September 2021 – Fleur-de-Blog

I told a Master Gardener friend I was creating an Elder Bed.

“Oh, so you’re going to raise it up so you don’t have to bend?”

Ah, no. Not that kind of elder. Elder as in Elderberries.

Elder comes from the Anglo-Saxon word aeld, meaning fire, as the stems were commonly used as kindling. The botanical name, Sambucus, comes from the Greek sambuke, a musical pipe. The hollow shoots of the shrub were used to make flutes or panpipes.

I have made neither pipe nor fire from elderberry, but I love mixing and drinking batches of elderblossom cordial. So much so that I’ve made it on two continents, using the creamy white, flat clusters of flowers of Sambucus nigra in Belgium and Sambucus canadensis in Pennsylvania

While living at my mother’s home, I planted several elder bushes but the deer mowed them down to stubs. To procure elderblossom cordial each year, I made a deal with a fellow on Branch Road with a huge elderberry bush I often biked past. If I could pick 20 flower clusters from his shrub each summer I’d supply him with cordial for his freezer. After a few years he sold the house. The new homeowner thought I was suffering from heat stroke but allowed me to pick 10 flowers, which was plenty for a half recipe.

I moved to Pleasant Gap with a frozen, partial container of elderblossom cordial, which is now history. If you use the blog’s recipe search bar on the bottom right, you will find the recipe. I simply scoop out a spoonful of the “slushy” cordial and add it to a tall glass of ice water. It gives water a little oomph. (After hours, a teaspoonful of elderblossom cordial makes a glass of Prosecco extra special.)

So, in my Elder Bed, I planted two young shrubs of Sambucus canadensis, one called “Scotia,” which is said to have sweeter fruit, and a tag-less, name-less variety. I surrounded these with orange, lemon and a creeping red thyme, lavender, Agastache (hummingbird mint), and three Doronicum orientale “Little Leo”, a gift from a fellow Little Lion, although Little Leo is actually in reference to the larger mother plant, Leopard’s Bane, not a lion. I’m also leaving room for sage and another friend’s promised starts of rhubarb and Welsh onions come spring.

The opposite bed, anchored by Amelanchier laevis (serviceberry) is a mixture of plants from our home in Coplay where my kids spent their early years: lupine, dianthus, and black-eyed Susan; Fleur-de-Lys: plumbago, blue wild indigo, Dainty Swan anemone, and Jerusalem artichokes (held captive in a pot); and new-for-me natives: Clematis viorna (vasevine) and Conoclinium coelestinum (blue mistflower).

In the shade bed, Cephlanthus occidentalis (button bush) and Hydrangea arborescens (wild hydrangea), both new to me, are surrounded by ferns and variegated Solomon’s seal moved from my mom’s house, transplanted pulmonaria from a friend’s place in Lemont, and Heuchera “Forever Purple” to jazz up the corner.

After all these years of gardening, I must say the creation of these beds was the easiest ever, true Elder Style. No double digging or rototilling.

In August I filled up my car (twice) with sheets of cardboard from work (all of our sheet metal is delivered wrapped in cardboard for protection). I placed the cardboard, sometimes double or triple thickness, over the area that I wanted to transform from lawn to garden. I used slates, rocks, tiles, bricks, container plants, even my upturned wheelbarrow, to keep the cardboard from blowing away.

Last week Bobby, handyman extraordinaire, arrived. He has a gas-powered edger to cut professional bed lines. Then he and a helper spread 3 inches of compost over the cardboard. For the next few days I placed the potted plants where I thought I wanted them, second-guessed myself, made adjustments.

On planting day, I used my spade to pull away the compost and slice through the cardboard to reach native soil. Then I unpotted the selected specimen, teased apart its roots, and planted it in the hole and moved the compost around the base. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Then, I watered well. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Originally, I must admit I was a bit miffed by the comment implying my elderhood. But after planting 30+ plants in three new garden beds, my lower back is so sore that a bed (with a mattress on top) is my best relief. Perhaps she was right. Laurie Lynch

Good Read: Although he didn’t include any of the plants mentioned above, including my lovely elder, Jonathan Drori’s latest book is a keeper: “Around the World in 80 Plants”. Drori combines cultural and ecological aspects of 80 plants with amazing storytelling and British wit. A great follow-up to his earlier “Around the World in 80 Trees”. Can’t wait for subsequent Around the Worlds in my mind: herbs, flowers, vegetables, weeds, bulbs, grains, succulents …

Years ago, I planted cut-leaf Staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta or typhinia) on the hill between the house and barn on Hottenstein.

I thought its suckering nature would keep the bank intact, provide beauty with its torch-like burgundy berry bunches, brilliant fall foliage, and, perhaps most importantly, eliminate mowing on a treacherous slope. Never did I think of making sumac-ade.

Sure, over the years I’d read about making sumac lemonade, but the thought didn’t appeal to me. Sumac has hairy berries. The young branches are also hairy, like the velvet on deer antlers, thus this sumac’s common name: Staghorn.

Then I read about a (live, in-person) foraging series at the Arboretum at Penn State. One of the classes was How to Make Sumac Lemonade. Time to branch out.

Now, before you poison sumac worrywarts get too excited, telling the difference is simple. Poison sumac has berries of white, quite a fright; its harmless cousins have edible berries of red, let pink lemonade fill your head. Still, a cautionary note: All sumacs are members of the Cashew Family (Anacardiaceae), which also includes mangoes. If you are allergic to cashews or mangos, best to steer clear of sumac-ade.

Sumac often grows at the edges of fields and roadsides throughout the country, but you want to harvest berries from plants you know haven’t been sprayed with pesticides. For my class, we ventured into the arboretum’s Childhood’s Gate Children’s Garden with permission to pick sumac berries. The berries start turning red in August and September and persist through winter into spring.

Use the finger test to see if the berries are worth picking. Gently run your finger across the fruit and then lick your finger. If it tastes sweet and tart, that is the berry cluster to pick. Remarkably, it is the hairs that give the berries their flavor. If you went out the day after Tropical Storm Ida dumped 5 inches of rain on Centre County, chances are the hairs, and flavor, were washed away.

Gently break apart berry clusters from the twigs, rinse to remove insects or other plant material, and then place in a jar. Pour cool water over fruit and allow it to sit overnight. The next day, strain the fruit, pouring the liquid through cheesecloth. Add a few ice cubes, and enjoy your Sumac Lemonade. If you like it a bit sweeter, add honey to taste. Laurie Lynch

Pottery lizard (by a much younger Marina) and spider plant guarding my cold brew.

Hot Sumac Tea: You can also make a hot brew and it will be a brighter red than the cold brew. Follow the same instructions above but pour boiling water over the berries and let steep for 20 minutes to an hour, press fruit with a wooden spoon if you like, and then filter. DO NOT boil the berries in water because they will release bitter tannic acid.

Sumac Surrounds Us: Native Americans used Staghorn sumac not only made tea from the berries but various parts of the plant were used as medicine and fabric dyes, and the leaves were mixed with tobacco and smoked. In the Middle East, Za’atar is an herbal mix (containing the hairs of sumac berries) used on vegetables, chicken and olive-oil dipped bread.

Looking Back: This year’s garden was a last-ditch effort. When I bought the place, the raised bed garden in the side yard was buried in snow. But I was able to plant, despite the move. Six months later, what makes me glad I did? Green Zebra tomatoes, Sun Gold tomatoes, Poona Kheera cucumbers, basil, basil, basil, tarragon (moved from my mom’s home), Shishito peppers (MFMMH), chocolate mint, and pole beans (trellis MFMMH).

Yet to Come: A Meyer Lemon tree that is chock full of green-waiting-to-turn-yellow Meyer Lemons. Richard gave me the plant years ago. It flowered and wafted its wonderful fragrance through the atrium, but the teensy fruit always dropped off. This year, despite a change in location, the plant and fruit are thriving on my front deck. Fingers crossed that they’ll ripen … or else I’ll make Meyer Limeade! Ha, ha.