Friday, January 23, 2015
Late January is prime garden porn, seed catalog time, and I am built for the seduction of a centerfold English cottage garden swan-necked with hollyhocks. I sigh about varieties of climbing roses with names like Sombreuil and Renae.
I am a hopeless romantic when it comes to gardening (I have a hat for just this purpose). Though I have been burned by the deer, I come back for more and still more because I'm cups over teakettle in love with the first violets of May.
I'm going to make a raised bed cold frame for spring vegetables from a salvaged window. I picture it like this: a riot of leafy green arugula a.k.a rocket and baby lettuces fit for Peter Rabbit watercolored by Beatrix Potter in other words, Anglophile.
I picture myself out there in a tweed gardening kit, hair in a bun blown blowsy by the first sips of the spring breeze, cupping my seedlings in Italian terracotta like the easily underestimated but heart of the story middle aged female cousin in a Merchant Ivory film.