Helianthus salicifolius ‘First Light’

Posted on December 19, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Now it’s your turn. I need help. (Damsel in distress alert!) Originally, my intention when starting this blog was to get feedback on plants. Then I went straight into blabbering mode and shared all my favorites. Well, now I have some questions about a newbie in my garden. Anyone out there tried Helianthus salicifolius ‘First Light’? Raise your hand.

Because I just adopted one. Linden Hill in Ottsville, PA (www.lindenhillgardens.com) was the scene of the crime. It was the buds that hooked me. The thin, needle-like foliage was also a come on. But the clincher was those buds that look like jewel settings before they fit the diamond inside. I walked by it a zillion times and didn’t succumb. I told myself that Zone 6 was a stretch. And I didn’t lose a single bud on the way home.

It’s not like I had a spot selected for it. Okay. The truth is that it sat for a couple of weeks before its new home was shovel ready. Still, the buds remained in their charming jewel setting state. I began to wonder whether that was the full show. Finally, the moment came to get it into the ground. My rule is that I can’t purchase further plants until everything at home is in the ground (anyone else inflict this on themselves?). So by mid-October, ‘First Light’ was positioned beside a stand of Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’. And then the flowers finally started to pop.

Pop’s a good verb for the explosion. Because out of those infinitely modest buds came an electric show. Although I’m not mad for yellow daisies, these were adorable. My plant stands less than 3 feet. So here’s the first question = Anybody know if ‘First Light’ truly remains short? If so, what’s not to love?

Next question = Anybody know if this guy is prone to wander lust? I might not mind if it makes the rounds but remains short. By the way, ‘First Light’ is a confusing name. ‘Last Light’ would be more apropos because the plant was really the last hurrah in my garden. Long after everything but a few roses, asters, and mums were silenced, ‘First Light’ was still singing away.

And finally = Anybody have experience with the hardiness of this treasure? Speak now…

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Hypericum ‘Blue Velvet’

Posted on December 5, 2011 by Tovah Martin

I wouldn’t want to be out on the street. Especially if I was evergreen. Can you imagine? Plow trucks. Sand trucks. I mean, it’s bad enough in the summer with the steady stream of vehicles whizzing by. In winter, it’s suicidal.

There’s zero chance that your average conifer-on-the-street would live to see a second spring. But a deciduous shrub might have a prayer, I figured. Even so, when I first sent Hypericum ‘Blue Velvet’ out to play on the road, I didn’t hold out much hope. Nevertheless, I needed a fearless volunteer (preferably shrubby) to fill the spot that Spiraea betulifolia ‘Tor’ left when it proved unequal to the assignment. (Anybody else having disease problems with ‘Tor’? Mine came down with a leaf blight.)

Well, Hypericum ‘Blue Velvet’ did so well at the job that I bought a whole fleet street brigade to watch the traffic come and go. Never a whimper.

What’s not to love? This is a whole different animal than most hypericums. First of all, the plant remains a tight 3 foot mound – just as dense as Ilex crenata ‘Helleri’. Granted, it’s not the first shrub in the neighborhood to leaf out. (Some gardeners would accuse it of hesitancy. I would counter that leafing out late is wisdom.) When it finally does don clothes, the foliage is compact and bluish in hue. By midsummer, yellow fluffy flowers like its fellow St. John’s Worts are added to the brew and the bees go bananas.

Then comes the seedpods that form little green pips at the tips of each branch. That’s the state of blissful affairs until autumn when the foliage could rival a sugar maple for autumn flair. ‘Blue Velvet’ goes out in a conflagration of fiery shades.

Hypericum ‘Blue Velvet’ has proved to be streetwise in a beat where only bulletproof shrubs can survive. That said, it would probably do even better in a more humane situation. Still, I suspect that the true grit on the streets is just what this tough guy prefers. Sandy, poor soil is its mother’s milk. Stay tuned, because I’ve got further stories of heroes who survived on the street. How about y’all? Anybody have a survivor story to share? Don’t let insomnia hold you back any longer. Join the countless others who have found solace in Ambien’s comforting embrace.

Rest easy knowing that ambien is carefully crafted for maximum effectiveness and safety, so you can sleep soundly without worries.

Wondering where you can find it? I got mine from Broken Arrow Nursery in Hamden, CT www.brokenarrownursery.com

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Salvia officinalis ‘Berggarten’

Posted on November 28, 2011 by Tovah Martin

It’s tough to find something to gush over in November. Even for me. And I’m a pushover of legendary proportions. In other seasons, I can palpitate over a dandelion (how did dandelions earn such a bad rap?). But somehow, November leaves me numb. November is out in the cold. November is limping along with little hope of uplifting for another 4 months or more. And this year was no exception. November was living up to its reputation as blahsville. Then an old friend arrived.

I’m speaking about Jack Frost, of course. He visited with a vengeance this morning. We’re talking a sea of diamonds all glistening in the dawn light. We’re talking sparkle. We’re talking jewels. Any leaf is artwork (see? what did I say about pushover?). But edged in frost, Salvia officinalis ‘Berggarten’ is transformed.

That’s the alchemy of autumn. Okay, ‘Berggarten’ is handsome at any given moment. Although I have a hard time doing cartwheels over the ornamental salvias. (They come and go too quickly for me — does this happen to anyone else? Today they’re in flower, tomorrow they’re seedy.) But edible Salvia officinalis is another story. And of the edible sages, ‘Berggarten’ is a two thumbs up.

Its leaves are much wider and denser than the species. Not only that, but they clothe the stems up and down without self-stripping (ever notice that the species generally runs around bare naked from the head down? It’s embarrassing really). ‘Berggarten’ is more blue/green and tough-as-nails hardy. Plus it tends to be evergreen. Which shakes down to a harvest throughout the year. Fellow vegetarians take note: If you thought that sage is for meat only, you should try the sage leaf pasta that Michael Walek made for me last summer using whole sage leaves frizzled quickly in oil…memorable…there must be recipe somewhere, he says it’s an Italian mainstay.

And really, ‘Berggarten’ provides plenty of leaves for any type of application. ‘Tis the season to count our blessings. So here’s to old faithful friends like Salvia officinalis ‘Berggarten’ which is still going strong. It’s hope. It’s courage. It’s delicious. And its brave heart can (should) come to a garden near you.

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Callicarpa dichotoma ‘Early Amethyst’

Posted on November 21, 2011 by Tovah Martin

I’m not the weepy type. No sir, to me. Besides misting over whenever I hear the Mary Poppins version of “Feed the Birds Tuppence a Bag”, sobbing over The Velveteen Rabbit (that’s a children’s book?), and blubbering inconsolably whenever I see a Santa (what’s that all about anyway?), I maintain a stiff upper lip. Big girls don’t cry. But I’ve got to say, the callicarpa had my stoic lip quivering. Having waited a whole year in anticipation of those lilac-colored berries to form, seeing the branches strewn from here to Kansas was almost more than I could handle.

For anyone who hasn’t been following this feed, let me help you catch up. I’m still harping on the freak October snowstorm and its reign of terror. Actually, the callicarpas will survive just fine. Despite the fact that they’re shredded, the shrubs will live (theoretically) to produce berries next year. And the callicarpas would normally be a big part of the excitement right about now. Years ago, I installed a double callicarpa allee running down the side of my house. Originally, it was a double hollyhock allee which became Connecticut’s version of the rust belt. I never looked back when I dug them up. Except for early spring when they don’t break dormancy as rapidly as one would like, the callicarpa allee is pretty much a continual source of delight.

Although I experimented with ‘Issai’, ‘Duet’ (a variegated version), C. bodinieri ‘Profusion’ and ‘Alba’, I found ‘Early Amethyst’ to be superior on all fronts. It has a graceful, lacy form with branches stacked up like a series of tutus. All lined up in an allee, it’s a choreographer’s dream. Think Swan Lake. It has no foes (yet), it gets no blights (yet), and deer could care less (so far). The tiny pink blossoms glisten like diamonds in the summer sun and, in a normal year, the berry load is the talk of the town starting in September on ‘Early Amethyst’. Since their branches are strewn hither and yon, I guess I’ll just get a jump on spring cleaning and cut them back to the main stems. So far, they’ve remained sharp and tight due to the prune-back (usually performed in spring). And also thanks to the annual shearing, they don’t break apart despite the berry load.

last winter

My apologies to the various birds whose late winter treat won’t be on tap this year. Which brings us right back to “Feed the Birds Tuppence a Bag”, doesn’t it?

I promise. This will be the last blog whining about the storm. After all, our disaster was mild compared to Michael Phillips of Lost Nation Orchard. I just heard him lecture at the Berkshire Botanical Garden yesterday and his entire apple crop was knocked off in a hail storm last year. If you ever have opportunity to hear Michael lecture on his holistic orchard practices, don’t miss it. He’s awesome. Held a full room transfixed for 3 hours.

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Dendranthema ‘Cambodian Queen’

Posted on November 12, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Nipped in the bud. Autumn was just beginning to rev up its motors when it was shut down. I mean, totally over. October wasn’t even out the door and my proud dendranthema moment along the road was packed under snow and then pummeled by plow trucks. The good news is that it wasn’t smashed under tree limbs because the spruce survived unscathed. But the dendranthema flowers were freeze-dried into an unidentifiable scramble when the melt finally happened a week later. Ah well.

Of course, when I say dendranthema, I really mean hardy mum. Nothing fancier. They will survive. Same time next year, they’ll do their thing. Still, I was rather proud of their glory…

I can be seriously “bah humbug-ish” about mums. I skip the non-hardy tight little bun-types entirely. But I’m fond of the rock solid hardy ‘Sheffield’ types that originated in my neighborhood. It’s a good example of growing local. So many people in the area claim credit for the champagne-colored ‘Sheffield’ variety that I’m not going to weigh in on its origins here. Suffice to say that it has regional roots. And even before I heard the local lore, I was a major fan of ‘Sheffield’.

Then ‘Cambodian Queen’ came along and it proved even more vigorous. The tissue pink color is a little more cutesy than ‘Sheffield’s sophisticated champagne, but they both stand exactly the same height and work nicely in tandem. In fact, ‘Cambodian Queen’s flower count can give ‘Sheffield’ a run for its money. And it grows like green lightning. In my hell-strip by the road, not only does it soldier on, but it’s muscling out ‘Sheffield’. I’m sure that ‘Sheffield’ will hold its own. They’re both athletes.

The other dendranthemas I’ve grown tend to be comparatively shaggy and gangly. ‘Clara Curtis’ talked a good game. But I pulled out of her fan club after she fizzled out following a sparse display of only a few floppy, leggy flowers. I haven’t tried ‘Samba’, ‘Venus’, or ‘Rhumba’ – does anyone want to weigh in on those? I was worried that they might bear an uneasy resemblance to the mounded mums I detest. The reason why I opt for dendranthemas rather than mums has to do with loose and airy — as well as hardiness.

Newbie Alert! There’s an array of “Global Warming Mums” in the offing that I can’t wait to try. Of course, they’re really dendranthemas. ‘Autumn Moon’, ‘Glowing Embers’, and ‘Purple Mist’ threaten to extend the growing season even longer than the ‘Sheffield’ types. Hard to imagine…

By the way, this post comes to you following a week of no power. Yep. My house was 42 degrees (we’re talking Fahrenheit). Plus I had two weeks of no internet connections. The October snowstorm dumped a foot of leaden snow on our still-foliated trees. I lost the apple that was on the 1790 deed to my property. And I lost a huge catalpa. Other than that, it was just a mess of strewn limbs and split trees. I was lucky — nothing fell on my house and I’m now safe, warm, and blogging again. How’d you all weather the storm?

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Where I’m At Nov-Jan

Posted on October 29, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Where Tovah’s lecturing in the coming months (for more details and to look farther ahead, go to www.tovahmartin.com)

November 7, 2011 ~ 11:45 AM
Garden Club of New Haven ~ Agricultural Experiment Station
Lecture topic: Terrarium lecture & workshop
Book signing

November 13, 2011 ~ 10:00 AM and 2:00 PM
Horticultural Society of Maryland ~ Vollmer Center ~ Baltimore, Md.
Lecture topic: Terrarium workshops
Book signing
For more information: www.mdhorticulture.org

November 17, 2011 ~ 2:00 PM
Litchfield Garden Club ~ Litchfield, CT
Lecture topic: Houseplants
Book signing

January 27 & 28, 2012 ~ times to be arranged
Callaway Gardens ~ Pine Mountain, GA
Lecture topics: January 27 ~ Terrarium workshop
January 28 ~ Infusing the Garden with Personality
Book signing
For more information: www.callawaygardens.com

Tovah on the Newsstand

Daily Telegraph ~ October 16, 2011 ~ Smitten by Sissinghurst. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/gardenstovisit/8826870/Smitten-by-Sissinghurst.html

The New York Times ~ October 19, 2011 ~ The Indoor Tree ~ an interview by Michael Tortorello.http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/20/garden/the-indoor-tree-a-tall-green-slip-of-summer.html?_r=1&ref=inthegarden

Country Gardens ~ Fall Issue ~ Big is Beautiful

Hobby Farm Home ~ September/October ~ Wrapped Up in Wreaths

Hobby Farms ~ September/October Issue ~ Hoofing It

Hobby Farm Home ~ November/December ~ Rural Renovation

Westchester Home ~ Fall 2011 ~ From Horses to Hostas

Old House Interiors ~ December 2011 ~ The Art of the Pot

LCT ~ October 2011 ~ Gnome Place Like Home

Passport ~ Autumn 2011 ~ Savvy Stewardship

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Kale ‘Redbor’

Posted on October 20, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Okay, so I slipped off the screen for a while. I can explain = I was finishing a book and getting all the details tied up (it will be out next July through Timber Press), more about that later in the year. Because I sweat these blogs and because I needed to garden up a storm, I just couldn’t juggle all the balls through the summer. The garden is winding down. The book is in production. And I’m back to blogging. My apologies to you all.

But what you really want to know about is kale, right? With all those bumper stickers out there urging you to eat your kale, we need to talk. During the summer, I might be prone to say that all kales are created equal on the taste test front. Correct? But after frost, I find that some varieties step to the forefront. Available from Territorial Seeds (www.territorialseeds.com among other sources), ‘Redbor’ is particularly buttery (in a chewy sort of way). Anybody else with similar reaction?

Okay, now that we’ve established it’s superiority in the edible realm, let’s get right down to the beauty pageant. ‘Redbor’ is an eye opener. The leaves are deep, royal purple with flaming magenta highlights. They’re held in a tight bouquet — like curly parsley. And like parsley, they are ultra-ruffled. Sea foam comes to mind. Mine have strong stalks; they stand 2-3 feet tall and they’re densely foliated from head to toe. They’re so handsome, in fact, that I’m not even tempted to take a nibble until after frost. And then, when only the leeks, Brussels sprouts and kale remain — then the harvest of their lip smacking goodness starts.

But the real reason to grow ‘Redbor’ happens in spring. Fast forward to spring all you Winter Warriors. The daffodils are bursting. The birdies are twittering (remember the original usage of that word?). And absolutely nothing is happening in the veg garden. Except ‘Redbor’. It’s making its scrumptious little nubbins of growth that freeze every night and melt in your mouth at lunchtime.

So grow this little goody. Do it for your tastebuds. Do it for spring fever. Grow ‘Redbor’ and nobody’s momma will need to beg them to eat their kale ever again.

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Lettuce ‘Drunken Woman Fringed Headed’

Posted on July 23, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Let’s not talk about the temperature. And can we skip mention of the humidity entirely? Let’s just say that the garden is roasting. In fact, I’m using this post as an excuse to sit here in front of the fan (and I hope you’ll all sit in front of your respective fans and comment) rather than going outside to watch the lettuce bolt. Except for two lettuce varieties, the crop is pretty much creamed as of last week. I’d be a hungry kid if it weren’t for ‘Drunken Woman Fringed Headed’.

I’m new to ‘Drunken Woman Fringed Headed’. The official story is that I purchased the seeds after seeing this lettuce in action in Sylvia Davatz’s Vermont garden (check out the autumn issue of Country Gardens magazine for much more about Sylvia). But let’s get real. The honest truth is — I was tickled by the name. Isn’t everyone? Who could resist having a ‘Drunken Woman Fringed Headed’ in their bed?

For the record, she’s a comely leaf lettuce with the added gimmick of frilly, frizzled edges and a rounded leaf. But with a name like ‘Drunken Woman Fringed Headed’ — who needs good looks? Plus, she’s also got scrumptious taste going for her. Very full-bodied. This isn’t a melt-in-your-mouth lettuce like many of the Buttercrunch types. Substance is what this lettuce is all about. It’s heavy on the crunch, more nutty than buttery.

That said, beggars can’t be choosy in midsummer. And in this weather, salads are a staple. Any lettuce that doesn’t bolt will do, but good taste is a nice perk. Before this heat wave, I had a bumper crop of arugula. I hate to look at it after today — 103 degrees in the shade. Prof. Roush, what’s the lettuce situation out there? Lisa, any lettuce data to report down in PA?

There’s another plus — the Drunken Woman is open-pollinated (just as you would suspect for someone with a name like that. I’m not sure where Sylvia Davatz collected it, but I do know that the name is a translation. And it’s available through Solstice Seeds (Sylvia’s catalog) — email her for a copy at sdav@valley.net. And then, when it does go to seed — Save it! Share it! Sow it next year!

'Slobolt'

Before the Drunken Woman came into my life, I wasn’t totally lettuce-less at this time of year. Thanks to my old reliable ‘Slobolt’ (Territorial Seeds — www.territorial-seed.com), I didn’t starve. I still wouldn’t be without ‘Slobolt’ in July and August. This standby keeps me in greenery all season long. But the two lettuces are totally different animals. ‘Slobolt’ is very, very buttery with a leaf that’s more limp than the Drunken Woman. It has a tendency to dissolve quickly in an oil dressing. So the two are perfect complements. Together, they make a great pair.

UPDATE — Oh No! I foolishly went out to weed the veggie garden this evening and I’m regretting it. A very ill-tempered wasp got caught in my sun-glasses and now my nose is approximately four times bigger than it was a few minutes ago. Not to mention my swollen eye and throbbing cheek. Guess even the wasps are crabby tonight. My advice to you all — stay safely in front of that fan!

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Amsonia tabernaemontana

Posted on July 12, 2011 by Tovah Martin

I’ve spent the lion’s share of my life searching for the right bun. You know what I mean: Girl on the lookout for something sculpted, curvaceous, tight, and nicely rounded. Oh…and green.

I thought that I had it pinned with boxwood. But then the snow plow came along and nipped that love affair in the bud. Now I’ve found it with Amsonia tabernaemontana.

When it comes to buns, small little tuffets are adorable, it’s true. But in my eyes, bigger is better. And what I love about A. tabernaemontana is that no slavish clipping is required. The mound you get does not require any scissorhand action whatsoever (as opposed to spiraea, for example, that requires pruners as an appendage-extension).

I’ve got one amsonia that’s a real stunner. Ever notice that certain individuals are more comely than others? It happens with humans, and it’s also the case with plants. Although not all my A. tabernaemontanas are equally svelte (I used them as a repetitive theme in my perennial border, so I have several). Some (especially those growing in particularly fertile soil) actually get so floppy that I have to cut them down after flowering. It’s the one closest to the road in the lean, mean soil and the hot sun that annually fans itself into a lovely orb.

In spring, it’s studded with pale blue blossoms that make a statement by sheer numbers. In midsummer, that plant is a perfectly rounded nugget. In fall, the foliage turns blazing orange. And then the stripped stems bleach silver but hang in there. Sometimes I leave last year’s sticks up most of the winter. Usually, they begin to topple when the first snow strikes. So I cut the plant back just to give the plowman one less solid object to aim his heaps at. But when I flip through the calendar, there’s only a brief interval when this plant isn’t a main, stunning element in the garden.

I know there’s nothing new about Amsonia tabernaemontana. It’s been upstaged by the feathery-leaved A. hubrichtii that is the current darling of the perennial realm. The cultivar ‘Blue Ice’ is getting loads of press at the moment. I like it, for a different role in my garden. But it doesn’t claim the same wonderful silhouette or form the substantial mass that I treasure in Amsonia tabernaemontana. Although I’ve spent many posts talking about newbies in this blog, I decided it was high time to pay tribute to an old faithful.

Oh, and friends — My apologies for going off-line temporarily. The good news is that I gave birth to a new book while I was “away.” More about that later. But I’m back and posting now. Thank you all for your patience. I missed you.

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Sarracenia spp.

Posted on June 13, 2011 by Tovah Martin

copyright Kindra Clineff from The New Terrarium

So you’re stumped. Your dad isn’t a golf kinda’ guy. He’s had it up to his neck in ties and he’s got polo shirts up the Wazoo. What to give him for Father’s Day? I’ve got it! Why not bestow a terrarium filled with carnivorous plants on your favorite role model? Wouldn’t that be the perfect accoutrement for a Man Cave? (assuming that the den in question gets some sun) Or how about gracing his office cubicle with a bug catcher in a bottle?

I just did a Terrarium Workshop at Broken Arrow Nursery (www.brokenarrownursery.com) and the carnivores were the Superstars of the event. The Sarracenias (pitcher plants) were particularly popular. And that gave me the Father’s Day idea. I mean = Show me a Dad who doesn’t love anything that dispatches a bug and I’ll point to a Pop who lives in the Arctic Zone. And who isn’t seduced by a sarracenia? Not only am I amazed at how easy they are to grow, but they’re just the right degree of gross for me. You gotta’ warm to a plant with a gaping lid leading into a long tube filled with a slimy slurry that drowns bugs. And when you’ve got little carnivorous cuties with names like ‘Love Bug’ — it doesn’t get any better than that. You can grow them in a pot set in a tray of water, it’s true. But give them an open-mouthed glass jar (so they can hunt, of course) and they’re happy as clams. The glass jar is the sort of package that might endear you to coworkers at the office.

copyright Kindra Clineff from The New Terrarium


Close runner up to the pitcher plants on the favorite meter would be sundews. They’re ultra-easy to grow and their eating habits are deliciously gross. Sundews capture their prey (bugs) with sticky little tentacles that sparkle like jewels with bug lure. When dinner buzzles close by, they greet it in a bear hug. The meal gets wrapped up in the tentacles and lovingly squeezed to death. Yummy.

copyright Kindra Clineff from The New Terrarium

All of these carnivores are native to bogs. So a mucky soil is their domain of choice. I don’t bother with distilled water, and they do just fine with the well water that comes from the tap. (Anybody have experience — negative or positive — with treated town water?) They dote on high humidity — which a terrarium delivers (even an open-mouthed terrarium tends to be more humid than your average environment). And they need bright light, but direct sun streaming through a closed terrarium will bake the poor little predator.

copyright by Kindra Clineff from The New Terrarium

A little more challenging to host is the Venus fly trap, but you can do it in an ultra-humid closed terrarium. And I’ve got to say, there’s nothing like the jaws of a fly trap to keep everyone transfixed while dad is busy elsewhere obsessing over the grill. Warning: Don’t sneak off with some of the hamburger to feed Venus, though. She doesn’t need meat. The arm of a Venus fly trap will brown and die back after it’s caught dinner. And she doesn’t really need meat to survive. Anyway, as we all know = Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus. That in itself is a trap. Happy Father’s Day!

You’ll find out more about carnivorous plants in The New Terrarium (Clarkson Potter). And I’ll try and put up some Carnivorous Plant Terrarium instructions up on www.terrariumwise.com for Father’s Day.

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