“I don’t do frilly,” say Diane Schaub, director of gardens at Central Park Conservancy. We are standing under the shade of an old magnolia in the English garden, one of three smaller gardens within Central Park’s six-acre Conservatory Garden near the northeast corner of the park. Schaub, who earned a diploma from the New York Botanical Garden’s School of Professional Horticulture, has been curating the Conservatory Garden for more than 30 years. And while she does not do frilly, she does do color and texture, breathtakingly well. She has a painter’s eye for composition and an architect’s instinct for structural detail.
Below, we share her best color combinations for fall garden beds:
Above: “This is as frilly as I go,” she clarifies, indicating a velvet-leafed plant with burgundy leaves, beside the bluestone path. The plant in question is a Solenostemon (formerly classified as Coleus) and the cultivar is ‘Lancelot.’ Above: Solenostemon ‘Lancelot’ (paired with Salvia ‘Paul’) belongs to a crew of leafy annuals whose impact is felt dramatically in this garden, where the seasonal spectacle owes a great deal to plants whose interest lies in their foliage.
Purple + Yellow + Blue
Above: If you thought leaves were boring, think again. Solenostemon ‘Purple Prince’, black-leafed Dahlia ‘Mystic Illusion’, and Salvia farinacea ‘Victoria Blue.’
Above: A bed of Pennisetum setaceum ‘Rubrum’, Salvia x ‘Indigo Spires’, the leafy and lilac-striped Strobilanthes dyeranus, and elephant-eared Colocasia esculenta ‘Blue Hawaii’. The latter “makes the whole composition work,” says Schaub. Dark purple Pennisetum ‘Vertigo’ is in the background. Above: The English Garden is arranged in beds radiating from a central pond overhung by the largest crabapple tree in Central Park, leaves now turning yellow. Designed by Betty Sprout and opened in 1937, this part of the park was by the 1970s considered one of the most dangerous places in New York City. In 1980, the Central Park Conservancy was formed in response to the neglect the park had suffered in the previous two decades. Its founding director, Elizabeth Rogers, earmarked the Conservatory Gardens for renovation.
We’ve all done it: planted something we love only to learn, sometimes years later, that it is invasive where we live. In many cases, we can be forgiven. If a nursery is selling it, the message conveyed is that all is well. There are fewer excuses now, when home research has never been easier and when awareness of invasive species has never been higher. Despite that, invasive plants are still being sold by many growers, and the desire for some of them sometimes overrides our internal ethicist. This list of 13 invasive plants includes some well known and understandably appealing garden ornamentals. Do not plant them, and do remove them if you are currently harboring plants whose spread alters and harms local ecosystems. An invasive plant does not stay home—it travels: by roots, runner, fruit, and seed.
But what about…?
Above: Japanese knotweed in bloom.
First, a disclaimer: this list of invasive plants is by no means complete and does not include plants like mugwort, Japanese knotweed, and garlic mustard, since we’re assuming (fingers crossed) that their notoriety precedes them and that they are probably not ornamentally tempting. But, by all means, add plants you feel should be addressed, in the comments.
Butterfly Bush
Above: Butterfly bush attracts butterflies but outcompetes native plants that feed their larvae.
One of the most tempting invasive plants is butterfly bush. It smells delicious, is pretty, blooms repeatedly, and is irresistible to butterflies. What’s not to love? Consider, then, that invasive Buddleja davidii excels at producing tens of thousands of lightweight, easily dispersed seeds per flowerhead, outcompeting native flowering shrubs whose leaves are essential food for butterfly larvae. While the nectar of butterfly bush attracts adult butterflies, this shrub is not a host plant for their caterpillars, which cannot feed on its foliage. Bear it mind that while newer, so-called less-fertile butterfly bush cultivars exist, they still produce seed, just less of it. Avoid.
Plant native flowering shrubs, instead. Sweet pepperbush (Clethra alnifolia) is a good alternative to butterfly bush, with flowers, scent, and a lot of butterfly action in late summer.
Japanese Honeysuckle
Above: Japanese honeysuckle smells wonderful but smothers shrubs and trees.
As appealing as its perfumed flowers may be, Lonicera japonica is now a serious botanical thug in wild places where it is not native. The scrambling vine uses shrubs and trees for support, creating dense, shaded thickets that alter the local ecosystem by smothering native seedlings. It is spread via its fruit, vexingly ripe during fall migration. Birds disperse the seed as they move south. Japanese honeysuckle also reproduces vegetatively, via above-ground runners and below-ground rhizomes.
An alternative to Japanese honeysuckle is of course a native honeysuckle, Lonicera sempervirens (but no scent, sorry). It is very attractive to hummingbirds. For a scented alternative, try star jasmine, (Trachelospermum jasminoides) or bee-friendly yellow jessamine (Carolina jasmine—Gelsemiun sempervirens).
Chinese and Japanese Wisteria
Above: Chinese wisteria at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.
I admire the long panicles of Wisteria sinensis and W. floribunda dripping from pergolas in botanical gardens. And then I drive up the Palisades Parkway in New York and New Jersey and see the same vines cascading from the bent branches of oak, maple, and sycamore. It’s beautiful, but it’s deadly: the strong vines of this wisteria cut through bark and cause gradual death, by girdling. Their smothering habit also alters native forest ecologies. Wisteria spreads vegetatively, growing easily from cuttings and new shoots, and by seeds, which explode from their pods when ripe. Seeds also travel along waterways, to germinate downstream.
The longer I garden, the more I want to grow perennials that bloom for as long as possible, and that ask for as little as possible in return. Within reason. While Agastache has long been at the top of my list of summer-to-fall-flowering, pollinator-supporting native perennials, a Scutellaria species is beginning to nip at its heels: Again and again I have seen the showy, blue, distinctively hooded flowers of downy skullcap—Scutellaria incana—standing tall in perennial borders and in wild planting that enjoy little regular maintenance. The plant is compelling.
Above: Downy skullcap flowering in a dry July in part shade in an unirrigated border.
Also known commonly as hoary skullcap, Scutellaria incana is a native North American plant that checks the following boxes: It blooms for many weeks—even months—in late summer; it flowers in full sun as well as in shade; it attracts and supports pollinators and hummingbirds; it withstands periods of drought; and it is genuinely attractive, with myriad cerulean flowers.
Above: Deadheading downy skullcap’s spent racemes of flowers encourages new growth and a new flush of blooms.
Downy skullcap is a tall perennial, averaging around three feet. It begins to flower in late summer, and continues to bloom for many weeks. If it is deadheaded, those weeks extend to months. It is very effective in meadows or wild-at-heart borders combined with bee balms and milkweed, rudbeckias, helianthus and helenium, echinacea, obedient plant, agastache, and goldenrod.
Above: Downy skullcap is native to central and eastern US.
Cheat Sheet
There are hundreds of species of Scutellaria, worldwide.
Downy skullcap is a wildflower native to the central and eastern United States.
Scutellaria belong to the Lamiaceae (mint) family.
The square stems of downy skullcap (Scutellaria incana) are finely hairy.
Several species of Scutellaria are valued for their use in Traditional Chinese Medicine, as well as Native American and other folk medicines.
While the flowers of downy skullcap are attractive to pollinators and hummingbirds, the bitter foliage is (usually!) deer-resistant.
Above: The plant grows to about 3 feet tall.
Keep It Alive
Downy skullcap is hardy from USDA zones 5 to 8.
Plant it in full sun, semi-shade, or high shade.
It is tolerant of a wide range of soils, except those that remain waterlogged.
Deadhead after its first flush of blooms to encourage fresh growth and second flush.
I love this plant for its unique flower and even more unique seed heads that look fantastic added to dried flower arrangements. In mild climates, direct-sow the minuscule black seeds onto well-drained soil in a sunny or mostly sunny spot, and then keep the soil consistently moist. Love-in-a-mist seeds require light to germinate, so be careful not to cover them up when planting. Bonus: these seeds readily re-seed in my garden every year.
Nasturtium (Self-Seeding Annual)
Above: Photograph by Marie Viljoen.
Another easy-to-grow favorite. I adore how nasturtiums effortlessly scramble about the garden and pump out colorful flowers and lily pad-like leaves. These hardy annuals prefer a sunny spot, tolerate poor soil, and grow well in containers or trailing from raised beds. Some gardeners recommend soaking and scarifying these hard seeds for better germination, but I’ve never done that and have had total success. I encourage my nasturtium family to come back year after year by re-scattering the seeds upon pruning them back.
Above: Photograph by Britt Willoughby Dyer for Gardenista.
Every year I grow some hollyhocks from seeds saved from last year or acquired from generous friends and family. Not to be blasé, but I generally just throw theses flat seeds about at the end of fall, all willy nilly. But I suppose the “proper” way is to sow them a week before last frost at just ¼ inch deep and about 2 feet apart. I find that hollyhocks thrive in a sunny to partly sunny spot. Too much shade and they bloom way less and lean too much. Also know that most hollyhocks are biennials, meaning the first year the plant just puts out leaves and then flowers the next year.
Iceland Poppy (Annual in Warm Climates; Perennial in Cool Climates)
Differing from California poppies due to native origin, use, and flower type, Iceland poppies thrive in cool temperatures, appreciate regular water, and their papery translucent flowers are great for adding to arrangements. You can get a head start on your cutting garden by planting these seeds about four to six weeks before your average first fall frost, or in early to mid-fall in milder climates. Plant the tiny seeds in a sunny spot in well-draining soil and remember not to cover the seeds as they need light to germinate. Theses poppies can be slow to germinate, so be patient. I especially like the Champagne Bubbles mix.
By now I’m sure you know how critical milkweed is to the survival of the monarch butterfly as it is the only plant the caterpillars will eat. Help our winged friends and put these seeds on your late fall planting list. After the first frost, scatter seeds directly on the soil surface in a sunny, well-drained location, and then press them lightly into the soil. If the ground gets dry, lightly water the seeds. Just be sure to choose a milkweed that’s native to your area. Why? Planting non-native types of milkweed risks the health of the butterfly.
For the many gardeners whose growing-spaces are either entirely or partly shaded, shade-loving shrubs offer an important, permanent layer of interest alongside perennials and beneath trees. In small gardens, shrubs can create a structural framework for the space, seasonal focal points, a living wall or partition, or even a harvestable crop for a less-than-sunny kitchen garden. While any list of shrubs for shade can include worthwhile and non-invasive introduced species, planting natives (in this case, to North America) contributes towards resilience and supports sustainable growing practices.
Our 13 favorite shrubs for shade span the year in terms of seasonal interest, from spring flowers to fall fruit.
American hazel (Corylus americana)
Above: A cluster of American hazelnuts in late summer.
Hazelnut, filbert, cobnut—whatever you call the fruit of this large shrub, it will be yours to harvest if you plant your Corylus in semi-shade. (While hazel will grow beautifully leafy in full shade, it will bear fewer nuts.) One of the earliest shrubs to bloom in pre-spring, American hazel has slender flower structures with a tiny, burgundy male flower poised above the pendant female catkins. American hazel is hardy from USDA growing zones 4 to 9.
Blueberry (Vaccinium angustifolium and V. corymbosum)
Above: Blueberries on a container-grown shrub.
Highbush and lowbush blueberries have three seasons of serious interest: early spring flowers (an important food source for native bees), their famous summer fruit, and very vivid fall foliage. Blueberries require acidic soil—it’s non-negotiable—so if your garden’s in-ground soil tests near-neutral, they are better grown in containers, where you can adjust the pH more easily (personally, I use fresh—not spent—coffee grounds, mixed into the potting soil when planting.) Blueberries are hardy from USDA zones 3 (possibly 2, with protection) to 8.
Bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus parviflora)
Above: The striking summer spires of bottlebrush buckeye.
Bottlebrush buckeye’s elegantly upright racemes of white flowers are like summer fireworks. Blooming in mid to late summer, this large shrub fills the flowering gap between spring’s profusion and fall’s fruit and foliage. Hardy from USDA zones 4 to 8, bottlebrush buckeye will thrive in part to full shade.
Canada rosebay, rhodora (Rhododendron canadense)
Above: Canada rosebay blooms in late spring and early summer.
In the wild, Canada rosebay, or rhodora (which is also the family name for all rhododendrons), flourishes in moist woodlands and at the edges of swamps and bogs. Its scented blooms appear in late spring to early summer. This is a shrub that needs plenty of water, and it also requires acidic soil. Canada rosebay grows in semi-shade or under the seasonal shade of deciduous trees. It is is very cold hardy, from USDA zones 2 to 6.
A digression for botanical poetry:
The Rhodora
– 1834, by Ralph Waldo Emerson
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
Carolina allspice, strawberry bush, sweetshrub (Calycanthus floridus and C. occidentalis)
Above: Calycanthus blooms from late spring through early summer.
I have planted different veronicas over the years, mainly because I always appreciate a very vertical plant that can contrast superbly with larger leaves like stachys or bergenias or play nicely with other vertical plants such as linarias. Despite my familiarity with the plant, though, I never stopped to question why it was named Veronica. Turns out, veronica is more than just a pretty flower.
Please keep reading to learn more about the story behind the name and how you can find the perfect veronica for your garden:
With more than 500 species of Veronica, it’s nearly guaranteed that you’ll find at least one that easily integrates into your garden. Veronicas come in different heights, colors, and shapes. Some grow as creeping groundcovers with shorter flower spikes (like Veronica peduncularis ‘Georgia Blue’, a low-growing evergreen with tiny, saucer-shaped blue and white flowers), while others have a decidedly vertical habit (including one of my favorites, Veronica spicata ‘Novaversky’, which has 12- to 14-inch-high spikes of bluish purple flowers that bloom from spring to frost). Their flowers can appear blue, purple, pink, or white, and nearly all are long-lived, easy to care for, and attractive to pollinators—a win-win-win for everyone.
The groundcover types tend to bloom in the spring and are perfect partners to spring-blooming bulbs like daffodils and tulips, while the taller ones bloom mainly in the summer and pair well with salvias, yarrows, and gauras. These taller upright species are great mixed into beds, borders, or containers. I like to add the white versions to an all-white garden, and the taller, colorful ones to cutting gardens, next to zinnias and dahlias.
The biggest issue I have had with veronicas is that without proper air flow and soil drainage, they are susceptible to mildew, which appears as white, talcum-like spots on stems and leaves. To prevent disease, don’t crowd your plants or over-water, and avoid overhead watering. If your plant becomes affected, try spraying with a yogurt/water mix. But don’t let this deter you from planting veronicas. Some varieties, such as the ‘Vernique’ series and ‘Marietta’, are known for their mildew resistance.
Now regarding that name: One popular theory is that the genus name was inspired by Saint Veronica. It is believed that Saint Veronica offered Jesus her veil to wipe his face on the way to his crucifixion, and when it was returned to her, the veil was imprinted with the image of his face. The plant’s markings, particularly in some white varieties, were thought to resemble the “veil of Veronica”. The plant is also commonly referred to as speedwell, due to its historical association with success and good luck.
Cheat Sheet
Above: Photograph of Veronica ‘Foxy’ by Marilylle Soveran via Flickr.
Depending on the variety, some are perfect for cutting, cottage, or rock gardens, and some mounding types are great for spilling over containers or as charming fillers between pavers.
Taller species are long-lasting and make superb cut flowers.
The flowers lure hummingbirds, bees, and butterflies, making them a great addition to a pollinator-friendly garden.
Veronica is not thought to be toxic to humans or pets.
Some report that veronicas are not especially tasty to deer or rabbits. (I have never planted them in deer country so I can’t vouch for this claim.)
Full sun is best, as too much shade reduces the flower load and creates floppy stems. Oh, and a shady spot without good air flow also increases the risk of funky fungal diseases.
Well-draining soil is a must to prevent root rot.
Regular water is preferred for best growth.
Prune back spent flower stems to encourage a re-bloom.
I have a Meyer lemon tree and a lime tree on my property. Where I live, in Marin County, CA, it feels like everyone has a citrus tree of some sort—or at least knows someone with an over-productive citrus you can mooch off of. All of which is to say, I didn’t think I needed another citrus tree in my life. But that was before I met the kumquat tree.
The other day at my gardening client’s house, I passed by her kumquat tree, did a double-take on the dangling tiny oranges, and found myself scheming to bring one home for my own garden. I’d always thought I wouldn’t like the fruit. I guess I thought it would be too tart, too seedy, too something of what I had no interest in. But as soon as I popped one, then two into my mouth, I changed my mind. The next day I set out to the nursery to buy my own kumquat tree.
Please keep reading to learn if this is your next citrus tree, too:
Above: A potted kumquat tree can be top-dressed with mulch or gravel. Just remember that potted citrus, like most plants grown in a container, will require more frequent drinks of water than they would if planted directly in the ground. Photograph from Urban Oasis Landscape Design’s Vibrant Mediterranean Front Yard.
Kumquat trees are evergreens that produce small, oval or round fruits that are about one to two inches wide. Depending on the variety, the citrus will generally bloom in late spring and into summer, followed by fruit that ripens mid-winter, with fruit holding on well into spring. Native to southern Japan and China, kumquats were introduced to Europe by Robert Fortune, a collector from the London Horticultural Society. Soon, this tasty citrus traveled to North America and in 1915, their classification changed from Citrus japonica to Fortunella.
What is especially lovely about the tree is that most of them bear a heavy crop even at a young age. And the vibrantly orange fruit has a sweet peel that is delicious in its own right. Inside, you will find slightly tart flesh and a few seeds. I eat the peel and the pulpy insides separately, but many people pop the whole thing in their mouth for a burst of beauty that is simultaneously sweet and tart.
Cheat Sheet
Above: A favorite: ‘Nagami’ is a medium-sized evergreen tree/shrub growing to about 8 feet tall and 6 feet wide, with a low canopy that produces fruit in mid-spring to late summer. Photograph via Fast Growing Trees.
Where cold temperatures persist, consider growing your kumquat indoors in a container. Just make sure to situate your container close to a warm east- or west-facing window.
Even if you’re in a warm climate, you may want to consider growing it in a container; the sweet citrus fragrance coming from the white blossoms should be appreciated up close.
Bees love, love, love the blossoms.
Also great for adding to a vegetable garden among other edibles.
High in vitamin C, this citrus can be eaten fresh or cooked for a jam or jelly. You might even try baking them in a chicken dish.
While not severely toxic, the fruit’s sugars and acidity could cause digestive upset to pets if an excess is eaten.
Keep It Alive
Above: The trees tend to bear abundant fruit. Photograph by Lesley B. via Flickr.
Plant your kumquat in the spring to avoid any risk of damaging frost.
Water regularly during the hottest months and feed often in the spring and summer. An organic fertilizer formulated for citrus is perfect.
Select a sunny location with at least six to eight hours of direct sunlight a day for best fruit production.
Prefers loamy soil that is slightly acidic (pH 5.5-6.5) and well-draining. If planting it in the ground, avoid heavy clay soil.
If growing in a container, use the largest one you have, ensuring it has drainage holes to prevent root rot. Also, consider filling your container with soil formulated for palm/citrus trees.
Prune to control the growth and shape. The plant should be bushy and have sturdy branches to support the fruit.
Be on the alert when you have a grafted kumquat. Unwanted shoots can develop below the graft union on the root stock. Remove these immediately or they will take over the plant and your cute kumquat will barely grow.
Culinary herbs add freshness and flavor to our meals. Growing them at home means that a quick trip to the garden or to the pot at the front door can yield a handful of aromatic goodness. It is often assumed that herbs require full sun to thrive, but many herbs prefer to grow in shade, or at least in partial shade. These shade-loving herbs include plants native to regions as diverse as the Mediterranean, North America, and Southeast Asia. Some of them are deeply familiar, and others may be more surprising.
Here are 13 herbs for shade that are staples in my kitchen. (If you have a favorite shade herb that you don’t see here, let us know in the comments.)
It took me years to learn that basil appreciates shade where summers are very hot. It begins to make sense when you realize that Ocimum species are native to tropical Asia and Africa, which conjures leafy forests. While basil will grow in full sun (with adequate watering), in hot summer climates it thrives in either full shade, afternoon shade, or dappled shade. The most shade-loving basils in my experience are purple, Thai, and Greek, in that order. Lemon basil also likes shade, while sweet (so-called Italian) basil will take more sun. Purple basil relishes shade, where it is as ornamental as it is delicious. During this very hot July my Thai basil planted in full sun is tall and full of flowers, but wilts twice a day, while the pot in full shade has remained more compact, is bushy with fragrant leaves, and has not bloomed yet; plus, it does not require double watering.
Mint
Above: This mint is Mentha spicata.
The mint we buy in grocery stores is Mentha spicata, a semi-aquatic perennial native to Eurasia and Southwest Asia. With a tendency to proliferate when planted in-ground, contained in a (large) pot it loses its invasive potential. This mint thrives in shade, where it will also guzzle less water than if it is planted in sun. Harvest it by pinching or cutting it back to another set of leaves, and water it deeply, rather than sprinkling the surface of the soil.
Coriander, or Cilantro
Above: Bolting ain’t bad—cilantro’s flowers turn to delicious coriander seeds.
The herb cilantro (Coriandrum sativum, native to Southern Europe and the Mediterranean) is also known as coriander in English, while in the United States, the seeds are always called coriander. Grown in shade, cilantro is slow to bolt and you will be harvesting its succulent leaves for longer than from a plant in full sun. When it does bloom, the pollinated flowers form citrus-forward seeds, which are an ephemeral delicacy while still green.
Parsley
Above: Parsley dislikes humid heat and will appreciate shade.
Parsley, another soft herb, will flourish in half a day of shade or in high, bright shade. Whether it’s curly or flat-leaf, Petroselinum crispum, native to Europe and parts of the the Mediterranean, will be slower to bolt when shaded.
If you do a search for the top ten most expensive spices, you’ll find a varied list. However there is one spice that is always at the top of that list: saffron.
Saffron spice is made by collecting the stigmas, also called threads, of the saffron crocus (Crocus sativus), drying them, then grinding them into a powder. There are three stigmas in each flower, and it takes about 75,000 to make a pound. That pound could cost you around $1,500.
Above: A field of saffron crocus. Photograph by Shellie via Flickr.
Or you can buy about 30 bulbs for less than $20, plant them, and grind your own saffron. Before you start dreaming of riches, know that you’ll need 167 flowers, with three stigmas each, to make just one gram of dried saffron. You’re not going to get rich planting a patch of saffron crocus, but you will have some pretty fall flowers and be able to make a few batches of saffron rice with your harvest! Not to mention the satisfaction that you grew the most expensive spice in the world in your own backyard.
Here’s what you need to know about growing saffron crocus in your garden.
Cheat Sheet:
Above: Above: Gardenista contributor Marie Viljoen planted 50 fall-blooming saffron crocuses, “enough for a couple of very good bouillabaisses and a risotto,” she writes in February To-Do: 10 Flowers and Ferns to Preorder Now. Photograph via Dutch-Grown.
Crocus sativus is a perennial and part of the iris family. It grows up to 4-inches tall from corms and produces small lilac flowers with bright orange stigmas.
It blooms in September and October; its also known as “autumn crocus and “fall flowering crocus.”
It has poisonous lookalikes in the lily family; Colchicum autumnale is highly toxic and can be fatal if eaten. Only harvest stigmas from saffron corms you planted yourself.
The saffron crocus is believed to originate in the Mediterranean. There are some that think Greece may be the place (crocus comes from the Greek word krokus), and others believe that it’s the near east, in what was Persia.
It is now cultivated in many parts of the world, with Spain, Italy, Iran, and India being the top producers.
Keep It Alive:
Above: Plant this side down. This is the base of the corm. Photograph by Joy Yagid.
In the US, saffron does best in zones 6-8.
Plant it 2- to 4-inches deep in late summer or early fall, in fertile, well-draining soil. Flat side is the bottom of the corm and the pointy side is the top. Fertilize in the spring with a mix for bulbs.
It likes full sun. It does best in locations with dry summers, but does need water during the growing season.
To propagate, divide the corms every three to four years, as the flowers are sterile.
To harvest, using tweezers, pick out only the deep orange stigmas and place on paper towels in a warm, dark, and dry place. Store in an airtight container when dried.
Saffron crocuses have few pests, but squirrels do like the corms. Consider planting the corms within a hardware cloth box if you are concerned.
We’re heading into late autumn, and that means peak bulb-planting time. As long as the soil is not frozen, you can plant for next spring and summer. Alliums are one of the most rewarding, and least demanding, of bulbs. As a category these eye-catching flowers offer so much more than the giant purple balls that their name may conjure—although we love those, too. Alliums can be ample or petite, loose or compact, white, near-blue, lilac, pink or purple, native or exotic. They offer flowers for pure ornament, for pollinators, for floral stylists, and for the (supper) table. And the best part? Squirrels and critters don’t eat them. Neither do deer. Mostly. (Deer be deer.)
Above: Once planted, expect alliums to return, year after year.
This may be obvious to experienced gardeners, but the fact that you can plant alliums, walk away, and enjoy them for years to come, is a bonus.
2. Alliums are excellent in pots.
Above: In small gardens like mine, alliums offer vertical interest without hogging valuable space.
For container gardeners, allium bulbs can be dropped neatly into a pot that is already occupied. I use a narrow hori to make the hole. Plant three to five in a pot (which should be least 12 inches in diameter), and combine them either with annuals, perennials, or even shrubs. I grow mine with cilantro, sown in spring, and with roses, in large pots.
3. They are meadow-friendly.
Above: Allium schubertii is seen from above while meadow grasses are still young, in early May. Above: Allium obliquum‘s twisted stems on New York’s High Line.
In wilder, less formal plantings, alliums can blend with grasses and other species.
4. They offer structure and texture.
Above: A constellation of stars behind the beaded seedpods of sea kale. Above: A smoothly fat allium with feathered wormwood. Above: A sea of pleated hosta leaves with tall white alliums in the Conservancy Gardens at Battery Park, New York.
Whether low-growing and loose, like A. schubertii, or statuesque on slender stalks, alliums’ signature symmetry offers immediate structure and rhythm within a loose and wild planting, or above a more austere palette, like the hostas above.
In honor of Halloween: houseplants that show off twisty tendrils, scary leaves, and macabre colors that can lend your home a moody ambiance. Here are five favorites that celebrate the dark side. Featured image above by Geoff McKay via Flickr. Begonia ‘Hallow’s Eve’ Appropriately named for the season, this rhizomatous begonia sports very dark leaves […]
The new book A Year in Bloom has a great premise: Ask some of the world’s top garden people to talk about their favorite bulbs, thus solving one of gardeners’ biggest dilemmas—which of the many, many bulbs out there to plant. And the beautifully packaged results come as a relief, as the trend is mainly toward less artifice and less effort when it comes to bulbs.
Written and compiled by Lucy Bellamy (former editor of Gardens Illustrated) and photographed by Jason Ingram (the best in the business), the book’s contributors offer insights that make for a fun read. Not all of their comments made it into the book—and we have some of them here. Let’s take a look.
Above: Narcissus ‘Bath’s Flame’ and N. ‘White Lady’.
Daffodils that look like they might have been shown at the RHS exhibition halls in Westminster 100 years ago are the ones with the right look, and yellow is not to be shied away from. Of Narcissus ‘Bath’s Flame’ (above left), Lucy writes, “Over recent years there has been a trend for more delicate forms of narcissus that sit easily in semi-wild plantings, and ‘Bath’s Flame’ is at once just wild and just cultivated enough.”
Narcissus ‘White Lady’ was chosen by admired Irish plantsman Jimi Blake, who told Lucy: “This variety was originally grown as a cut flower back in 1898. It’s pure elegance on a stem, with its pristine white petals and soft yellow cup with a delicious scent. I grow this in a border with other simple narcissus such as ‘Polar Ice’, ‘Thalia’ and ‘Segovia’. The other nominee for N. ‘White Lady’ was your own Gardenista correspondent—me. They were in the old-fashioned cottage garden of my elderly next door neighbor, and they began to drift into mine, with some help.
Above: Crocus sieberi ‘Firefly’ with ruffed yellow Eranthis hyemilis (winter aconite), planted in the perfect setttng, amid leaf litter from the previous autumn.
Lucy points out that bulbs that are good for naturalizing also look quite “natural.” Crocus are small, and they shine in the low-key surroundings of dried leaves, and under the bare limbs of shrubs and trees. There is no need to bundle up the leaves of daffodils after flowering, or tie them into neat knots; the simpler forms tend to have more demure foliage, which disappears into lengthening grass as the season progresses. It’s best to leave them alone anyway, so that seeds can disperse, and bulbs can spread underground. When they appear year on year, they are “emulating the patterns they make in nature.”
Above: Narcissus bulbocodium and N. pseudonarcissus.
The hooped petticoat-shape of Narcissuc bulbocodium is the same yellow hue as other spring flowers, including daffodils, but its character is altogether different. Described by California landscape designer Ron Lutsko as “steadfast and cheerful,” it benefits from being away from the throng. “It is best grown in pots as a single-species group, to give the opportunity of closely observing the flowers.”
Delightfully named Narcissus pseudonarcissus is the diminutive wild daffodil of the Wye Valley and Welsh Borders, and it’s also the “go-to choice” for Sissinghurst’s head gardener, Troy Scott Smith. James Basson, garden designer and a Chelsea Flower Show star who is based in the French Alpes-Maritimes, says: “These daffodils revel in the stone cracks of karst landscapes [featuring eroded limestone], and they push through the snow to shout out in bright yellow.” This was the second most nominated bulb.
Above: Crocus tommasinianus and Erythronium ‘Joanna’.
“Irises were my first love,” says horticulturalist Kelly D. Norris, the garden author and designer known for his “new naturalism” garden style. He started out managing his family’s iris farm and eventually became a noted iris expert, writing A Guide to Bearded Irises. However, it’s not just the dizzying array of bearded irises that Norris fell hard for: He loved the beardless native irises, too. “The farm I grew up on was not far removed from native prairie remnants, including some that bordered the river. All of the little swales where they’d dug for the railroad tracks and disturbed the floodplain were home to large colonies of Iris virginica,” he remembers. On one occasion, teenage Norris took a potato fork to dig up a patch of irises in the path of development.
Indigenous irises often get less attention than their cultivated counterparts, but as gardeners aspire to plant more natives and design landscapes that better manage rainwater, American irises deserve a second look. Unlike imported irises, native irises are low-maintenance: They don’t require fertilization, and once established they will spread and come back bigger year after year. Even when not in bloom, many native irises have foliage that offers substantial architectural quality. And while we do not yet know about specific host plant relationships, they are beloved by bees, moths, and butterflies.
Native irises, and blue flag irises in particular, are often well-suited to rain gardens and bioswales, which mimic their natural habitats near ponds and streams. Writing for the Ecological Landscape Alliance, Dr. Catherine Neal, a horticulture professor at the University of New Hampshire, noted, “Blue flag iris (Iris versicolor) is a plant that seems to be highly adapted to the lowest area of the rain garden—we have seen it survive where many other species have failed.” Norris has personally been experimenting with breeding native irises, hoping to tease out selections from wild populations that could have a little more horticultural interest in bioswales and green infrastructure. “We need a plant palette for that,” he says.
There are only 28 native iris species in the U.S. (although that number may vary slightly depending on who you talk to), but because they hybridize easily both in nature and with human assistance, there are hundreds of garden forms in cultivation. Plantsman Bob Pries, an iris hybridizer and longtime member and spokesperson for the American Iris Society, encourages gardeners interested in native irises to join Species Iris Group of North America (SIGNA). “They have a seed exchange, which is one of the easiest ways for people to get seeds of a lot of these plants,” says Pries. (Iris lovers might also explore the Society’s Iris Encyclopedia, which lists about 80,000(!) different cultivars of irises, mostly non-native, that have been registered.)
Here’s a primer on the irises native to the United States:
Blue Flag Irises
Above: In the “valley” of Norris’s own Three Oaks garden, an homage to wet ditch flora features ‘Purple Flame’, a selection of I. versicolor from Mt. Cuba Center.
I’ve always known in theory that if you plant spring-flowering bulbs (such as tulips, daffodils, crocuses, and alliums) you can fill your garden with successive waves of color for three months while you wait for summer. But in my garden, after the spring flowers on the azaleas and rhododendrons fade? Nothing—until June. I eye my neighbors’ more colorful gardens with envy and initiate late-night talks with my husband about why this is the year we should hire a landscape designer.
This fall I plan to be proactive and plant bulbs—which I know is a thing you do in autumn because one year I went to our local nursery and asked for alliums. (I’m particularly enamored with the extraterrestrial look of alliums, with their large pompom heads and tall, slender stalks.) But it was during the height of summer, and the nice lady who worked at the nursery had to break it to me that I’d have to wait until September or later for the bulbs to be available for purchase. Like many other bulbs, they are planted in the fall and bloom in the spring, she told me, with not the slightest bit of disdain.
A job requirement for working at nurseries must be an uncanny ability to refrain from rolling one’s eyes when asked idiotic questions. Thankfully, my interview with Barbara Pierson, nursery manager of White Flower Farm, in which I asked beginner questions about spring-flowering bulbs, was conducted over email. (Thank you, Barbara, for not inserting any eye-roll emojis.) Here’s what I learned:
Q: What are bulbs, anyway?
Above: Tulip bulbs ready for the planting. Photograph by Meredith Swinehart.
A: A bulb is “essentially a storage organ” for plants, says Barbara; all the food they need is concentrated in a compact, onion-shaped mass. “True bulbs have scales, which are fleshy and become leaves after the bulb begins to grow.” They’re often lumped together with corms, rhizomes, and tubers, because they all grow underground and produce plants, but they are different. Corms don’t have scales; rhizomes grow horizontally and can produce more plants; and tubers have eyes (like potatoes) that can grow into sprouts or roots. (See Everything You Need to Know About Bulbs and Tubers for a roundup of some of our favorite springtime bulb and tuber flowers.)
Q: Which bulbs are the easiest to grow?
Above: Barbara recommends ‘Globemaster’ alliums. “They are easy to grow and, most times, will flower the first year after planting in the fall,” she says. “Plant them four to five inches below the soil line in a border close to other perennials so the foliage is hidden when it dies down during and after flowering. Remembering to let bulb foliage die down naturally is the key to having them come back year after year.” Photograph by Justine Hand.
I usually think about bunnies around Easter time, but they also hop into my head in the fall, when I need a grass that will reliably perform in the garden—and I inevitably reach for red bunny tails. I’ve used this burgundy-topped grass in many different gardens and usually have the same results: awesomeness. If your fall garden needs some interest, consider adding Pennisetum massiacum, a charming grass with a festive-colored fuzzy plume.
Hailing from East Africa, this heat-tolerant evergreen grass will reliably perform in your Zone 7-11 garden. Come late spring and well into summer, you will see fluffy burgundy flower plumes that resemble little red bunny tails (or maybe bunny feet) rise out of glossy green leaves. Then come fall, the flowers slowly morph to a tawny tan color while the leaves flush with burgundy. Growing into polite tufts that are about 2 feet tall and wide, this grass is perfect for adding to a garden with other ornamental grasses, pollinator-friendly perennials, and even bolder succulents.
This grass is a pro at adding movement, texture, and a dash of color to a garden. Side note: I’m a big fan of burgundy-hued plants, so I could be a bit biased here, but what I have found is that the color plays well with most other colors, so it’s easy to add into an established garden. If you live near the coast, this grass will tolerate salt; plus it will move with the breeze and the plumes will dance above the arching foliage. If you live more inland, a strong breeze will still set this grass into motion.
Cheat Sheet
Above: Tinges of red on the grass. Photograph by Kier Holmes.
This grass looks especially lovely when backlit because of the thin, red-hued blades and the fluffy reddish plumes that appear almost translucent.
This grass also looks lovely when planted on hillsides and in mass or clusters. Another spot to consider is the “hell strip” area by the sidewalk because this medium-sized grass won’t overpower the narrow space.
Luckily, deer won’t find it tasty.
Pair this pennisetum with echinacea, rudbeckias, sesleria, and agaves.
Cut the blooming stalks and use them fresh or dried in flower arrangements.
Hardy in USDA Zones 7-11. In colder areas, treat it like an annual.
Plant this pennisetum in a sunny spot and make sure the soil drains well, though I have punished these plants in clayish soil before and they thrived despite the less-than-ideal environment.
Like most plants, this grass likes regular drinks of water to get established but then the water frequency can downshift as it matures.
I like to deadhead the stalks when they get too tawny and ratty at the end of fall, but it’s a visual preference. Plus, I like to rejuvenate the clump by pruning it down a few inches in early spring.
Easy to maintain, this grass won’t be affected by serious diseases or insects.
We don’t hate chrysanthemums. Let’s just get that out of the way. There is a lot to be said for their instant, impulse-buy autumnal cheer. A pot on the stoop (with a pumpkin or two), as the clock ticks towards Halloween, is welcoming. But muffin-top mums, rounded and mounded in a way that nature did not intend—left to their own devices, naturally-elegant perennial chrysanthemums are leggy and loose—have saturated the market. Their inescapable presence as October unspools makes it very easy to forget how many other flowers relish autumn.
The list of fall flowers is long, so here is a choice (albeit biased) collection.
Above: Fall flowers from Willow Wisp Organic Farm, at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket in Brooklyn.
Celosia
Above: Celosia is a warm-weather annual whose flowers peak in fall.
In terms of commercial success, annual Celosia is beginning to nudge chrysanthemums off that front stoop. I see potfuls at my local deli in Brooklyn, at Whole Foods, at the market. Their rich, cockscomb colors are made for fall. These African annuals have taken off in the US. Aside from their tasseled ornamental appeal, the plants are in fact vegetables. They are eaten as cooked, leafy greens in their homeland and are reminiscent of amaranth greens, in flavor and texture.
Zinnias are a genus of annuals native to Mexico and Central America. They are one of the most rewarding cut flowers to enjoy as the weather cools. Available in a rainbow of colors (only blues are missing), more zinnia cultivars are being developed to withstand the mildew that sometimes bothers their leaves in humid climates. The blooms attract butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees.
Above: Dahlias at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden in October.
Dahlias might be the queens of autumn bouquets. Ranging from compactly petite pom-poms to ruffled flowers the size of side plates, with colors from candy stripes to rich jewel hues, the long-stalked flowers are cut-and-come-again for weeks from late summer through frost. Dahlias are hardy from USDA zones 8 to 10.
Tithonia
Above: Tithonia blooms from late summer till frost and is a boon to bees.
After it begins to flower in late summer, Mexican and Southwestern native annual Tithonia continues to blaze with color as nights dip into the 50s. The plant grows tall (upwards of five feet) and the blooms are very attractive to bees and other pollinators.
Marigold
Above: Annual marigolds (flor de muerto), play a key role in Día de los Muertos rituals in late October and early November.
The assertive scent of marigolds is a floral signal that the season has changed. Days are losing light, and the year’s end is approaching, staved off by celebrations that honor souls that have passed. Garlands of marigolds are a necessity for the Day of the Dead, and have a place at Halloween tables, too: The flowers are long-lasting in a vase, and marigold petals are edible. The plants have long been valued in companion planting traditions, and science bears this out: They secrete chemicals that deter nematodes and other pathogens.
Vines can hide an ugly fence or add beauty to trellis or doorways. When grown over an arbor or pergola, they can create shade. But when gardeners think of vines, the first thing that comes to mind may be imported ones like Japanese and Chinese wisteria, English Ivy, or the dreaded oriental bittersweet, which can all be difficult to get rid of (and have notoriously escaped our gardens and aggressively displaced native plants in the wild). There are many native vines, though, that can play a useful part in your garden scheme.
Christina Koether, a backyard flower farmer, florist, and garden designer behind Nomadica in Weston, Connecticut, notes that tastes and awareness are gradually shifting: In October, for example, it will be illegal to sell both Japanese wisteria (Wisteria floribunda) and Chinese wisteria (Wisteria sinensis) in Connecticut. As a result, she says, “I think we will see native vines like Aristolochia macrophylla and Lonicera sempervirens become more popular again.”
Here are 11 native vines that garden professionals are using in their designs:
Looking for a native vine to cover an ugly deer fence on the woodland edge of her property, Koether decided to try planting a pipevine (Aristolochia macrophylla), whose heart-shaped leaves were a favorite in Victorian gardens until favor shifted toward the imported Chinese and Japanese wisterias for their showier flowers. “Pipevine—it’s one of my favorite native vines,” says Koether, who admits that technically, it’s native to areas slightly further south than Connecticut, where she gardens. “But I rolled the dice when I bought them, knowing the butterfly that relies on it would likely start coming further north as temperatures increase each year.” Sure enough, this year, Koether watched pipevine swallowtail butterflies lay eggs on the vine, which hatched into caterpillars. In addition to being the host plant for the pipevine swallowtails, who rely on this plant to survive, Koether appreciates the playful pipe-shaped flowers in the springtime.
Out on the west coast, Andrea Hurd, the founder of Mariposa Gardening & Design Cooperative in Oakland, California, points to the California native pipevine (Aristolochia californica), which has larger, distinctive purple-striped, pipe-shaped flowers. “We have a garden where it has gotten well-established,” she says. According to the California Native Plant Society, this plant is common in moist woods and along streams in northern and central California. Like its cousin Aristolochia macrophylla, it is the host plant for the pipevine swallowtail, and there are other regional Aristolochia to explore, depending on where you garden.
Not to be confused with Japanese honeysuckle (Lonicera japonica), which is considered invasive in most states, coral honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens) is native to the southeast and grows as far north as Maine and inland to the midwest—and is a favorite of several garden pros. Gena Wirth, a landscape architect and partner at SCAPE’s New York office, recently moved into a home in Brooklyn with a large fence that backs onto a subway corridor, on which she is experimenting with a number of native vines, including coral honeysuckle. “Lonicera sempervirens is such an easy-to-grow, adaptable plant that thrives in full and part sun environments,” says Wirth. “I love planting it in arches and garden windows, as its flowers reach for the light.” Koether notes that she also likes to use cuttings of both the greens and the flowers in her floristry work.
If you want to attract hummingbirds, look to trumpet vine (Campis radicans) and its orange, trumpet-shade flowers. It’s native to eastern North America, as far north as Ohio and South Dakota. Fast- and high-growing, trumpet vine has a reputation for being aggressive (great if you want it to screen a fence), but the experts from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, in their guide Great Natives for Tough Places, say that it can be controlled with pruning if you want to contain its vigor.
Japanese Anemone, A. hupehensis: “Daughter of the Wind”
There’s a nondescript, partially shaded corner of my garden that is frankly rather dull until finally it comes into its own in September. That’s when the gorgeous Japanese anemone ‘Honorine Jobert’ produces its pearly buds as a subtle preview of the real show—white flowers bobbing delicately on tall wire-thin stems. What makes these flowers so outstanding is their brilliant centers: bright green seed heads surrounded by a thicket of orangey yellow stamens.
Surprisingly Japanese anemones aren’t Japanese at all. This corner of my garden is actually home to natives of China. Read on to hear the story of how they came to Brooklyn (and gardens in other countries):
Photography by Britt Willoughby Dyer for Gardenista.
Above: Early European plant explorers first discovered windflowers in Japan, where they had been imported and cultivated by gardeners for generations. (The anemones, which frequently like to grow where they want instead of where you plant them, had escaped into the wild and naturalized.) The Europeans labeled the plants Anemone japonica.
Above: Today the plant has been re-named Anemone hupehensis, or Chinese anemone. It is a native of Hubei province in eastern China. The Victorian plant hunter Robert Fortune discovered it growing in a cemetery in Shanghai and introduced it in Europe in 1844.
Above: There are more than 120 species of Anemone but unlike some of the others that grow from tubers or rhizomes, Anemone hupehensis is a tall (typically 2 to 4 feet in height) long-lived perennial with fibrous roots that can spread via underground stems.
African Blue Basil, Ocimum kilimandscharicum x basilicum
Whether you garden in-ground or in a single windowbox, there is a plant that will lure every pollinator in the neighborhood to your green space. African blue basil’s myriad flowers, in bloom for months, guarantee a flurry of constant and diverse pollinator activity from morning until twilight, and from early summer until frost. There is never a dull moment. And with the right plant for pollinators, even a tiny urban space can contribute to a pollinator pathway—a pesticide and herbicide-free corridor of plants that provides food and shelter for pollinating insects, which are in decline due to loss of habitat and to widespread pesticide use.
It doesn’t hurt either that spending ten minutes on a bee safari is a very effective way of disconnecting from digital noise and reconnecting with the small things that matter.
Above: Windowbox-grown African blue basil in late summer on my Brooklyn terrace.
In a small space every inch counts, and the ideal plant has to work hard: It should be low-maintenance, bloom for months, have fragrant and edible leaves, and offer an irresistible nectary for a host of beneficial insects. That’s asking a lot. A very small handful of plants checks all those demanding boxes. African blue basil comes out pretty much at the top.
Above: A native carpenter bee visits African blue basil.
Native plant advocates might frown at a non-native being promoted for pollinators, but there are some mitigating factors to consider. Not everyone has the space for a collection of native perennials chosen for a bloom-sequence staggered for months-long interest (with a couple of exceptions, most perennials tend to flower for just a few weeks). And some perennials, like milkweeds and bee balms, resent being potted and perform best in-ground. City gardeners are often confined to containers, while most urban dwellers have no more than a windowsill to grow anything. African blue basil fits this demographic perfectly.
“Chrysanthemums are long overdue for a revival,” says garden writer Naomi Slade, the author of the new book Chrysanthemums: Beautiful Varieties for Home and Garden, which is out in the U.S. now and launching in the U.K on September 12. “They’ve gotten this reputation of being workhorse flowers that are not very special,” she says. “In fact, they’re incredibly special and really interesting.”
Because chrysanthemums, or mums as they’re often called, are easy to grow and last for ages, they’ve become ubiquitous in commercial floristry. Some cut flower growers, however, have caught the heirloom chrysanthemum bug, and with the help of Slade’s book, more people will soon discover how exciting chrysanthemums can be.
Photography by Georgianna Lane from Chrysanthemums: Beautiful Varieties for Home and Garden by Naomi Slade, courtesy of Gibbs Smith Books.
Above: Slade says she was excited to discover the PIP series of commercially-grown chrysanthemums, including ‘PIP Salmon, above. “Its creamy apricot blooms have a deeper caramel stripe,” Slade writes, “The lightly brushed streaks add detail without being fussy, and impart a gentle texture that helps the flower blend with other components of a bouquet.”
Slade attributes the growing enthusiasm for chrysanthemums in part to the recent popularity of dahlias. “Chrysanthemums have all the good qualities that dahlias have,” Slade enthuses. “They pick beautifully, they photograph well, they’re wonderful for arranging. And there’s this whole other bunch of chrysanthemums, which are also hardy garden plants. So, it’s like dahlias plus.”
