casa coniglio

One of the first native plants that I learned about was the claret cup cactus, Echinocereus triglochidiatus. I totally fell in love with the flowers: the charming form,  the delicacy yet brilliant color against the spiny succulent plant. It's one of the few non-blue flowers that struck me instantly speechless. So when I moved to New Mexico, I had to have one. Or some. I was surprised that there were none to be found (which of course has changed since then). But I did find a packet of seeds at POTSW (Plants of the Southwest). So on the windowsill in my apartment, I planted this packet of seed, in a four inch pot of sand and perlite. About 25-30 of them germinated, and about a year later, when I moved into my house, they were perhaps 1/4 inch high and were separated. Many were given away. Planted in the front yard, some did okay, some seemed not to grow at all.  One bloomed a few years later. When I had the house re-stuccoed, a few were trampled to their deaths. The others were quickly dug up and potted, and then, when the stucco-istas were done, planted into the backyard. Six plants were saved. There they have sat, and although they grew, they did not bloom. Last year, one bloomed. Shown above this year, it has a number of flowers. This year, 8 years after the seed were planted, it looks like three plants will bloom. Hurrah!

I'm surprised at the variety of forms that the plants have grown into. Perhaps some are hybrids with E. coccinea?

This plant is enormous (compared to the others), about a foot across and more than 10 inches tall, but has yet to bloom. Spination is coarse, curved and few.

Look at how different the spination is on this plant compared to the previous.  Spines are straight, fine, and multiple. This plant is 6-1/2 inches tall. No blooms this year.



This is another big guy, about 10 inches tall, but less clumping. Spines also coarse and curved. No flowers this year.

I can't claim this plant among the rest, as it was purchased a couple of years ago from High Country Gardens. It is the White Sands strain, and has grown fairly rapidly. No flowers yet, though. 6 inches tall.


This plant is 5 inches tall, and will have its first flowers this year. Again, I'm surprised at how different the spination is, also straight multiple spines. It's also more of a clump former.



This plant was the size of a quarter for about 4 years, unchanging. It had almost no spines at all, but has since grown a few. Since it was transplanted to the back yard it has grown to 4 inches tall. This will be its first bloom.

I have wanted to go to White Sands National Monument for some time now, and this weekend was it. White Sands has been described as gorgeous, surreal, other-worldly. Of course it is. It is white, or nearly so. It is very, very bright, and the reflected light makes it very hot. It looks a lot like snow. People have said that it is odd to see a white landscape and not feel cold. Like any landscape or natural phenomenon, it must be experienced to understand its impact.

I hope their kids have short legs. Or really long ones. There's about a six inch landing space off the slide there, and about a foot-and-a-half drop off the far side of the edge.

I want to go on every path I see. The airport is a torment of yearning.
My task, I think, is to learn to stay.

But not just yet.

One of the first years that I lived here in Albuquerque, when on an early evening walk, I saw a scattered bunch of white among the grasses by the roadside.


I angrily cursed the litterbugs who had left the used take-out cups, hamburger wrappers, and paper bags by the roadside.


When I got closer and could see better, however, I realized that it wasn't litter at all, but the flowers of Oenothera caespitosa. My outrage turned to delight as I admired the delicate ephemeral flowers.


I think there is a moral in this.



There are various names for this primrose, so I just refer to it by the Latin. It goes as the tufted evening primrose, the white evening primrose, the fragrant evening primrose. Whatever the name, it is a wildflower that I eagerly anticipate every year.

I think that Tulipa clusiana (the Lady Tulip) is at its best in the early morning, when the buds are just starting to open for the day. It is at this time that the white interiors are just visible between the pink outer surfaces of the petals. The buds are so slim and graceful.


When the sun strikes the flowers and the  warmth of the day arrives, the flowers open fully, and become open bowls of white catching the sun.

The pink outer color is still visible at an angle (here the flowers aren't fully open).

 For some reason, the stems on my plants this year are short, so the overall appearance is less graceful than last year. Maybe there was more sunlight this year.

There are also a number of yellow forms, although I don't know why anyone would want them. I think they lose a lot of their grace when yellow. It looks like one got mixed into my bulbs.

This is the third year of growing Tulipa batalinii 'Red Gem'. I'm amazed at how the single flowers from last year are now three, and the one that I planted three years ago is now a clump.

It's particularly surprising to me because before I lived in Albuquerque, tulips were pretty much an annual. They were planted in the fall, and bloomed beautifully the following spring, but the next year the flowers were small, and the following year, almost nothing. Even the big tulips seem to come back most years here, although after a few years they might need dividing.

I chose T. batalinii because the species comes from a climate that is fairly similar to mine (Iran and Turkestan). They seem to like it here.


Here's what it looks like in the morning, when the buds are closed and just before the sun has come up. 

Someone once said that if you don't like someone, just give them time. If then you still don't like them, give them more time. They said that the only reason you don't like them is that you haven't given them enough time. Maybe to some degree, the same goes for plants.

I have to admit that I have never been very fond of Euphorbia myrsinites. Although I appreciate the snake-like rambling of the stems, the spiral arrangement of the blue leaves, and the showy chartreuse bracts,  I've been disappointed with the low stature, and the brief duration of the bracts. In comparison to the several months of color that E. characias gives, E. myrsinites only has a few weeks before the bracts fade to orange-ish and fall apart. Then there is the common name: Donkey spurge. Seriously. I mean seriously? I'm not sure why it is called that, and I'm not sure I want to know. In my neighborhood, it is one of the non-native plants that survive without irrigation, and self-seeds well, coming up in cracks in the sidewalk and in other people's gardens. This makes me worry about its potential for invasiveness.

But in my neighbor's front yard (above), it has made a low care, low water groundcover which is quite attractive right now. Up close (below), it is even nicer. I saw it and couldn't help but say, "H-E-Y   D-O-N-K-E-Y!" a la Shrek. More reason for my neighbors to think I'm a freak.

The hubby bought me these tulips when he was in Amsterdam several years ago, and thought that it would be really cool to have blue tulips in my blue garden. The package (above) showed tulips that were sort of blue, a dark bluish purple. I figured that it would be somewhat like the dark purple of Queen of the Night tulips (usually described as black), but with a bluish sheen. Is it my imagination or is the name on the package "blue"?  I had him plant them wherever he wanted in the blue garden. What came up wasn't what I would really consider blue. Here's what they look like this year. I think that most people would agree that even given the broadest sense of the word, that this is not blue.


On the other hand, it matches quite nicely with the Cercis canadensis (Eastern redbud) which blooms at the same time.


It also matches nicely with the Santa Rita opuntia that is still at its optimum color.


So lately, when we've been walking around, we remark on the beautiful "blue" redbuds, or whatever "blue" flowers or other objects we see. I.e. "Look at this a beautiful blue car!"



I'm afraid to know what the people who overhear us, think.

It's crazy windy today.

With spring finally arriving (late), the spring bloomers in my blue garden have all come up at once this year, instead of having some staggering of bloom. Of course, I was out of town when it all began to happen. When I left there was a hint of color, and when I returned things were in full swing. Here are some shots of this year's blue garden blue-mage.


The grape hyacinths (Muscari) were just nubs hidden in the leaves when I left, but are now at their peak. I like to think that the white edges of the blossoms are the mascara of the muscari.

The Bellavia usually blooms a bit later than the Muscari, but this year is blooming at the same time. Although a much subdued color compared the the Muscari, I love the angular blossoms and the indigo color.


I bought this dwarf bearded iris 'Purple Plum' at the Albuquerque iris sale 2 years ago, but it didn't bloom last year. Probably because I didn't water it.  One bloom this year.


Ipheion 'Rolf Fiedler' isn't blooming as well this year as it usually does. I think that the cold windy weather damaged the leaves in the winter, when it grows and stores energy for the spring blooms.

The rosemary that I call 'Will's Blue' has been blooming all winter (hence the brown faded flowers). Although the winter blooms were sparse and scattered (not that I'm complaining), the spring bloom is profuse and dense. The bees love it. Will bought this at Home Depot as an unnamed Rosemarinus officinalis, and it turned out to be a great performer. I took a cutting and planted it in my garden 3 years ago.

Rosemary 'Blue Spires' is also blooming, a richer blue than the above. The plants are as upright as you'd expect with this name, and the stems are architectural looking.

Rosemary 'Gorizia' is also blooming, the blooms being more lavender than blue, and the large leaves have an almost ginger hint to the flavor.

I'm still not sure what the correct name of this Veronica is, but I think it is Veronica tauricola. It usually blooms before just about everything else in the garden, but this year, with everything blooming, it is just starting.

You wouldn't think of Agapanthus as an early spring bloomer, and it is not typically, even though in California, some plants do put out a rare unseasonal shoot at any time of the year. I've had this Agapanthus 'Blue Heaven' for a number of years, and it has only bloomed once before (and a very small sad-looking stem it was). Although 'Blue Heaven' is supposed to be deciduous, the leaves have never looked like they were near fading by the time the first freeze hit in the autumn. This year, I decided to pot it and bring it indoors for the winter. Because Agapanthus requires a winter temperature below 46 F, to bloom, but below freezing will kill the plant, I dutifully kept it in the coldest place in the house, and put the plant in a sunny window during the day. Every day. I put the plant outdoors for sunlight on warmer days, and fortunately did not forget to bring the plant back indoors even a single time (forgetting even once could kill the plant). I was actually hoping that the leaves would fall off as the plant went dormant so that I wouldn't have to  worry about giving the plant light. To my surprise, the leaves did not go dormant and in early February, amazingly, three flower stems appeared. Of course the buds began to open when I was out of town. But the flowers are worth all the work. The flowers are much lighter than 'Storm Cloud' which I tried a few years back, but 'Storm Cloud' rotted in the winter.  I may try again, but I find 'Blue Heaven' to be utterly satisfying.