The Mango Sprout: Update

So... for the last, oh, six months or so our little Mya the Mango Sprout hasn't done a whole lot.

Same six leaves as the last post.

Okay, that's not true: I'm sure she's grown herself some fantabulous roots, but lord knows we haven't seen much new from her on this side of the soil.

Until now.

Yes, I've spotted a teensy tiny bud of new growth.

We has new leaves, ladies and gentlemen!

And if the speed at which she acquired the first set of six is anything like how these bad boys are about to come in, well, we'll have another four or six leaves by Christmas.

Yes, this is exciting to me.

Might be a stay-at-home mom thing: some people watch paint dry when they're bored; I watch plants grow.

Truth.

Career, er, Garden Paths

It would seem I have a new job.

As a bee.

Okay, you got me—I haven't donned a striped costume and makeshift coat-hanger-gossamer wings (yet).

But I'm doing a far finer job of pollinating our garden than the actual bees in our backyard.

If only this asshole would do his job.

Last year, despite a plethora of blooms, our garden squash (butternut, zucchini, and pumpkin) didn't do so shit hot. So my Google-fu kicked in and I turned to the Interwebs to find out why.

Oh. Female flowers + pollen of male flowers = veggies. Got it.

But female pumpkin flowers + pollen of male zucchini flowers = nada. This also applies to any variations thereof.

In other words, my bees were confused and I needed to step in and help my veggie plants have sex.

I wish I were kidding.

So this year I've been carefully watching for when my female blooms open so I can use a cotton swab to dust them with the appropriate male flower's pollen.

Again: I wish I were kidding.

And it's one of those things that has to be done in a timely manner. As in: before the bees zoom in and screw it up on me, as they are wont to do. These flowers open first thing in the morning, and as soon as they're fertilized (by whatever pollen), they shrivel and drop off... like, by the end of the day.

If they've been hit with pollen from a flower from their own species, then their bounty grows into a consumable vegetable success. If not, then the veggie in question shrivels and drops off with the poorly-fertilized flower.

Yes, this foray into backyard gardening has reminded me of much of what I've forgotten of high school biology.

Case in point: we went camping. Then the bees fertilized some flowers for me. And clearly failed at their life purpose.

I was gone for two days. Stupid bees.

So you can bet I've been watching our butternut squash vine like a hawk...

Back off, assholes, she's mine!

I'll be damned if I let those little buggers screw up our first butternut squash of the season...

The Mango Sprout: Update

Okay, so, a story...

Once upon a time I sprouted a mango seed. Then I planted it.

It's been busy.

The boys have named her Mya.

Since the beginning of May, it's been growing.

 Not too shabby, eh?

Smiling Violets

I'm not that chick who gets overly sentimental.

Though I have my moments, like everyone does.

And I have what I like to think is a bizarre cross between superstition and recognizing signs. It's not about luck, so much as it is listening to the universe at large.

Case in point: violets were my mother's favourite houseplant.

The woman loved violets. And in her pseudo-guerrilla-gardening way, she would snap leaves off of blooming variations she saw out and about, and smuggle them home to propagate her own copy of that plant.

I have a lot of violets (none of them her original plants, though a couple were propagated from clippings). I have one violet that I adopted when a friend moved and she couldn't take it with her (hi, Emilia!). This particular violet is larger than your average violet...

Like, dinner-plate-huge.

Look in the mirror: she's sitting in an antique chamber pot. In a modern bathroom. (Tee hee.)

And this dinner-plate-huge girl (I call the violets my girls) has been blooming for a while now.

Over my birthday. My mother's birthday. Mother's Day. And now today.

And today is an important day, in the realm of this story.

Every morning for the past four weeks, I have woken up to see this girl smiling at me with all her blooms.

And no, I'm not silly enough to believe it's a violet smiling at me.

It's my mother.

The Mango Sprout

Under the heading of “weird shit I do because I am my mother’s daughter,” I present to you: The Mango Sprout...

Long story über short: I bought a ripe mango at the grocery store (something I do a couple times a year) and shared it with my kids. They loved it.

I loved that the seed pod was cracked open, and I could wedge out the seed.

Cut to me frantically googling the best way to get this bad boy to sprout...

Thank you, Interwebs! (Yay!)

So it’s been a few weeks, and this poor little guy has been living with toothpicks (it used to be a pair) jammed into his sides. And at one point, I was worried he was rotting and I was wasting my time.

Why do I reference my mother?

Well, because she was a natural green thumb—or at least tried her best—and a half-tame guerrilla gardener, too—she was constantly (and surreptitiously) snipping leaves (of other people's plants) to begin her own plants from cuttings, transplanting wild things to better locations, or sowing wildflower seeds in bare ditches just because.

Hence, I see a possible freebie plant in the shape of a giant mango seed, and am instantly overcome with the urge to make. it. grow!

And it is growing!

Almost time for potting soil, methinks...

Corn Plant: update

Remember this post? Yeah. Update.

So my jackass of a corn plant flowered. Like so:

And you know what I completely forgot?

I'm allergic to goddamn perfume. 

Yes. Pretty much all perfumey scents—manufactured or natural—have conspired to construct my doom.

My list of "sensitivities" includes most perfume, cologne, hand soap, body wash, deodorant, hair spray, shampoo, conditioner, dish soap, laundry soap, fabric softeners, chemical cleaners, candles and air fresheners (they're the WORST! if your house is clean, why spray—or light—migraine inducers?! what stinks if it's clean?!), and yes, even naturally occurring scents like flowers and pollen.

There are some exceptions. Not many.

Welcome to why I'm a borderline recluse. There are days when a quick trip to the grocery store can be a trial (aside: WHY must they put the floral bouquets right at the entryway?! WHY?!).

For some reason lost in the depths of my psyche, I assumed the corn plant blossoms wouldn't stink.

Boy, was I wrong.

I coughed. I spluttered. I sneezed. It was a virtual assault on my nasal cavity, and my brain was immediately stuffed.

I blame cacti and violets for this one, because they're usually the only flowering plant in my house and they are scentless.

So I had to do this:

Pretty, right?

Until my mother-in-law came over and I could show someone else who is a plant enthusiast.

Mr Lannis enjoyed a bit of schadenfreude on this one, after I'd bugged him to "check out the blooms! Check out the blooms! Check out the BLOOMS!" only to have me in a coughing, gagging fit when four (of HUNDREDS) finally deigned to open.

I took this photo with a mask on. True story.

So yeah. After my mother-in-law and I jointly marveled at the teeny tiny white flowers (and gagged on the scent—DAMN that was powerful!) I chopped off the stems and threw the suckers into green bin.

So much for that Gong Show.

Go back to just casting a shadow, corn plant—you were better at it. And I could live with you.

::headdesk::

Corn Plants: a how to guide

It's never done more than cast a shadow until now.

(By a not-so-green-thumb-green-thumb.)

I’m not completely horrific when it comes to houseplants. They like me, I’m not entirely sure why—unless it’s because they all enjoy being ignored. If it’s one thing I’ll remember to do, it’s not think about my plants for weeks on end, so I guess that equates a win-win relationship... they’re notoriously long lived for something I by and large set in a corner and walk away from.

Aside from attempting to re-pot most of them once a year (and sometimes that doesn’t happen, see previous paragraph re: ignoring plants), I don’t do much with them. I try to leach my violets every spring because I was raised to leach my violets every spring, but that’s about as fancy as I get. I kill things, too—like poinsettias (sorry, Emilia)—but for whatever reason most plants like it here at Chez Lannis.

So. Corn plants—the houseplant. They’re a type of dracaena, or so About.com tells me. We always called them corn plants in our house—and I’d imagine that’s thanks to the similarity in appearance to actual corn plants... like, those in farm fields. But that’s an assumption on my part.

I’ve never had one bloom before, but I have now—or at least it’s started to—so allow me to impart the wealth that is knowledge, because I never would have figured this out on my own, hence I feel obligated to share...

See? Blooming!

Step 1. Buy corn plant.

Step 2. Place somewhere with bright light.

Step 3. Water occasionally. Maybe. Definition of occasionally: about once a month (but don’t forget that maybe.)

Step 4. Fertilize inconsistently. Definition of inconsistently: maybe once a year? It’s too inconsistent to remember, frankly.

Step 5. Wait ten years or so. This is a ballpark estimate. Realize you will have to water and fertilize said plant in that time. Perhaps re-pot maybe once in there, but history has shown this is probably a luxury.

Note: If your corn plant gets absurdly tall and you’d like to cut it back, I recommend a serrated knife. Hack away—yes, saw it in two! points for gusto!—then stick the raw edge into the soil with the least amount of ceremony possible. Watering now would be a good idea. Your weirdo sadomasochistic plant will grow. Trust.

Step 6. Get one of these:

It's called a Moghedien.

Yep. You’ll need one of these, because sometime in the last six months or so, I caught her using the corn plant’s pot as a litter box (hence the rags covering the soil in the first photo). Apparently cat shit has the ideal nutrients necessary to force your corn plant into bloom. Who knew?

Full disclosure: To recreate the exact conditions we have here at Chez Lannis, you’ll need to train said cat to use the corn plant as a scratching post. Apparently corn plants are the subs of the plant world—another fact for the who knew? category.

If you can’t find a cat to do this, I will gladly loan out Moghedien. She doubles as a great mouser, but warning: she’s also known for cleaning her muddy paws on white duvet covers, and bossily sticking her ass in your face—especially when you’re writing on a laptop.

Anyhow. That’s all there is to it... if you follow these instructions, I’ll guarantee (haha! No I won’t) hope your corn plant blooms for you.

Still waiting to see what the flowers look like when they open, but with my luck, they’ll probably drop before then...

Or somewhere amid my ignoring, I’ll forget to notice...