name is Dianthus. It became known by the term pinks probably starting sometime around the 15^th century, when it was popular due to the fact that it started out as a symbol of the Virgin Mary and went on to be a symbol of the not so virgin married. In fact, there was a popular ribald story about Maximilian of Austria being told to seek a dianthus (in this case a carnation) under the dress of his new bride.  They say he spent quite a lot of time looking for it, but I suppose he found some distractions under there while he was looking.

Pinks are also called carnations or Sweet Williams, though it has been my experience that we refer to a double dianthus as a carnation, the ground cover form of dianthus as Sweet Williams and the single, more upright form as pinks.  But that could just be where I live.

And, once again, while this flower is all about love and sex on the surface, the ancient Greeks had a interesting  but horrifying story about their origin. The story goes that Artemis, goddess of hunting, was startled by a shepherd boy playing a lyre and ripped his eyes out for it. *sidenote  -You know, why the Greeks and Romans followed their gods, I will never know. It seems to me it was the historical equivalent to making Manson, Gacy and Son of Sam exalted beings.  Anyway, shortly afterwards, she felt bad and gave him dianthus flowers for his eyes. Seriously, you can do anything you want and you give him flowers for eyes?  How about giving him back his eyes, for Christ sake?

Regardless of where they supposedly come from and what effect they have had on the color term etymology, they make a lovely edition to a container or a flower bed. “And if you asked me, I think we all might be better off calling the color light red. After all, it would only be the right term.” Thanks Andy.  But I will still stick with pink.

So the legend goes that violets were created after Zeus, who is perhaps the most philandering husband ever to grace the tabloidic pages of history and myth, made love to a beautiful maiden and then changed her into a heifer who ate only violets in order to protect her from his angry wife. Apparently, they did not have multi-million dollar payoffs for mistresses back then.

*side note: Ok, just for the edification of all you men out there with supernatural powers and sex addictions… seriously, changing a woman into a heifer for any reason is not helpful to your future romantic prospects.  *

The legend goes on to say that because of this story, violets have been long associated with love and affection. Seems to me that they should be associated with back handed insults and grounds for increased alimony payments, but that is apparently just me.

Wild violets, aka sweet violets, are a love them or hate them with a passion plant.  For every person out there looking for information on how to kill violets, there is another wanting to know how to grow violets in their own yard or garden.

I have personally found violets very easy to grow. In fact, so easy that I did not have to purchase or plant them. I have 2 varieties growing in my yard, the common “blue” (which is actually purple) kind and the “freckles” variety (which is the ones pictured above). Both came courtesy of my neighbor. Not that she gave them to me, but she planted them in her yard and violets have a emigration rate that rivals Ireland’s during the Potato Famine, so I now have violets too (as do the houses 3 doors down each way). Not that I mind. I rather like them.

Wild violets are edible. In fact, a whole cottage industry has sprung up around sugaring violets for putting on wedding cakes and other food stuffs. By the way, candied violets are easy to make. Simply paint chemical free violet flowers with egg wash and sprinkle with super fine sugar. Voila (or is that viola?) you have sugared violets.

The usefulness of violets does not end there. For centuries, violets have been used in perfumes and medicines. Long ago, you didn’t take cough syrup for a persistent throat tickle, but violet syrup instead.  Of course, like many remedies of the time, its supposed curative powers did not end there. It (and snake oil) was thought to cure… well… everything.  And violet water (perfume) was a proper lady’s best friend in a world before deodorant was invented.

In France, violets were very popular in perfumes, decorations and in the garden, but for subversive reasons. After Napoleon was banished from France, the violet became a rallying image for his supporters. The rebel code name for Napoleon was “Caporal Violet” because he was the little flower that would return in the spring. Apparently, they had no problem pointing out he was short too. Regardless, the French government was so fearful of the Napoleon supporter flower power movement they actually banned images of violets.

When you consider that for centuries, these so called innocent flowers have been associated with home wreckers, quackery and acts of sedition, calling these little flowers “shy” violets seems downright wrong. Perhaps they are not invasive after all. Maybe it is all part of their plot to take over the world.

The Bearded Iris have arrived, and no, I am not talking about the main attraction in the freak show at the circus. Bearded Iris are among my most favorite flowers in the garden. As in, when I drive around town and I see a lovely color of iris growing in someone’s yard, it is the only flower that makes me consider committing a first degree misdemeanor and swiping a few. And, just for the record, I have not done it… yet

The word Iris comes from the Greek word for rainbow, which may have something to do with the fact that they come in just about any color in nature and I am willing to bet a few industrious plant breeders are working on some that come in colors that are not in nature too. I bet there would be a real market for Manic Panic Iris among the 30-something gardening crowd. You know, as a way to show our rebellious Gen-X nature without being fired for inappropriate hair color or piercings.

I am not the only one that loves Irises. If you are French, you love them like you love your country because it is the national emblem of France. Good food, good wine and a deep, patriotic appreciation for lovely flowers – tell me again why I do not currently live in France? *sigh* C’est la vie.

Irises, specifically the black iris , is also the national emblem of Jordan. Not that Jordan doesn’t seem like a nice place, but lacking the good food, and good wine (especially the wine), I am not as keen on living there.

In Japan, they are a symbol of heroes, warriors and strong men. During Tango no Sekku, the Boys’ Festival, where boys are celebrated for their courage and strength of character, the iris is prominently displayed because of its sword like leaves and boys traditionally take a bath with iris leaves on this day.

One of the nicest things about the iris is that they are absolutely a set it and forget it plant. They really only need attention every few years for division and other than that, they flower like champions.

They come in two varieties, rhizome and bulbous. (The bearded varieties are rhizomes.) Both are as easy as the other to care for. Plant them in the ground, wait till spring for bloom.

And for you really picky types (as if a world of color was not enough) they come in a huge variety of sizes. Everything for miniature to tall and sizes inbetween.

So, while they may not be as entertaining as Bearded Iris at the circus (I hear she does a pretty kinky strip show for an extra $10), irises certainly do add a spectacular display to the garden.

Now that the snow has decided to take a few day hiatus (probably to some snow spa to prepare it for the last snowstorm of the season) the early spring flowers have had a chance to stretch their petals and get some sunshine. In particular, the snowdrops have made quite a showing in my garden. I love snowdrops. It means that the torture is almost over.

True to garden naming form, while you might think that the name snowdrop has anything to with the fact that they bloom while we still have snow, you would be completely wrong. They are, in fact, named for a type of earring that was popular with Germans a few centuries ago.

Snowdrops are interesting little flowers, in that they are bulbs, but you will never find them for sale in your local Home Depot. Well, you might, but I would HIGHLY recommend that you don’t buy them as chances are they are dead. Snowdrops should be planted “in the green”. Dry bulbs have a difficult time surviving and establishing. Most reputable plant nurseries will have some stored in a fridge in the autumn.

I am in good company when it comes to my love of snowdrops. There are a few Gods and Goddesses that have take a keen liking to them as well. Mercury used them as a pharmaceutical and Brigid offered them as a promise of Spring’s return.

Apparently, it is not coincidence that snowdrops start me dreaming of Spring. Like little spring ‘shrooms, these plants have the power to make vivid dreams. An extract from the plant has been found to enhance dreaming. The substance galantamine in the plant is responsible for this. But, while better dreaming is pretty cool, better reality is even nicer. This substance is FDA approved for treatment of mild Alzheimer’s disease. It makes for more vivid reality in those who have started to slip away to a permanent dream world.

*sigh* The snow will be back in a few days (in better cold shape than ever, I bet) and the snowdrops will be hidden again. But I will know they are there which, without even having to ingest them like the desperate garden druggie I am, will bring me vivid dreams of my garden to come.

I meant to post this while I was on vacation, but, well, I was on vacation and did not feel like messing with my ‘puter. I am posting this now but backdating it to when I wrote it.

When I travel, I like to take note of the plant life around me. Not just because I am a gardener, but because it can be a good point of reference for the free wheeling traveler. For example, if I wake up from a drunken haze and peer up at a tree branch above me and see maple leaves, I know that I must have stumbled onto a plane that landed in a temperate region. If, on the other hand, if I am kidnapped by terrorists and when they take off my blindfold, I see bougainvillea vines draping the landscape, I will know that my kidnappers had the good taste to hold me in a tropical climate.

There is no better plant on the planet that better botanically represents being on vacation than the brightly hued bougainvillea. I have seen it used for everything from a shrub, a hedge, a wall covering, a pergola draping and as an unintentional camouflage for abandon buildings.

This plant is both versatile and resilient, making it perfect for regions with extreme climates, where heat is constant and in the course of a year, rainfall fluctuates between a glob of spit from a passing construction worker to monsoon. It is also just as happy to grow where monsoon is actually a season, not an occurrence as it is to grow on the fringes of the desert. But in areas where rainfall is consistently high, the plant will not flourish as well as it does in areas that have dry seasons.

But, much like a high school quarterback’s girlfriend, they are lovely to look at but painful to touch. The vines of the bougainvillea are spiked with fiendishly wicked hooked thorns. These thorns help it to climb up over competing plants, structures and slow moving vehicles. Like most tropical plants, it grows rapidly and can be a nuisance in its ideal environment.

While most people grow them for the brightly colored “flowers”, the bright colors are not flowers at all. They are bracts. The real flowers and the small white tubes that you can find hidden among the bracts.

One of the nice things about bougainvillea and what makes it so popular is that it is a year round bloomer. After blooming starts, the flowers (and bracts) will stick around for about 4 weeks and fade, and then will reappear a few weeks later to repeat the performance. As long as the plant receives some, even minimal amounts of water, it will continue in the cycle. If the plant finds itself in a severe drought situation, it will shed all of its leaves and regrow them when the water returns.

The bougainvillea is named for the French admiral Louis Antoine de Bougainville, who along with his on-ship, girlfriend smuggling botanist, “found” it in Brazil in 1768, in much the same way most Europeans “found” most things in the already populated Americas.

But, for as much as the bougainvillea represents the tropical world, the clever Dutch, the kings of horticultural miracles, are conspiring to develop a cold hardy bougainvillea. Which worries me a little bit. How the hell am I suppose to know generally where in the world I have been taken by kidnappers if these festive beauties could soon be grown anywhere in the world?

I sometimes wonder how many people in the world have a memory of mint that goes something like this…

In my parent’s yard, there was a wild spot. It seemed that no amount of weed wacking, weed pulling or weed killer would eliminate it. My mother often cursed at it, vowing to burn it out (with napalm if necessary). Why my mother hated it, I never knew at the time.

As far as I was concerned, it was a wonderful plant. My siblings and I were given full permission to nibble as we liked, and, like little menthol addicted bunnies, nibble we did. We would pull mint stalks out by the fistful and chew on them like we were miniature cowboys with cheeks full of green chaw.

Which is how I remember my parent’s overgrown mint patch. Now, my own children are developing a similar memory and I am considering napalm.

Mint is possibly one of the most invasive plants you can voluntarily put in your garden. It is extremely difficult to keep in its bounds but such a tasty addition to an herb garden that most people are willing to risk it. In my own garden, I believe that the previous owner naivety lead her to plant the mint Free Bird style.

Mint is an herb that is used in all kinds of foods from pestos to teas to desserts. Historically, it has also been used as a medicinal herb. It is used as both an appetite suppressant and stimulant. It was also used to ease arthritis, digestive problems and anxiety. At one point in time, it was even reputed to cure the ever incurable hiccups.

The Latin name for mint is mentha and refers to roughly 30 different base species of the plant (100s of varieties, though). Chances are, you have heard of Peppermint and Spearmint, but there are also varieties like apple mint, chocolate mint, ginger mint and Kentucky Colonel mint, that without you cannot acceptably watch a horse race in Kentucky as it is the mint traditionally used in mint juleps. These are just a few of the many mint varieties you can grow in your garden.

The myth behind the origins of the name Mentha reads better than an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Greek myth has it that Mentha was the name of a misguided and lovestruck water nymph who went head over flippers for an older, married man. He was a tall dark mysterious type who had a lot of power in his hands and used his power to woo the soon-not-to-be innocent young maid. She was willing to overlook the fact that he was a little creepy, being the overlord of the underworld. After all, a man is not his job, right?

Tragedy struck when his wife, Persephone, (who, for the record, was a woman who was suffering from Stockholm syndrome) found out about the tawdry relationship. She took her wrath out on the poor little nymph. She transformed Mentha into a lowly plant. She did nothing to her husband for his trespass. Apparently, it was punishment enough for her husband that he lost his hoochie mama. So what does the Mr. Wonderful do to correct his mistress’ situation? He makes it so she is “sweet smelling”. Yeah, thanks. That was helpful.

Either way, Mentha was fated to grow as she had lived. A plant that is loose and fast and gets walked on, picked up, chewed up and spit out by whatever Tom, Dick and Hades that happens to notice her. I think this is what they call a morality tale.

While I find my mint frustrating and exasperating, a small part of me leaps for joy when I see my boys ripping whole mint plants out of the back of the garden. I know they won’t be able to ever truly get rid of it and it serves as a reminder that mint is a plant that lives on eternally in both our gardens and memories.

The lily-of-the-valley are in full bloom. I have to admit, if there ever was a plant that could pass for being fake, lily-of-the-valley is it. No other flower I have ever grown looks and feels so much like plastic as does the stem and flowers of a lily-of-the-valley.

That is not to say that it is not a lovely flower. For many gardeners, lily-of the valley is the bane and bonus of the woodland garden in spring. On one hand, no other spring flower spreads as well or as fast as dear lily-of-the-valley. On the other hand, no other spring flower spreads as well or as fast as damn lily-of-the-valley.

It can withstand crappy soil, drought and damp, but put it anywhere but shade and the plant will die. They are technically native to Asia and Europe but have managed to make themselves quite at home nearly the world over.

Various legends are tied to lily-of-the-valley. It is said that it is the blood of St. Leonard after he slew a dragon, that they are the tears of the Mother Mary and yet others say that the very smell of this flower drives nightingales into a sexual frenzy.

Not quite sure why it was just nightingales in the legend as scientists actually proved that human sperm are excited by the smell of lily-of-the-valley. You read right people, not only can sperm smell, they like the smell of lily-of-the-valley. I don’t make this stuff up. I simply report it. You can make the perfume decisions later.

Technically, lily-of-the-valley is a poisonous plant. Of course that little fact has never stopped the herbalist of the world from trying to use it to cure something. Originally thought to cure a weak brain, in the modern era, low doses have been used to help with weak hearts. One has to wonder if that is somehow tied to the whole sperm thing.

For such an innocent looking little flower, lily-of-the-valley is certainly has an interesting biology. Maybe the fact that it looks like it is made of plastic is not an accident. Lurking in the shadows, exciting sperm, quickening hearts, they are like the floral version of a fetish queen.

It is a surprisingly beautiful weekend here in the great land of Cleveland. While I had thought sure that winter was going to be moving in any moment, instead we have had a glorious and prolonged Indian summer. Which is nice because it gives me the chance to clean out my garden beds. You would think that mean pulling weeds, but in reality, this means pulling strawberries.

I don’t know how the strawberries ever got into my front flower beds. I certainly did not plant them, though now I suspect that it is a nefarious revenge planned on me by some evil individual. Oh sure. Strawberries look innocent, but in good, friable soil they turn into a force to be reckoned with.

I routinely pull up dozens of strawberry plants from my flower beds. And what is worse, they have that same magical ability as deers to charm even as they are causing you to curse. Every time I am weeding the damn things, I find myself dutifully placing them in another pile so that I can find another person to pass the pain onto.

I think the problem is that strawberries are useful and delicious plants. Dandelions and purslane may be edible, but they fall into the “your mother told you to eat your greens” category so the 8 year old in your head reassures you that thowing them in the compost is not a bad thing. Strawberries are like candy. I feel as though I am throwing away a potential bon-bon. Only crazy people throw away candy, at least that is what my inner child tells me.

Even more evidence that strawberry plants can addle the brains is the fact that I also intentionally leave a few plants in the bed because I romantically think that I will be able to pick a few berries next year to nibble on. I think this despite the fact that I know that the damndable slugs will get to the berries before I do because there is no barrier between the berries and the ground.

The one thing I can walk away from this is that if I ever wanted to grow a strawberry patch, I will know exactly what I need:

how to grow a strawberry patch

1. Start with good soil. Soil that is full of organic material and is loose seems to be something they like.
2. Have good drainage. My front yard is actually elevated over my neighbors so my whole front yard is like a raised bed and has good drainage. I have read that professional strawberry farmers often have raised mounds or beds for their strawberries.
3. Direct the runners. The runners are designed to be rappelling land seekers, able to jump over and down barriers. Placing runners where you want the to grow will prevent problems like strawberries growing in your lawn (which I now have).
4. Protect the berries. Legend has it that the name strawberry comes from the fact that people like to protect the berries from slugs and pests by surrounding the plants with straw. This actually does work and will protect your own berries.

And now I am going to return to the great outdoors and finish removing my own accidental strawberry patch. Anybody need to get back at a gardening nemesis? I have need of a couple dozen strawberry plants I could send you.

I think one of the most frustrating herbs that a gardener can grow is cilantro. Despite the fact that huge bundles of it are sold in grocery stores for $.99, as if massive fields of it are grown as easily as throwing seeds at a patch of soil, here in Ohio, cilantro grows and bolts like it has the biological need to reproduce that rivals rabbits and fruit flies.  I can only grow it for entertainment value because I certainly have never been able to eat it.

So when I found an interesting little herb called Vietnamese cilantro, I was intrigued. It didn’t look like cilantro, but it smelled like it and it tasted like it. The description said it spread vigorously and could be treated like a houseplant in the winter. Damn, so what did I have to lose? Home came the little Vietnamese cilantro.

And here we are 3 months later and I have to say, I am impressed. It quickly grew to fill the planter I put it in. It is somewhat drought tolerant (for when I forget to water my containers). I have used it interchangeably with regular cilantro. I think about the only thing that bothers me is that it has an evil doppelganger growing in my garden. I will be weeding and I see it and that darn weeds looks so much like the Vietnamese cilantro that I will smell it to double check that my Vietnamese cilantro did jump the roost. But that lovely cilantro smell is not there for the weed.  Apparently this weed is Pennsylvania smartweed.    It must be on vacation because this is OHIO.  Sheesh.  It isn’t very smart, is it?

But, wiki-supposedly, Vietnamese believe that Vietnamese cilantro kills the male sexual appetite. I personally have not noticed that side effect in my husband, but when it comes to wiki facts, one has to take it with a large ocean of salt.

I have to say that I am quite pleased with this herb. It is a winner I plan on keeping growing for many years to come.

You know, the first time I remember seeing a nasturtium, I thought that there was something awfully shady about that character. Maybe it was the flashy orange blossom (though I hear she will dress in yellow or red too) or those platter shaped leaves (I mean honestly, what flower looks like that) or maybe it was her all to cozy and none to healthy relationship with aphids, but I knew that little old Nasturtium was hiding something.

And now I am vindicated. Ladies and Gentlemen of the gardening jury, I present you with the defendant – Nasturtium. OR, Miss so-called-Nasturtium should we call you Tropaeolum majus from the notorious Tropaeolaceae family. *dondondone*

*gasp*

*shock*

*amazement*

*gratuitous closeup of distraught flower*

What we commonly call Nasturtium is in fact not a nasturtium at all. If you want to get technical about it (and why not since we are in a totally fake court of garden law) a Nasturtium is what we commonly call watercress a.k.a. Nasturtium officinale.

So why would the false Nasturtium lie about it’s name? Most likely because the two plants taste alot alike. They look somewhat similar too. Considering that it grows wild in South and Central America, there is a good chance that the members of the European empires that moved into those places called it by the name of a plant that tasted like it back home, which would be Watercress, er, Nasturtium officinale .

So maybe this isn’t so much a case of false pretenses as it is a case of mistaken identity. That’s it, court adjourned. Nasturtium never meant to cause any harm, but let this be a lesson that this is just yet one more reason why common names for plants just make everything confusing.