about those daffodils

I love daffodils. I love all their different forms, from the simple early ones that shout Spring! Hello! Rebirth! Everything is new! (B's mom calls them Easter lilies, which makes a lot sense to me), to the very finely made  N. poeticus, to 'Van Sion' that is as persistent as an old peony. They're beautiful in bloom.

They're also pretty unsightly after they've finished showing off. For a few years I had been planning on digging, dividing, and replanting clumps of daffodils on the east side of the peony bed that each year swallow the lupines interplanted with them. The foliage persists until July, and because I can't easily weed between the thic,k clumps of leaves, by midsummer the whole bed looks pretty awful.

So last August I dug a couple hundred bulbs out with every good intention of relocating them in October. I piled them in a basket, parked the basket in the basement next to the bulkhead door, and then it was out-of-sight, out-of-mind through October. When November came and went, I figured I'd lost my chance to replant them, but December was a lot warmer than normal. Christmas was positively balmy, and on the second day of January, with three hours left before B and I headed back to the city, I grabbed a shovel, determined that the ground was not yet frozen, and planted those babies.

All over the place.

Some are behind the stone wall, on the edge of the cowpath. Some are on the margins of the woods to the north of the house. A quantity more are nestled beneath a cover of fallen leaves in the woodlot to the west. A few are in a hummock of rich, rock-free soil I discovered near the old orchard. We'll see, won't we?

I did right by those daffodils, eventually. Hope they aren't too put out with me for forgetting them these past months. Hope they are happy to have some room to spread.

expecting snow

We've had so little snow this winter that—I can't believe I'm actually writing this, given the long, rough winter we had last year—I'm excited about the storm headed our way this evening. Excited in the way I was about snow when I was little. I want to stay up late and watch it begin. I've lit all of the candles in the windows to welcome it. Maybe I should make it a little hot chocolate, too.

This winter has been beyond unusual. Temperatures have stayed mostly in the 30s and 40s for months. The ground is barely frozen, if at all (I planted some forgotten daffodils a little more than a week ago, on the second day of January). We haven't had to pay our plow guy yet, because he has had nothing to plow. I've shoveled off the patio a grand total of once, and even then, the snow on it probably would have melted on its own.

So, you might say I'm in a celebratory, anticipatory frame of mind. Two to six inches of snow before midday tomorrow is all right with me.

when october goes

I spent an hour or so planting lilacs on Saturday afternoon. It was a classic late-fall day—gray sky, occasional drizzle—and I was feeling the way I always feel this time of year . . . a little cold, a little older.

And as often happens in fall, I heard a flock of Canada geese approaching from the north. On some days their flights south, then maybe north again, then east, then have we gone west yet? make me laugh out loud ("Make up your minds, you guys! Are you staying or going?"). But on Saturday, I stopped digging for a moment, let my heart catch a little, and watched the majestic, raucous formation pass overhead.

I should be over it now, I know.
It doesn't matter much how old I grow.
I hate to see October go.

amarilli mia bella

Dug the amaryllis bulbs three weeks ago, put them in a box in the basement, where they will rest for a few months (that is, until early–mid December), at which point I'll pot them up and see what happens. They were beautiful last year.

And speaking of lovely, here's "Amarilli mia bella," by the late Renaissance/early Baroque Italian composer Giulio Caccini and sung by Cecilia Bartoli:

unusual year for tomatoes

If anyone had told me back in early September, with the summer we had, that I'd be picking 'Sun Gold' tomatoes in the rain on 22 October, I would have said, "Awwwww, go on with ya!" Except I would have believed the rain part.

However, I'm cooking down a few more tomatoes for the saucepot this afternoon. It's been a great year for 'Sun Gold.'

A few months ago, Ken Druse talked with Steve Bogash, Penn State Extension regional horticulture educator, who is known in vegetable circles (eh? what's that?) as Mr. Tomato. Last night B and I listened to the podcast with great interest. A few takeaways:

• Who knew? Tomatoes like a slightly acid soil, somewhere between 6.2 and 6.8. Better yields with that pH. Most garden soil is pretty neutral. Don't lime the soil where you'll be growing tomatoes!
• Favorite reds/pinks: 'Big Beef' from Park's Seeds; 'Brandy Boy' and 'Bush Early Girl' from Burpee.
• Favorite yellow cherry: 'Sun Gold' (when he said that, B turned to me and smiled); however, it has a tendency to split, which is our experience.
• Favorite yellow grape: 'Solid Gold,' which doesn't split, and which Ken Druse grows and loves.

The tomatoes that did best for us this unusual year were 'San Marzano' and 'Sun Gold,' both small varieties. We did our usual heirlooms, and they produced very few edible fruit. We bought one that was supposed to be early and had a horrible name: 'Sophie's Choice.' Isn't that awful? She limped along until the wilt took her away. Good riddance. We had lots of rot this year. Very disappointing.

But I'm not complaining this afternoon, with a nice pot of tomatoes cooking down on the stove.