Holly

Rutgers Gardens has a large holly collection.

I’ve driven by it many times, but never taken the time to photograph it. The hollies with yellow berries intrigue me.

As you can see, the light was terrible this afternoon. Harsh, washing out all of the colors. I had terrible trouble with shadows.

So no Photo of the Day. I took a few nice ones, but nothing that really stood out.

I thought this was kind of fun:

You can see all of my photos from today on Flickr.

The Oak Tree Was Right

There's a Camry under there somewhere

The oak tree was right. It’s still two more days until winter officially begins and a record-breaking Nor’Easter blanketed the mid-Atlantic area with up to two feet of snow. “Only” eight inches fell in my yard. A significant accumulation, though, for New Jersey where we rarely see snow until January.

A Christmas Story

In the spirit of the season, I’d like to share with you my favorite Christmas story. But I have to warn you. Don’t expect a sweet, syrupy tale of a Christmas miracle. I start out each December decorating my tree while wearing a hat that says “Bah Humbug” and listening to parodies of Christmas carols, dogs barking Christmas carols, chipmunks singing carols and my all-time favorite, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”. I love Christmas in my own twisted way.

So, without further ado, I present my favorite Christmas story:

I may be jinxing myself, but I have never had a problem mixing cats and Christmas trees. Our first cat, who came to us courtesy of a sign for free kittens tacked to the community bulletin board at the grocery store, completely ignored the tree and its decorations in favor of the tree skirt.

He loved sneaking under the tree, messing up the carefully arranged skirt and then curling up in the resulting nest of fabric, with a look that clearly said “I’ve been a bad boy, haven’t I?”. Thrilled that he had no interest in my precious glass ornaments, I gladly played along, scolding him out from under the tree and then carefully smoothing and arranging the skirt back into a perfect circle. I swear he was grinning as he ran from the room.

We played this game over and over again every year during the month of December until his untimely death at age 9 from kidney cancer.

Our next cat was a pure-bred Maine Coon who made up in fur for what he lacked in personality. He came to live with us in January, so I had almost a year of anguished waiting. Finally, the big day came. The tree was brought home, the lights and beads were strung and the fragile glass ornaments were carefully unwrapped and hung on the branches. I took a deep breath and waited.

And waited. And waited. Mr. Total Lack of Personality had no interest in the tree or the skirt. He did, however, develop a taste for the water in the tree stand. I knew that poinsettias were poisonous for cats so I researched online to see if evergreens were in any way harmful to felines. The answer came soon enough, offline.

Mr. TLoP developed diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea. Projectile diarrhea. You could tell when a spasm hit. His head would jerk up. Then his face would assume a pained expression and he would race for the litterbox where he would squat, vainly trying to confine the contents of his bowels to that small rectangle of litter. Instead, to the accompaniment of loud farts, he would spew poop all over his litterbox and the surrounding walls and floor. He was mortified.

After a weekend of scrubbing cat feces from walls and floor, I stuffed him into his carrier and took him to the vet who prescribed kitty Kaopectate and sent us home with stern instructions to cover the tree stand and keep an eye out to make sure that Mr. TLoP didn’t drink any more tree water.

There was no need for the admonishment. Mr. TLoP had learned his painful and embarrassing lesson. He drank only from his water bowl and steered clear of that shiny, dangerous thing in the living room.

Where Am I??

I know that it looks like I’ve disappeared again. I haven’t. I’ve been busy and posting the results elsewhere. My fellow Straw Hatter and co-blogger, “A” and I cooked Thanksgiving together again. You can see those recipes on our blog, The Wooden Spoon. After Thanksgiving, we did an informal Buche de Noel bake-off at the Rutgers Gardens Holiday Party, recipes coming soon. And I’ve started a new tradition on our blog, Christmas Cookie of the Week.


When I’m not creating culinary wonders in the kitchen, I’ve been writing. You can browse my portfolio at Writing.com to see what I’ve been up to. Like wallpapering my bathroom. Or rendering my oven unfit to cook in a few days before Thanksgiving. Not surprisingly, there are also a few stories about my cats.

So if you stop by here and don’t see any updates, check my other hangouts to see what I’ve been up to lately.

Feast

It’s going to be a hard winter. I’ve got proof.

(There is a photo that is supposed to go here, but it seems to be lost amongst the thousands on my hard drive.  I'll post it when I find it.)

Folklore has it that oak trees produce an over-abundance of acorns ahead of a bad winter and fewer acorns when the following winter will be mild. This past fall, deceptively warm, was marked by a veritable monsoon of acorns courtesy of my neighbor’s oak tree.

Walking on my driveway and lawn was like walking on marbles. The sound of acorns crashing onto my car had me constantly checking for dents. I even checked my head for dents after being hit more than once.

Good did come of all of this mayhem. Normally, I have to harvest the seed pods from the Blackberry Lilies long before they ripen because the squirrels consider them a delicacy. This year, I must have missed one. And so did the squirrels. They had apparently gorged themselves on acorns and weren’t looking for anything else to eat so a lone pod was able to ripen and then open, showing the shiny black seeds that make the characteristic autumnal display.

Veterans' Day Flowers

Thanks to the mild weather we’ve been having, there is still color in my gardens. Just not what you would expect. Not asters or mums or goldenrod. Of course not! This is my garden where anything can, and often does, happen.

Before the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War, while nuclear war still seemed a possibility, I read somewhere that the only things that would survive a nuclear attack were cockroaches. I’d like to amend that statement to include Rudbeckia.

Over the years, I have learned to take advantage of their propensity to grow anywhere. I dig up small clumps and distribute them to friends, confident that even the most neophyte gardener with the blackest of thumbs, can’t kill them. They are a great “starter plant” for timid beginners. It doesn’t matter where they are planted, like cockroaches, they will grow and multiply.

Which is how they have spread all over my yard. Any place where I need a little color or nothing seems to grow, I plant some knowing that within a few years, I will have a big bright bunch of yellow flowers.

I seem to see the world differently from most people. Take, for instance, my introduction to old-fashioned single hollyhocks. As a child, I first saw them growing along a rustic split rail fence, their huge stalks towering over not just me but also the adults. Who were all admiring the thatched roof on the house. A house with a thatched roof is unusual but a house with a thatched roof in the middle of a city is downright bizarre. While the adults were wondering how much the homeowner’s insurance was costing the inhabitants of the thatched roof house, I was wondering what the big flowers were called.

I grew them in the garden I had when I was in high school. My first house had too much shade in the yard to grow most flowers. My current yard is shady except for the strip along the Ugly Green Fence. I tried growing hollyhocks there but they succumbed to rust.

Occasionally, one still pops up either from dormant seed or seed brought in by the birds. Sometimes they manage to hang on long enough to flower.

I have one garden where virtually nothing grows. I don’t know if there is something wrong with the soil or if the quantity or quality of the sunlight is a problem. The garden was originally dug by my daughter and planted with mainly purple flowers. The daffodils, iris and asters that she planted still grow. I planted sage which has done well and Echinacea which hasn’t done so well.

And then there is the bare spot. Not even weeds grow well there. Years ago, I tried planting all green flowers in that space, but they didn’t even make it through one season. Except for the miniature rose. It’s still going strong. Every year it gets bigger. I’m wondering how much larger it can get before it is no longer consider “miniature”. It seems immune to the Black Spot that attacks my heirloom roses. And it blooms exuberantly. The flowers are only very vaguely green but they definitely make up in quantity what they lack in color.

Swarthmore Arboretum

After our tour of Chanticleer, we took advantage of the picnic area to have lunch. Then it was off to Swarthmore Arboretum. The arboretum is located on the campus which has many beautiful buildings.

There are hidden gardens.

And inviting places to sit.

My favorite place?

The rose garden, of course!


Or maybe it’s the shady amphitheatre.

 
I wonder . . .
 

 
…is this real or a clever garden ornament?
 
We were exhausted after walking all day.
 

 
We wondered if this kitty was willing to share his bench.
 

And that’s the end of my tail tale.

You can see all of my photos of Swarthmore arboretum on Flickr.