Janine Pineo Photo | Cercis canadensis

THE WEEKEND EDITION (So big it covers two days)

From a distance, the color of the flowers was just enough to catch the eye. A moment of looking revealed that there was an interesting plant growing next to the green shed in the far corner of the Lyle E. Littlefield Ornamental Trial Garden in Orono. It took some doing, but a tag finally emerged that read Cercis canadensis. That didn’t ring a bell, so an online search revealed the most interesting tidbits of information. Specifically, flowers that look remarkably like this lavender pink-blossoming redbud was discovered in Westfield, N.Y., in 1991, growing in the garden of Connie Covey. It was named Covey for that reason, but then a patent got involved and it is also known as ‘Lavender Twist.’ Since the tag doesn’t state it is, it might also be ‘Appalachian Red.’ The reason for dithering is simple: the lavender version is a weeping tree growing only 5 to 6 feet tall, while the red version (which is pink and fuchsia) grows much bigger: 15-25 feet tall and a matching spread. The one at the garden is much bigger and doesn’t weep, but the flowers look more lavender. We’re thinking it’s ‘Appalachian Red’ since colors can be a notoriously subjective area.  The best news? Either of those redbuds is hardy to Zone 4, which means Maine needs more of this spring eye candy no matter its form.

Janine Pineo Photo | Cercis canadensis

Janine Pineo Photo | Rhododendron 'Molly Fordham'

The cool white flowers of Rhododendron ‘Molly Fordham’ are stunning en masse. Photographed May 12, 2012, at the Lyle E. Littlefield Ornamental Trial Garden in Orono, the shrub sparkled as the sun flirted with the shadows, but it couldn’t disguise the delicate blush of pink that is a result of being in a shady area, according to Weston Nurseries of Massachusetts, which bred the variety in 1966. The nursery says it is hardy to Zone 5 and can reach upwards of 8 feet in height and as wide as that. Like any rhododendron, it can tolerate shade fairly well, although since it is a member of the small-leaf rhododendrons, it can stand to be in the full sun and can tolerate the winds of winter.

Illustration by George Danby

• By John F. Chisholm •

We had fresh dandelions for dinner last night.  They’re one of the perks of spring.

I simply adore dandelion greens.

I have a confession to make, however.  It wasn’t always this way.  When I was kid, I hated them.  And parsnips and turnips, too.  My mother made me eat them somehow.  That fact alone would fill me with awe for the woman.  But she did it and managed to put up with me, too.  Looking back, I am not sure how she managed.  I’m sure that I was a difficult child.  But I gagged and swallowed.  Somehow.

My grandfather picked them for her.  There was a time when I was positive that it pained her to share them with me.  Particularly since I made those meals so unpleasant.  But now I gather them for my family.  I’ve learned a thing or two about them in the process.  First, it’s important to gather them while they’re budded but before they bloom.  Otherwise they’re bitter.  Anyone who’s ever remarked at how quickly dandelions grow is aware of how narrow that window truly is.  This makes dandelions an early spring crop, before even fiddleheads.

Second, don’t overcook them.  Otherwise, like spinach or beet greens, the leaves blanche and lose their flavor.

I rinse the dandelions in cold water and cut off the roots before steaming the greens.  Once done, I drain them thoroughly.  Depending on how many I’ve gathered, I add proportional amounts of butter, olive oil, pepper, thyme and parmesan cheese.  My wife likes a bit of vinegar with them, too.

We eat until we’re too full to take another bite.  Regardless, there are always leftover greens for the next night, too.  Despite our appetites, our lawn and fields are choked with dandelions every summer.  Obviously we don’t eat enough.  But that’s okay.  I’d hate to imagine a world without dandelions.  I eat them every April and admire them every June.  They punctuate green fields with their bright yellow blooms.

While I savor the first batch each spring, I always look back, remembering how my mother made me eat them.  I can’t help but wonder if her parents made her eat them as a child, too.  It’s tough to imagine she liked them when she was little.  Maybe she did.  She was a singular woman.

All this leads to another confession.

I made my children eat them, too.

Perhaps ― just maybe ― while passing along a family tradition, I finally figured out how my mother endured me as a boy.

Incredibly, the memories of those dinners actually make me smile.  Because through the ruckus, distaste mirrored in Kim’s face and nausea reflecting from Nathan’s grimace, I could see my grandchildren eating dandelions.

They’re still not here but I know what their reactions will be.  Never mind.

They’ll end up loving them later.

It makes me laugh.

I simply adore dandelion greens.

Janine Pineo Photo | Spirea x cinerea ‘Grefsheim’

Janine Pineo Photo | Spirea x cinerea ‘Grefsheim’

Spirea x cinerea ‘Grefsheim’ is an exuberant shrub, with arching branches shooting in every direction. When in bloom, the small flowers cluster the length of each branch, making an explosive statement in white. On its own, the plant is stunning, but it also can provide the canvas to showcase more colorful plants. ‘Grefsheim’ is hardy in Zones 4 to 7 and should grow 4 to 5 feet in height and width, although this plant, photographed May 12, 2012, at the Lyle E. Littlefield Ornamental Trial Garden in Orono, was at least twice that height and width. ‘Grefsheim’ is by no means a new introduction; it was developed in Norway in the 1880s.

Janine Pineo Photo | Spirea x cinerea 'Grefsheim'

With our last contest prize just shipped off to Alisa – we hope you enjoy ‘The Maine Garden Journal’, Alisa – we decided to offer up a prize of a different sort, one where you can write the book.

Behold: a collection of seeds from Pinetree Garden Seeds and a Garden Maine notebook. We know what to do with the seeds, but the notebook choices are numerous. Maybe you can start your own Maine Garden Journal!

And we liked this one so much, we decided to offer two prizes. That’s right, two people will be the winners of this drawing.

Click the link for what’s in the seed collection – List of seeds and descriptions. It’s suitable for small gardens or big gardens and most will work in containers if that’s what you have.

So here are the rules: Fill in your email address in the form below and submit. The drawing closes at 10 a.m. Monday, May 21, 2012. We’ll contact the winners shortly thereafter.

Two lucky people are going to have their week start off with a win!

Sanguinaria canadensis | Photo courtesy of Glen Mittelhauser/Maine Natural History Observatory

Sanguinaria canadensis | Photo courtesy of Glen Mittelhauser/Maine Natural History Observatory

Sanguinaria canadensis | Photo courtesy of Glen Mittelhauser/Maine Natural History Observatory

Sanguinaria canadensis is a North American native that comes and goes quickly, with the fragrant flowers lasting no more than two days and its bloom time about two weeks in early to midspring. Known as bloodroot for its reddish rhizome and juice, this low-growing perennial in the poppy family can be found in woodlands. The flowers require sunlight to open, making it a perfect match to a deciduous forest since it can tolerate a good deal of shade after it blossoms. Each flower stalk is typically wrapped in its own leaf, which unfurls as the flower blooms. After the blossom is spent, the leaf keeps growing, only to die back in the summer when the plant goes dormant. Once established, S. canadensis can form large colonies.

Wild Wednesday is a collaboration of Garden Maine and Glen Mittelhauser of the nonprofit Maine Natural History Observatory, www.mainenaturalhistory.org.

Hairy vetch, Vicia villosa | Credit: Wikimedia Commons - Dawn Endico (CCA-SA 2.0 Generic)

• By Janine Pineo •

Snow in May does not a happy gardener make, but it hasn’t stopped me from getting a little jump on the vegetable garden.

One blustery day in late April, when I was desperate for some promise of spring, I wandered up to a small plot near the gardening shed and decided it was the perfect moment to set up my nearly new plastic cold frame.

I turned the soil, added some composted manure and secured the cold frame to the ground (it’s so light it tends to blow away).

When the temperature hit 24 degrees the next night, I checked the thermometer inside the cold frame. The 34-degree reading told me we were in business.

April 22 was planting day. After adding a milk jug filled with water as a heat source — solar charged, so to speak — I sowed spinach, Chinese cabbage, kale, brussels sprouts and six varieties of lettuce. These plants are a bit more tolerant of the cold and benefit from early plantings in spring. As an experiment, I poked in a few nasturtium seeds, which are definitely more tender.

One week later, it snowed. Fear kept me from the cold frame’s vicinity; I didn’t want to know.

The next day, I decided to tally up the damage.

Let’s just say spring had sprung.

Another week, another milk jug and yet another day of clouds spitting slush, and the nasturtiums appeared. If all continues to go well and I remember to vent the cold frame on sunny days — when the temperature can soar to 100 degrees — I expect to have greens a month earlier than usual and a nice display of nasturtiums in June. The brussels sprouts are a new vegetable for me, so who knows what they’ll do and when?

I am amazed I didn’t try gardening with a cold frame before now. Part of my hesitance was in finding a well-drained spot that was sunny and accessible; in fact, the plot in use now was planted with tulips and still has a few sprouting here and there.

The other part was that I didn’t want anything in the big vegetable garden because it disturbs my plowing and planting plans.

This year, however, it would disrupt more than that because the garden is the site for my first experimental crop of “green manure.”

This endeavor is meant to keep the soil in good health by providing food for hungry microorganisms, supplying nutrients for succeeding crops and fixing the soil with all-important nitrogen so necessary for happy plants.

With those noble thoughts in mind last October, I broadcast several pounds of winter rye and hairy vetch and raked them into the topsoil. Within a matter of days, the rye had sprouted, with the vetch not far behind.

The real test of my seed sowing came this spring: How much of either variety survived?

Given the ice sheets that covered the ground most of the winter, I was surprised to find just one casualty, the hairy vetch.

Vicia villosa has been touted as one of the best legumes for fixing nitrogen (which only legumes do) and, as the hardiest of annual legumes, the main reasons I bought it. My mistake may have been in the time of year I planted it — mid-October. Most seed sources recommend late summer to early fall planting, but I may not have given the hairy vetch long enough to establish strong roots before the ground froze. Then again, it may have been the winterlong blanket of ice.

My plan for the hairy vetch this year is to plant some of it a little earlier. As the potatoes are harvested, I’ll sow vetch in the growing patch of unused garden.

The winter rye, on the other hand, came through the winter mostly unscathed, although it hasn’t grown rapidly during this cold spring.

Winter rye, or Secale cereale, is considered the hardiest of the annual grasses and is recommended as a companion plant for hairy vetch because it provides support for the vetch’s vines. Winter rye protects the soil from erosion through the winter and improves the soil structure when plowed under in spring. It can be planted any time in the fall.

For gardeners with small plots where every inch counts, trying green manures can be as difficult as rotating crops. In my own garden, I try to keep as many of the plants protected from the frost for as long as possible each fall, which cuts down on the time available to establish the hardy green manures. Last fall, it meant some sections of the garden weren’t planted at all, but if my crop rotation works this year, those neglected sections will have a cold-season cover crop of hairy vetch and winter rye come autumn.

Those gardeners willing to give up a section of garden space during the summer can plant warm-season cover crops that are sown in spring and turned in during the summer months (cold season ones also will work). Many of these are available and include white and red clovers, buckwheat, oats, alfalfa, and fava beans.

First published in the Bangor Daily News in May 1997.

Janine Pineo Photo | Syringa x. hyacinthiflora 'Royal Purple'

Sometimes when one looks at a flower and inhales its intoxicating perfume, one has no idea the journey that plant has been on through the centuries to that moment in time. Syringa × hyacinthiflora ‘Royal Purple’ is one such plant. At first glance, it is a lilac, with deep purple flowers and that unique scent that warms the air. Its blossoms were just emerging on May 12, 2012, at the Lyle E. Littlefield Ornamental Trial Garden in Orono. That seemed a tad early for a lilac, but that’s because it was bred for it. Originally a cross between S. oblata and S. vulgaris, S. x. hyacinthiflora was bred by Victor Lemoine in France in 1976. That hybrid was ‘Plena’ with its double flowers in light violet. This was the start of the French lilacs. Then came Frank Skinner from a nursery in Manitoba who worked to breed plants suited for extreme climates. His lilacs include ‘Pocahontas’ and ‘Maiden’s Blush,’ and they became known as the Canadian Hybrid Cultivars. In 1965, he introduced ‘Royal Purple’ introduced with its double, dark purple flowers. It is hardy to Zone 2 or 3, probably a south-facing protected exposure for Zone 2, and will reach 12 to 15 feet in height over the years. And just what does hyacinthiflora mean? It was given by Lemoine to the lilac he hybridized because the flowers resemble miniature hyacinth blossoms.

Faith Pineo Photo | Fiddlehead Soup

I tend to make a lot of soups, usually because there are odds and ends of things in the refrigerator or garden or freezer that ought to get used.

The creation of this soup was really no different. I had fresh fiddleheads and some ham left from a shoulder cooked the night before. So I wondered what I could make of that.

Janine Pineo Photo | Fiddleheads

Here’s what the result was. And if I say so myself, it turned out to be a tasty dish.

If you aren’t familiar with fiddleheads, they are a springtime delicacy in Maine. The furled ostrich fern as it emerges in the spring is picked and cleaned, usually served steamed or boiled.

Fiddlehead Soup

4 tablespoons butter
2 medium onions
3 stalks celery
3 medium potatoes
2 cups fiddleheads, cleaned
2 cups cooked diced ham
2 cans chicken broth
4 cups water
1 tablespoon parsley flakes
1 tsp. coarse black pepper
1/2 tsp. onion powder
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. sea salt (optional if the ham isn’t too salty)

Roughly chop or dice the onion, celery and potatoes. Melt the butter in a Dutch oven over medium heat and add the onion and celery, cooking until they begin to soften. Add the potatoes.

Allow that to cook for about five minutes, then add the chicken broth and water. Add the ham and spices.

Depending on how coarse the chop, you may want to cook this until the potatoes start to soften before adding the fiddleheads to cook for the last half-hour or so. If it’s a finer chop, then add the fiddleheads now.

Cook over a low heat until the potatoes are done, at least 90 minutes. (I cooked mine over low heat for about three hours because of the very large pieces of potato and celery I had done.)

Variation: I considered turning this into a chowder by adding a can of evaporated milk. Maybe next time.

- Janine Pineo

Janine Pineo Photo | Magnolia x. 'Elizabeth'

Janine Pineo Photo | Magnolia x. 'Elizabeth'

A magnolia is a magnificent tree in full bloom and Magnolia x. ‘Elizabeth’ is the perfect example why. With pale yellow flowers several inches wide and a delicate scent, this deciduous tree puts on a regal show in the spring. As its names indicates, ‘Elizabeth’ is a hybrid, a cross between cucumber tree, M. acuminata, and Yulan magnolia, M. denudata. The hybrid was born in 1956 and 21 years later was patented by the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was the first yellow magnolia to be widely available, hardy for Zones 5 to 8, growing 20 to 35 feet tall in that slow, stately way magnolias grow. Its shape is the pyramidal form that fills out with those rich magnolia leaves, which then turn golden yellow in fall. It doesn’t much care for extremes – too wet or dry – but will develop nicely in full sun or part shade planted in organically rich soil that is well-drained. The flowers are mostly sterile, typical of a hybrid, but the occasional red fruit will appear. These photos were taken May 12, 2012, at the Lyle E. Littlefield Ornamental Trial Garden in Orono.