Mystery Geranium??

Goodness. Things here have been busy. I am (most likely) going back to Hawaii this Thursday. ...The construction schedule on that job isn't a moving deadline so much as a sprinting deadline. Every day is different story/crisis/strategy. I'll be in Hawaii for a week for work and then, hopefully, another whole week for vacation. I'm hoping to spend some time on the Big Island, to visit Volcanoes National Park, Mauna Kea and Rainbow Falls. If you have any recommendations for hotels (particularly in the Hilo area) please let me know!

In addition to an upcoming trip, I have an upcoming move and have been consistently setting up appointments with clients in the DC area. I've spent so much time on a bus between NY, NJ, DC and Philly lately, I'm beginning to feel like Ratso Rizzo (though hopefully sans the untimely end).

To wit: I've been neglecting this blog a bit and haven't been snapping many photos. It's gotten so bad that I had to consult the archives and find a photo from this time last year.



Which brings me to the Geranium species we have here, growing in the Liz Christy Garden. At first, I cavalierly applied the species name maculatum to this plant, but then wondered, could it be G. sanguineum instead? Or maybe it's G. macrorrhizum, the bigroot geranium (presumably the roots are big because it has a particularly good symbiotic relationship with mvcorrhiza the nitrogen-fixing fungus beneficial to so many plants). Suffice to say, I am stumped. Wikipedia states that there are over 400 species of this genus and I just don't feel equipped to hazard a guess. For all I know it could be cultivated so aggressively that it's no longer applied to any species (see Geranium 'Rozanne'). If you have a guess or you outright know what this plant is, please do share with us!



Now then, a bit about the genus itself. The common name for Geranium is cransebill. That's because when the flower goes to seed, it forms a tall column of seeds that will spring open when they are ready to be spread. The column itself looks like the bill of a crane. This also accounts for the plant's scientific name - geranos is an ancient Greek word for 'crane'. The perennials are generally hardy and bloom this time of year in shades of pink, blue and white. I love the foliage which has a sharp aroma when crushed.

You could be wondering, but this plant doesn't look like the annual geraniums I buy...! That's because the geraniums sold as annual plants are technically Pelargonium. They used to be classified as the same genus but have since been separated into its own genus.

Daffodil Season

It seems downright insane that I have yet to blog about daffodils - at least not in any substantial manner. I mean, I'd say pretty much anyone with the most remedial plant knowledge would know a daffodil -- and most of those people would probably say they liked them, too, right? I mean, who doesn't like a daffodil?


The above is outside of Lewisohn Hall - the building that houses my department at Columbia. I have begun many first-day-of-class introductions outside that doorway and the red oak (Quercus rubra) you see in the courtyard is always featured as one of the first trees students will learn. The planting area looks pretty nifty right now, with hundreds of cyclamineus-type daffodils in bloom.



So. "Cyclamineus-type" daffodils -- what's that? Daffodils (or Narcissus) are classified into twelve (actually now, according to the American Daffodil Society, there are thirteen) divisions. Cycalmineus is one of the divisions and refers to the windswept or Cyclamen-like flowers.


Other divisions are named for the size of the flower's cup (the tubular part of the flower, technically called a corona) relative to the size of the floral leaves (or perianth). Both the flowers above and below have cups that are more than 1/3 the lengh of a petal, but don't exceed the petal's length, which means they are large cup division daffodils.


(By the way, even people who don't like bright yellow in the garden, can still have daffodils like the one above.)

If the cup was larger than the floral leaves (or if we want to be non-technical, the petals) they would be trumpet-type daffodils.



Other divisions include small cup, double-flowering, triandrus (or 'weeping'), jonquilas - which are small, fragrant and have one to three flowers per stem, tazettas (paperwhites), bulbocodiums - which have a very, very large cup and insignificant perianth, split-cupped (where as the name suggests, the corona is split into a 'second row' of petals), and division 12, which is a catch-all for types that don't fit in other categories. The ADS added the 13th division for wild, unhybridized types.


Lastly, I saved division 9 for last, since it's a favorite. They are the poeticus type daffodils, characterized by the extremely white perianth and small crinkled orange cup. Usually the cup is yellow with red trim. (I'll admit, this cup looks big for a poeticus and it could be a small cup type, but you get the idea. The true poeticus types are dashing.)

PS: I think we all know the story of Narcissus and his, well, narcissism. What I don't know is the story behind the common name daffodil - where that word came from. If anyone knows, please comment!

Philly Flower Show, Odds & Ends

A yellow theme, brought to you by a tulip company:


Eremurus stenophyllus, or desert candle:


Fritillaria persica:


A mailbox in a Beatles-themed garden. I'm not sure how that relates to the 'Passport to the World' theme, but what's not to like in a yellow submarine mailbox?


Veltheimia bracteata, or forest lily:

Orchids

Here's the last few shots of some beautiful hybrid orchids from Adore Florist in Noho. Most plant enthusiasts probably know that the orchid family, orchidaceae, is the largest family of flowering plants. There are, approximately, 880 genera and 22,000 species of orchid.



I'm guessing that these beautiful fuchsia stems are hybrids of the Vanda orchids, as Vandas may have magenta flowers, take easily to hybridization, and are popular among florists. But with all those genera to chose from, I'm only hazarding a guess. I love orchids, but only as much as the next person. Someday, when I live elsewhere than New York City (and thus have light and can avoid the searingly dry heat that comes with steam-powered radiators every winter) I will experiment further with orchid care. For now, I'm focused on keeping spider plants and sanseveria alive.



When I was a kid living in Malaysia, we had orchids - mostly Oncidiums, I think - growing in the trees of our yard. Like most of the orchids in subtropical or tropical regions, these plants were epiphytes; that is, they lived in the canopies of trees, benefitting from the canopy's microclimate without detriment to the host tree (just like the previously-mentioned Spanish moss).



Orchids in temperate regions are usually terrestrial, so New York natives like Platanthera and Spiranthes appear quite different from the orchids we see in flower shops. What groups such seemingly different looking plants into Orchidaceae are several characteristics: they are monocots (more primitive flowering plants that exhibit parallel veins); they have one modified petal that's called a lip or labellum; and finally, the reproductive parts of the orchid's flower are fused into one column (similar to, but different from the staminal columns of, for instance, Hibiscus).

More from the Florist, & my memories of working at one

When I was in college and grad school, I worked at a florist during the busy periods, namely Homecoming (lots of mum boutonnieres), Mother's Day (whatever arrangement was being pushed by FTD) and of course, Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day was arduous; we would begin working all-nighters starting around the 11th or 12th, putting together arrangements, stripping roses of thorns, taking orders.


It's always amused me that florists are depicted in romantic comedies as mellow, sensitive, easy-going souls. Most recently, Ashton Kutcher plays one in the insipid-looking Valentine's Day. I never saw the movie, but Jennifer Aniston played one in that movie with Aaron Eckhart too, and both trailers would suggest their characters - Aniston's & Kutcher's - support this stereotype. Me, I'm remembering Christian Slater in Bed of Roses - he falls in love with Mary Staurt Masterson from afar, and then sends her flowers anonymously. I think there's also a scene where he's spying on her outside her apartment, which once again prove that whatever's supposed to be angsty and romantic in movie life is actually stalker-y and crazy in real life (I'm looking at you, Lloyd Dobler).



Anyway, this image of the peaceful florist always makes me laugh, because I remember the first one I worked for. She was the most high-stress woman I'd ever met. 5'1" and barely 100 pounds, she was a ferociously hyper, chain-smoking handful of woman (once we actually had a customer complain that her flower arrangement smelled like cigarettes. Oops.). You can understand the pressure, too. On Valentine's Day, a florist has maybe tens of thousands of dollars worth of merchandise, all of which is highly perishable. I don't know the exact statistic, but it'd be safe to say a typical florist can probably make around 10% of their annual profit on this one day. So, I understood my boss being a bit...edgy.



The other thing that's rarely touched on, is that florists really know everything that's going on in a small town. They know who's dead, who's getting married, who's birthday it is. They even know who cheats. I remember a man coming in and giving me two orders, to two different women. One got an order of roses, the other got carnations. My boss told me, after he left, that the girlfriend got the roses, the wife got carnations. Yuck.



Sadly, I realize this post would have been far more topical last week - it may have even gotten picked up by another website. Alas, it was only after this past snow that I was antsy enough to go find some greenery! Perhaps it's just as well; maybe we're happier to think that florists are zen Earth-mother or father figures. Even if, to me, the more relatable movie character for a florist may be Seymour Krelborn.

Ranunculus, and a plaintive plea for spring

I am so, so very sick of this snow. February is, to me, the bitterest month. It's cold, it's bleak and this month, the snow has been relentless. I've yet to see even the tiniest bit of Crocus foliage sprout and the snow makes it hard to even spend much time outdoors.

But, the days are lengthening, ever so slowly. And there is always the Duane Reade official sign of spring, the Peep (TM):



It's getting me so rammy that I finally decided to take some snapshots of plants at a florist. So I walked over to Adore Floral in Noho to see what they had blooming in a climate-controlled showroom.



I'll post a few other shots later this week but today we'll focus on Ranunculus asiaticus, or the Persian buttercup. This species of Ranunculus is native to the Mediterranean region and is a protected flower in Israel. It prefers a dry light soil, hot summers and mild winters.



Because it comes in a wide variety of colors and the big flower heads (with rows and rows of petals), it's a popular favorite in the floral industry, though the blossoms are still quite fragile.



Ranunculus are commonly called buttercup due to the buttery yellow color of another Ranunculus species, R. acris. Ranunculus itself is Latin for "little frog" (Rana=frog) because some species of this genus can be found near wetlands, which are also frequented by frogs.



Speaking of etymology, if the species name acris caught your eye, you'd be interested to know that indeed it is given this name because the plant has a bitter acrid taste that can be fatal to livestock if ingested fresh. It's unlikely, however that a cow or horse would eat much of it, due to the taste and the mouth blisters that animals will get after eating only a little of this plant. If humans handle the plant too much, they will also get a case of dermatitis caused by chemicals that can be released from the plant.

Christmas Rose & the Guggenheim

Recently the New York Botanical Garden invited me (or more accurately, they invited New York Plants & Other Stuff) to a sneak peak of their holiday train show.

If you haven't been, definitely check it out. I had been once before in 2003, but forgot how much fun it is to see these models of New York City sights made out of plant material. Paul Busse, a landscape architect and principal of his firm Applied Imagination, fashions hundreds of buildings, using only bark, seeds, petals and leaves, etc.. He even uses lichens. To wit, one of my favorites had to be the Guggenheim:


Of course, I also had to walk around the grounds and check out what was happening in the garden. Helleborus niger or Christmas rose or black hellebore, immediately caught my eye. Like Lenten rose, Christmas rose is named such due to the season in which it blooms. The common name black hellebore is applied becuase the rhizome (a long, flat tuber or bulb-like
structure) is black.


The flower structure you see above is a bit unusual. The white parts that look like petals are sepals. The larger, stringy yellow parts that look like stamens are actually nectaries, petals that have been modified to hold nectar. Pollinators are usually bees and flies.


Hellebores have a rich history of medicinal use. The plant's roots contain two chemicals, helleborein - which can be considered a cardiac poison, and helleborin, a narcotic posion. Highly toxic, the plant can be used as an emmenagogue, cathartic, diuretic or cardiac stimulant in low doses. Higher concentrations of Helleborus niger can cause death allegedly by relentless spasms and exhaustion. Wow, right? Apparently in ye olden times the plant was used to treat such outdated afflictions as hysteria, insanity and my new favorite word: dropsy, which is sort of like an extreme bloatedness.

Next week I'll be posting more photos of Busse's models along with some new plants.

High Line, Perennials

Even though it was late November when I visited the High Line, there was still a fair amount of perennials in bloom.

If you didn't know plants well, you may pause when seeing this plant, thinking it's a spring crocus. It is a crocus, but it's Crocus pulchellus or autumn crocus. Like the word 'pulchritude' pulchellus is derived from the Latin word for beautiful. I only saw one of these plants in the whole park and I wonder if some of them didn't survive since most bulbs are planted in the fall and not spring.

Aster tataricus, or tartarian aster, was a new plant for me. I recognized the flowers instantly as an aster or aster-like plant, but the coarse, dentate foliage was unlike the leaves I usually associate with the genus.

It turns out that Aster tartaricus root has been used by Chinese cultures as an expectorant, antifungal and antibacterial for over 2000 years. There is also a cancer-fighting chemical in the root though its success is not clearly documented.

The photos below are that of Knautia macedonica, or pincushion plant. You may recognize it as similar to the more ornamental Scabiosa, also called pincushion plant, and indeed the two are closely related.

Knautia is named for a botanist, but I found myself wondering what the root word was for its cousin, Scabiosa. Turns out that the rough leaves of Scabiosa were thought to be a cure for scabies and the name Scabiosa was applied.

Later this week we'll look at some of the grasses, shrubs and trees.

Brugmansia

Central Park Zoo has a great collection of moderately hardy plants - the horticulturist there who oversees the grounds is always pushing the zonal limits for different species. I always love to see what he has growing there.


Brugmansia is one of these plants. Native to South America, this plant typically thrives in frost-free climates but has tolerated the Manhattan climate, for now.


Of course, it thrives in a warmer climate. For comparison to the above Central Park plant, here's shot of one growing in Barcelona:

Brugmansia is in the Solanaceae family, or the nightshade family. It is related to tomatoes, potatoes and some peppers. But, it's also related to some highly toxic plants and this species can be fatal if ingested in the wrong doses.


It's poison can have psychotropic effects, but it's toxicity makes ingesting the plant a very dangerous gamble. It has been used in shamanic practices by people from Peru and Amazonia.


Brugmansia is named for a botanist, Sebald Justin Brugmans.

Grape Leaf Anemones

Over the years of working in high-end residential design, certain perennials have consistently been used - earning a loyalty from designers due to their long period of flowers, the heartiness (and hardiness) and simple beauty. Anemone tomentosa 'Robustissima' is definitely among that group.


It can start to bloom as early as August and lasts well into November. It's an elegant perennial with soft pink or white blossoms and foliage that, as the common name indicates, looks a bit like grape leaves.


Anemone is from the Greek word for wind, anemos - legend has it that anemone flowers sprouted from the tears wept by Aphrodite after the death of Adonis. Of course, I think that story would refer more to Anemone blanda, or windflower, which is a bulb native to Greece.

Castor Oil Plant

Sitting next to those hollyhocks in the Tuileries I had mentioned a few weeks ago, I found an infamous plant by the name of Ricinus communis, or castor oil plant.


When processed, the seeds of this plant produce an oil that has been used for a wide variety of homeopathic uses. However, the actual seeds, if ingested raw, can be lethally toxic. The deadly ricin gas is also harvested from this plant.


Above you can see the showy seed pods. The seed inside resembles a kind of Mediterranean sheep tick , which is why the plant is called Ricinus (ricinus, in Latin, refers to ticks).

Hollyhocks on the Tuileries

In the posts to come, you will see that I was in Paris and Barcelona for the past two weeks. I have lots and lots of photos to share. But we'll start back with a somewhat brief post.

I love these dark, almost perfectly-black hollyhocks (Alcea rosea) growing in the parterre gardens at the west side of the Tuileries.



The last hollyhock I posted, though very tall, was not the best specimen of this wonderful perennial.

You may notice the staminal column in the flower and realize that this is a Malvaceae family plant and is related to Hibiscus syriacus and H. moscheutos.



Now then, but why the great name hollyhock? I was hoping to find some clever story about the origin of the common name, but unfortunately I have been able to dig up was that it's derivative of the old English word holyoke. Ah well.

Baseball

Last night I caught the third game in the Mets-Braves series at Citi Field. Though my heart belongs to the Yankees, I'll happily root against the Braves. Sadly, the Braves won.

On the bright side, I got to see a baseball game in August in the lovely new Citi Field. Now I don't know much about baseball, but aesthetically I'd say the stadium was a big improvement on Shea. Or, for that matter, the former Yankees Stadium (I know. It's the house that Babe built. But really, it's not a great stadium.). Anyway, I was surprised at how much I noticed the smaller size and what a difference it made to me as a spectator. The amp system wasn't too annoying, the seats were comfortable and, wow: cup holders.

The landscape around the stadium wasn't too bad either. You could see from the photo below that they were going for a more natural, informal look. I'm not sure they quite achieved it.


The photo above shows purpletop (Tridens flavus) and Rudbeckia, which are both great plants for a native palette. But in the foreground, Nepeta and a species of Cotoneaster are lurking, neither of which scream to me Piet Ouldolf. Damn if I don't have a picture of them (then again, come on: my mind was on the game.). The trees are Ginkgo biloba - a great tree, but again, a pin oak would match a native palette better and probably fare well in this spot. (I'd love to say a sugar maple would be a good candidate but no doubt these are discouraged due to the Asian Longhorned Beetle.)



The above, overexposed, photo is of the Jackie Robinson Rotunda. It's a nice moment where you're not quite indoors or outdoors. The cutouts almost remind me of a James Turrell piece.

Finally, I can't write about a baseball game without a shot of the field. I wish I knew more about baseball - baseball fans, to me, seem to be the most starry-eyed. But for the time being, I can at least appreciate a place where I can enjoy a refreshing breeze, a cold beer and a hot dog. Oh, and of course, where I can root for the home team.

Gaura

I have been eyeing this median strip planting on Houston Street for a few weeks now. Each day on my way to work, I mean to stop by and take a few photos of the Gaura that's blooming there.

I finally got around to it yesterday.


Gaura lindheimeri or Gaura, or wandflower or butterfly gaura is a sweet, light, long blooming native perennial. The tall stems on which the flowers sit - in the right planting - can catch the wind easily, thus the name for this cultivar, 'Whirling Butterflies.'


Guara is derivative of the Greek word 'gauros' which means superb, majestic and proud. Lindheimeri comes from the name of Ferdinand Jacob Lindheimer, a German-born man who ultimately found political exile in Texas. He is considered the 'Father of Texas Botany' - at least according to his wikipedia page.

Papaver somniferum

Below is the notorious Papaver somniferum or opium poppy, growing in Giverny, France. Most people probably know that this plant is responsible for the drugs morphine, codeine and of course, heroin.

Poppies were first recorded as a cultivated plant by Sumerians around 4000BC. They called it the 'plant of joy' presumably due to the narcotic effects the plant had on them.



The seed pods themselves are quite sculptural in the garden but no, you probably won't be able to do much with this plant in its rare form. (Not that you'd try.) The process of converting the milky sap of the fruit into a drug is fairly complicated, as I recently learned in an article on PBS Frontline. But you can enjoy the lovely flower of this annual, self-seeding plant. You can also enjoy poppyseed muffins, but remember what happened to Elaine on Seinfeld.



There are over 100 species of Papaver. Though I cannot find out why this plant was given the genus name Papaver, somniferum refers to the sleep-inducing qualities of this plant.