Maybe this is a tribute to the Purple One whose reign recently came to a sad close, or maybe it’s just a collection of pretty purple things because I love the color purple. It matters not.
Most are flowers, but there are a couple of surprises thrown in because purple doesn’t limit itself to one form.
Lilacs and ajuga and roses – oh my!
A single flower can be majestic, but when taken en masse a collection can be even more striking.
Here are a few examples of how more is sometimes more.
Everybody knows The Four Seasons doesn’t fuck around, especially when it comes to their floral displays. Witness these gorgeous peonies, in all sorts of shades of coral – bright, warm, vibrant and rich. They look almost fake in their striking, saturated hues and the architectural perfection of their design. A painter could not have conjured a more flawless flower.
Though I’ll always be partial to the old-fashioned bomb-style blooms of the traditional peony (and its intoxicating perfume), hybrids like this carry their own glamour.
The cost of such beauty is a lack of any pervading scent, and scent is half the point of a peony. That’s a trade-off some of us won’t make. That said, there’s no denying the beauty at work here.
This is a fitting post for the last day of May, when the final full month of spring shifts into the golden road to summer.
The blooming season is heading into its first crest. All the world is alive.
If there were no cherry blossoms
in this world
How much more tranquil
our hearts would be in spring.
~ Ariwara no Narihira
It was a blustery spring day in Washington, DC. The wind had taken most of the cherry blossoms a week or two prior to my arrival, but some of the Kwanzan trees still held their pink beauties. Outside the Jefferson Hotel, a stand of tulips fought the wind, and in a lull they stood with the afternoon sun slanting through their luminous petals. I was early for a dinner with Chris and Darcey, and in an effort to escape the cold wind (while enjoying one of my favorite watering holes) I ducked into the marble hallway leading to Quill.
It was the tail end of cherry blossom season, but the city was still feeling its blush. On the cocktail menu was something that held a number of my favorite libations: the Sakura. The listed ingredients included two mainstays: gin and grapefruit juice. The remaining elements were just as enchanting, and taken together they made the same beautiful promise that every cherry blossom bud made: the promise of beauty and hope and a spring that always comes back.
Listed ingredients:
The drink arrived, and it was very much a sip of spring. The shading was unexpected – a soft buttery yellow that flirted with peach – but that only made it feel all the sunnier. The taste was sublime – tart and slightly fruity, with the welcome herbal challenge of the chartreuse and the warm lilt of honey, sparked by the exquisite jolt of the yuzu and rhubarb bitters.
When I returned home, and on an equally blustery day, I managed to procure all the ingredients and try my hand at assembling a decent approximation of the magic of the original Sakura by Quill. It turns out I needed everything but the gin, as my kitchen is not equipped with yuzu or yellow chartreuse or rhubarb bitters. It is now – and every ingredient is important for this one to be successful.
For proportions, I used one part gin, one part grapefruit juice, 1/3 part chartreuse, 1/5 part honey syrup, and a few healthy drops each of the yuzu and bitters.
The variable that enchantingly influences how this cocktail looks is the grapefruit juice. I extracted the nectar from a fresh ruby red grapefruit, which takes the yellow chartreuse and yuzu into cantaloupe-shaded territory. I actually preferred the yellowish version of the original, so the next time I try this I’ll use a white grapefruit instead. Either way, it sings of spring.
Outside, the wind whipped wildly. A shower of white apple blossom petals fell like snow and whirled around my feet. Inside me, I held the memory of the Sakura. In spite of the wind, the world felt a little warmer.
Look at the cherry blossoms
Their color and scent fall with them
Are gone forever
Yet mindless
The spring comes again.
~ Ikkyu
Don’t get excited – it’s a different kind of snow. (And not this sort of white stuff either.) Here are a few shots of the cherry blossoms that floated over Boston a few weeks ago. This is the only kind of snow I want to hear about at this time of the year, with the possible exception of a snow-cone by the beach. (My version of Cake by the Ocean.)
Nature has her own way of working a motif of beauty – from snowflakes to flower petals, she’s always dropping something from the sky in a confetti of natural glory.
This cherry was of the palest pink – it reads white by all appearances, but up close and personal, particularly as they ripen into their last days, it veers further from pure white, and just as they are about to jump into the wind, the petals are unmistakably tinged with pink.
Like a shower of rose-hued snow.
At least, I think these are plum blossoms.
There used to be a gnarled old plum tree on the island in the middle of my childhood street. It was low to the ground, and afforded easy climbing opportunities for a boy. One large branch veered off at a precariously low angle, while the main trunk went up and above, affording a leafy canopy. Every late spring it bloomed in sprays of white, with a sweet-smelling perfume that also attracted buzzing bees. They never bothered me.
I was fascinated by the amber sap that formed bulbous clumps of shiny beauty. Every bruise or cut bled into a little jewel that I’d discover at varying stages of solidity. If you caught it at the right moment, it was almost transparent, while at other times the lightest touch would turn it cloudy and matte-like. Clearly, I’m not a scientist, and I’m only describing how a clueless boy saw the world at such a young age.
I sat on that limb, swinging my legs over the uncut grass beneath it, and waited for summer to arrive.
The sad truth is that the classic daisy carries no fragrance. Anyone who brings their nose to the bright blooms expecting some sort of cheerful scent to match their petal-framed faces will be sorely disappointed. Thankfully, we have Marc Jacobs to fill that fragrance-free void. His ‘Daisy’ scent was the accent these flowers so badly needed, and though I’m not the biggest fan of florals, Jacobs manages to keep the sickly-sweet components at bay.
Being that there is no true daisy scent, he goes for the essence of bright and fresh, wisely veering away from any single flower fragrance (rose, gardenia, tuberose) or cloying heaviness. Somehow it works, even if the lighter touch doesn’t lend it much staying power. More like a body spray than anything approaching a perfume, it’s a decent match-up for warmer weather, when potent scents tend to overwhelm.
Judging from its myriad offshoots, ‘Daisy’ must have been a hit for Mr. Jacobs. There are a number of variations on it currently out there, some supposedly even fresher than the oh-so-fresh original.
The trend for sister fragrances is not one of which I’m particularly enamored. Tom Ford has been doing that with all of his Neroli Portofino cousins, and as much as I love a twist on neroli, I’d rather he try something different. His Oud line is slightly more varied, but even that seems to have reached its limit. Still, I’d rather give his side-shoots a whirl over another Daisy.
Sometimes a single Daisy is more than enough.
The bottle comes adorned with classic Marc Jacobs flair – in this case a piece of daisy pop-art that doubles as a cover. It’s a lovely embodiment of a fun fragrance that finally gives the daisy a scent of its own.
These interesting little mums are a different take on the daisy, and as such I had to include them in a vase for a daisy-themed get-together for my friend JoAnn. I like the way they collectively create such star-shooting movement. The rays of their white petals, the yellow radial form of their central orb, and the linear structure of their stems combine in thrilling fashion to conjure an effect much larger than expected. When dealing with simpler blooms, sometimes less is more. What would be lost as filler in grander schemes manages to steal the show on such a singular stage.
Hidden among the branches and leaves of its structure, quince is a plant that shyly hides its blooms. That’s no easy task given the striking shades of color the blossoms produce – they all but scream out to be noticed and adored – and who are we to ignore such a demand? Though I don’t like that form for my own garden, I will stop and pause for color this super-saturated and gorgeous. It also affords a vantage point for these photos, in which little nooks of beauty are sheltered from the elements and the larger population. Worlds of prettiness and delicate light float in semi-hidden recesses, and there’s always something secret about spring.
In the lofty boughs of fruit trees, I remember climbing away from a well-tread path and hiding as passers-by ambled along beneath me, unaware of my presence. Obscured with bright blooms and filtered sunlight, I sat in sweet-smelling serenity, unbothered by others, perfectly content in secret revelry and silent solitude. As I peek into the protected haunts of these quince blossoms, I am reminded of that moment.
To finish up a day of delicate blooms, this is the Korean spice viburnum, one of the most exquisitely perfumed shrubs of the spring landscape (and with the lilacs and fruit trees in fragrant bloom, that is quite an accomplishment.) This often goes unheralded, as the blooms are largely inconspicuous unless singled out by the camera lens. It flies under the radar that way, detectable mostly on still nights when their perfume is at its most potent.
It’s a marvelous ending to this tranquil but pretty day of flowers, and if one day they manage to make scent a part of the online experience, let this be a post to exemplify that. Until then, get out and find yourself one of these bushes.
Small things can make quite an impact when placed, presented, and lit correctly. All conspired to show off this trio of Narcissus. Not the common trumpet variety, these are miniature species, most likely ‘Tete-a-Tete’, but their tiny stature doesn’t stop them from putting on a spectacular show, especially for those who take the time and effort to talk to them on their level.
I have to admit, their size has always put me off (and I am not a size queen, I swear) but there is something to be said for the little things that bloom at such an early time of the year. Especially when they are in such a cheerful shade of yellow. Against a dull brick façade, and accented by blue muscari, they glow in the afternoon sunlight, tiny fireworks of exploding petals and ruffled perianths.
But spring is not limited to the blazing hue of the sun – there are softer shades, cooler colors, and they temper the bold jonquil with their own gracious beauty.
In many a collection there is an interloper. This one should be obvious, but no less whimsical.
Spring was busting out all over Boston the last time I was in town, so this day is going to celebrate that glorious arrival with a couple of floral posts. It’s one of my favorite times to be in the city, made more-so by the fleeting aspect of such beauty. If you blink, you could miss it – and I don’t want to miss a thing.
Nestled along most blocks are these pockets of beauty. A nook of a garden, even in the most concrete-bound of places, can make a magnificent difference. These blooms were all in the vicinity of South Station, a location I hadn’t really frequented until the last two years or so, but as the city extends its charms to the Seaport section, it’s a nifty linking place.
While none of the blooms depicted here are gigantic or earth-shattering on their own, taken together and en masse, they make quite the statement of color and beauty. They demand a closer inspection, a pause in the rush of where we’re headed – and to command such power in such a place is impressive.
This has been a topsy-turvy year for the lilacs in our yard. Last summer I coddled and pampered our small stand of them, amending their home with fertilizer and some lime to keep the soil on the basic side. I watered them through the dry spells, careful not to wet the leaves or encourage mildew, and this winter their buds swelled and enlarged with the promise of bountiful blooms. They were just turning that dark purple to signify they were on the way when we had a night or two of deep-freeze weather. We wrapped them in plastic for the worst of it, but it was still not enough – the majority of buds were killed in the late hard frost. Strangely enough, the old-fashioned version that I’d pampered was the variety that suffered most of the kill-back, while the newer double ‘Miss Kim’ hybrid’s buds remained intact. I guess hybrids are sometimes hardier.
The lilacs seen here were the first of the season, and they appeared in Boston a few weeks ago. I pulled the branch on which they floated down to my face and breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of spring. The scent of hope and happiness, and all the returning good of the sun.
This summer I’ll pamper them again, because another spring will be back before we know it, and I’m hell-bent on bringing the blooms. Another lesson in gardening is in not giving up, no matter what. There are good years, and bad years, and everything in-between.
The fire that burns the brightest leaves the biggest hole.
In the sky, they dangle like pom-poms, pendulous and heavy compared to their single brothers and sisters. Some consider them garish and overblown. I can’t find fault with that – I mean, I understand the backlash against such hybridization. It’s unnatural, it’s unwieldy, and the end result is out of place in certain spaces, but I can also appreciate its very over-the-top aspect. More is sometimes more. I also enjoy its late blooming period, one that allowed me to catch this show before it was over.
This is the bold and bodacious Kwanzan cherry.
Locally, our cherries suffered a few late-season hard-freezes that zapped several beloved flowering sessions – the cherries and the lilacs included. This reduced the magnificent showing they usually put on, but there’s always next year. Sometimes even trees need a year off now and then.
The ones here suffered no such hardships, and thus were royally resplendent. They waved their pink puffs proudly in the air, holding them high against a deep blue sky, as if aware of how to present to their best advantage. Yet such arrogance must come to an end, and the life cycle of a cherry blossom is a lesson in the preciously short life of certain beauty.
In the end we all fall down, and not all beauty is everlasting.
The memory, however, may be kept as long as we want it.
I’ll hold this one until the next spring.
