China Bayles' Book of Days (30 page)

In the Victorian language of flowers, this lovely spring-flowering herb symbolized the return of happiness. When you see it, listen for the ringing of the bells, and be on the lookout for Brownies, Campfire Girls—or even fairies.

The floures of the Valley Lillie distilled with wine and drunke the quantitie of a spoonefull, restore speech unto those that have the dumb palsie and are falne into the apoplexie and are good against the gout and comfort the heart.

—JOHN GERARD, THE HERBAL, 1597

MAY 23

On this day in 1707, Carl Linnaeus was born.

But these young scholars who invade our hills . . .
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON, “BLIGHT”

“All Their Botany Is Latin Names”

The Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus was not the first to suggest a basic classification for flowering plants, but he was the first to work out the system in detail, basing his system on the number of stamens in the bloom. Most of the time we don’t bother to include a plant’s full name. But we do use its two basic Latin names: the plant’s binomial descriptor. Binomial literally means “two names” and refers to the plant’s genus (which is capitalized and may be abbreviated by its first letter) and species (lowercase, may be abbreviated sp.). And in some instances, the binomial becomes a trinomial: some species are further divided into subspecies (subsp.), varieties (var.), and forms (f.). The cultivar begins with a capital letter and is placed inside single quotation marks.

But why in the world do we need all this intimidating Latin? If we’re talking about the herb sage, why do we have to say
Salvia officinalis
? Why not just say “sage” and get on it with it?

Because there are a gazillion sages in the world. In fact, I counted 90 different sages in one common-name plant index, not all of them salvias. Take the Jerusalem sage, for instance, which is blooming just outside my window today—not a sage at all, but a
Phlomis fruticosa
. And the Russian sage in my cottage garden is really
Perovskia atriplicifolia
“Blue Spire.” You wouldn’t ask either one of them to pinch-hit for
Salvia officinalis
in the turkey stuffing.

And then there’s the common name puzzle. Say that you wanted to grow mullein in your garden—one of those stalky plants with large, fuzzy leaves that you see growing along the roadsides in summer. Would you look for Aaron’s flannel, beggar’s blanket, bunny’s ears, candlewick, hag’s taper, devil’s blanket, golden rod, lady’s candle, or velvet dock? In England, all of these names refer to one single plant,
Verbascum thapsus
, and tell us something about its many uses. But they won’t help you find exactly the plant you want.

If you’re passionate about herbs, you’ll want to learn their names. But don’t be like Emerson’s “young scholars.” Love the flower, and know its name, as well.

Read more about the mysteries of Latin binomials and common names:

Gardener’s Latin
, by Bill Neal

Hang an ash bough over the door.
Put an iron nail in your pocket
And a piece of mullein leaf in your shoe.
—TRADITIONAL PRESCRIPTION FOR PERSONAL SAFETY

In the floral calendar, today’s flower: lilac.

MAY 24

From my youth I recall that elusive smell of woods in spring—a sweetness ascending from mold and decay but with the breath of young life rising from it. That is the odor that permeates the house when May wine is poured into the May bowl.

—ADELMA GRENIER SIMMONS, HERB GARDENING
IN FIVE SEASONS

Sweet, Sweet Woodruff

We can’t let the month of May slip by without a cup of May wine! This drink comes from Germany, where the sweet woodruff (
Galium odoratum
) carpets the spring woodlands with starry white blossoms and whorled leaves. The odd-sounding name woodruff grew out of the earlier
wuderove
, or “wood-wheel” (rove comes from the French
rouelle
, wheel, referring to the circlet of leaves around the stem). The plant contains coumarin, and when it is dried smells like freshly mown vanilla grass. It has long been valued for potpourris and perfumes and is a favorite in sachets. It was once used to stuff mattresses and pillows (hence the name bedstraw). During the Middle Ages, the herb gained a reputation as a wound healer and was used to treat digestive and liver problems. For gardeners with a shady, wooded area, sweet woodruff can be an ideal groundcover.

But it’s the herb’s centuries-old use as a spring drink that we look forward to every year. Since the custom began in Germany, it’s traditional to use Rhine wine. Here’s an easy recipe:

MAY WINE

1 gallon Rhine wine (use half champagne, if you like)
12-16 sprigs of sweet woodruff, dried overnight in the
oven with the pilot light on
1 package frozen strawberries, thawed
1 cup sugar
fresh whole strawberries

Steep the sweet woodruff in the wine for 3-6 days. Chill before serving. Remove the herb and pour chilled wine into a punch bowl over a block of ice. Mash thawed strawberries with a cup of sugar and stir into the wine. Add champagne if you wish, and garnish each cup with a fresh strawberry.

Read more about sweet woodruff and other herbs:

The Illustrated Plant Lore
, by Josephine Addison

To make another herb drinke—Orange-flower Brandy. Take a gallon of French Brandy, boil a pound of orange flowers a little while, and put them in, save the water and with that make a syrup to sweeten it.

—E. SMITH, THE COMPLETE HOUSEWIFE, 1736

MAY 25

Docke . . . is found almost every where, but especially in gardens among good and wholsome potherbs, being there better knowne, than welcome or desired; wherefor I intend not to spend farther time about his description.

—JOHN GERARD, THE HERBAL, 1597

A Desirable Dock: From Susan’s Journal

Granted, the dock that is growing at the margin of my garden doesn’t look like much. It’s a weedy green stalk, about three feet high, with clusters of tiny green flowers clinging to the stem and a whorl of large, crumply edged leaves at its base. This is
Rumex crispus
—yellow dock or curly dock or just plain dock—one of the many unruly volunteers making themselves at home in my garden on this spring day.

Dock is no stranger to me, however, and when it shows up in my garden, I let it stay put. The green flowers will turn into reddish-brown fruits as they age; they’ll look something like coffee grounds plastered around the stem. In fact, they look enough like coffee grounds that the plant is sometimes called coffee-weed. When I was about ten, my cousin Mary Jean and I “brewed” a coffee can of dock “coffee” in the sun and drank a cup of it. I shudder to think of this now (I could have been drinking jimsonweed tea, for heaven’s sake!), although we chose a good herb to experiment with. It’s said to be a blood cleanser, to nourish the spleen and detoxify the liver, thus promoting overall good heath. But my ten-year-old spleen didn’t need much additional nourishment and my blood hadn’t had a chance to get dirty yet, so I’m not sure that the dock had any particular effect.

It certainly did its job a couple of days ago, however. Wearing shorts, I backed into a nettle and got stung good and proper. But since the dock was handy, I grabbed a couple of those big green leaves and rubbed. Hard. And while I rubbed, I chanted a charm that was first recorded in Chaucer’s day:

Nettle out, dock in,
Dock remove the nettle sting.

It worked, of course. Dock’s astringent leaf eased the nasty sting just as it did all those long centuries ago. I said a grateful thanks to the dock, and left it, both welcome and desired, among the other good and wholesome herbs in the garden.

In the language of flowers, dock symbolizes patience and shrewdness.

Read more about dock, nettle, and other valuable herbs:

Herbal Healing for Women: Simple Home Remedies for Women of All Ages
, by Rosemary Gladstar

MAY 26

The love of the desert came to me slowly, for it is a hard-mind place, not a soft-skin place, and concealed in its openness. You cannot stroke it as you would a meadow, you cannot dissemble, nor are there corners in which to hide . . . To join it, one must come to know it, and to know it one must walk in it.

—ANN WOODIN, HOME IS THE DESERT

Prickly Pear: From Susan’s Journal

The prickly pear cactus (
Opuntia lindheimeri
) is in bloom now, and the bees are crawling drunkenly over the bright yellow flowers, as large as hollyhock blossoms. Bill has cleared most of the prickly pear from Meadow Knoll because the spines are painful when we carelessly blunder into the plant, or (heaven forbid!) our dogs step on it. But I’ve safeguarded a few, because they’re beautiful and useful and because they remind me that not all plants are easy acquaintances.

The prickly pear’s translucent yellow flowers ripen into ruby-red fruits, called
tunas
. These can be made into a beautiful red juice, jelly, marmalade, and syrup. The young, tender pads (
nopales
or
nopalitos
), are sautéed, steamed, or boiled and used in Southwestern cuisine; many supermarkets now carry them in the produce section.

Research suggests that the nutrient-rich fiber in the fruits and pads helps to reduce cholesterol. Traditionally, there were many other medicinal applications. A pad, with the spines burned off, was split and warmed for use as a poultice to relieve chest congestion. A warmed pad was placed over the ear for earache, or over rheumatic or arthritic joints. The gelatinous sap was a soothing skin lotion for rashes and sunburn, and a poultice made of the mashed flesh of the pad was used to heal wounds and burns. Taken internally, the plant treated many gastrointestinal disorders.

And like most native plants, prickly pear served many practical purposes. In rural Mexico, it was used (with water, lime, and salt) to make a waterproof paint for walls, and as a formidable fence—just try getting through that dense, thorny wall! Its fibers were used to make paper and its thorns as needles and pins, while the insect that feeds on its pads and fruit (the cochineal) made red dye. Like many other natives, this durable, adaptable plant has its darker side: free to roam, it can be an invasive pest.

But I’m not thinking about that today, as I revel in those beautiful blooms. I’m thinking about the many native herbs that, like prickly pear, were important to earlier people—the buffalo gourd that grows in the south pasture, the cattails in the marsh, the redbud trees, the willows. They teach me about this place, about the richness and bounty of the land, and remind me that I live in a beautiful wilderness garden.

Read more about using this at-home-in-the-desert herb:

The Prickly Pear Cookbook
, by Carolyn Niethammer

MAY 27

Rachel Carson, writer, ecologist, and marine biologist, was born on this day in 1907.

For the first time in the history of the world, every human being is now subjected to contact with dangerous chemicals, from the moment of conception until death.

—RACHEL CARSON, SILENT SPRING

Gardening Green

More than forty years ago, Rachel Carson made it clear that we are endangered by the chemicals in our environment. Most herbalists make it a practice to “garden green”—to follow organic practices of composting, mulching, soil and water conservation—but when it comes to keeping the pests off, we’re often not sure what to do. Here are some nonchemical pesticides that are safe to use in your garden.

• Garlic. Interplant garlic with susceptible plants to repel pests. Make an insect-repellent tea: steep 3 ounces of minced garlic cloves in 2 teaspoons of canola oil for at least 24 hours. Mix 1 teaspoons of liquid castile soap or nondetergent soap (this helps the spray cling to the leaves) with 1 pint of water, and add to the garlic oil. Mix thoroughly, strain. To use, mix 2 tablespoons with one pint of water and spray. For greater fire-power, add a teaspoon or two of cayenne pepper.