the hardy tapioca

A garden can be a stay-at-home option to ecotourism, where the plants pack their seedy suitcases and travel to us. (If growing any exotic, non-native plant sets your teeth on edge, those categories may be blurring faster than we’d like: “A new study from the University of Exeter and Oxford University finds that plant pests and diseases have been migrating northward and southward an average of two miles a year since 1960. This suggests that the plants on which they prey have been moving at similar rates.” – “Hey, You Calling Me An Invasive Species?” Tne New York Times 9/7/13.)

I’d wager there’s probably a civilization-defining plant in every garden. Acanthus, rice paper plant, papyrus, flax. All movers and shakers in human history. Take the manihots, which some of us might have sampled as kids as a sweet, sticky pudding. (It’s the tropical with that easy-to remember name, man, it’s hot). Tapioca pudding, as I remember it, looks an awful lot like what they ate for breakfast in The Matrix. The pudding comes from the tropical tapioca, Manihot esculenta. Not to be mistaken for sago pudding, made from sago palms (as if I knew that before writing this post). Tapioca is a gluten-free starch, a staple in many tropical countries, known by various names like manioc, cassava. The noble lineage of plants in their countries of origin is often uncovered only after we’ve capriciously selected them for their pretty leaves or flowers. They’re like little icebergs bobbing in our gardens, so much of their identity submerged beneath the surface.

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This is not the tapioca-making Manihot esculenta, but the so-called hardy tapioca, Manihot grahamii, zoned 7 to 10, from Brazil. For a tropical, it doesn’t mind life on the dryish side either. Its ambition is to become a small, somewhat gangly tree, sprouting those beautiful leaves in a tuft at the top. But now I can confirm that when cut back mid-summer, it will send shoots from the base, which allows for a much nicer view of those spectacular leaves and red stems. Just as gardens in colder zones than mine do, I’ve been growing mine in a large pot for several years.

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cage lights


Cage lights, suspended for hanging candles, flowers. I love messing around with them.

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last night

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early this morning

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About the same size and shape as a cage light, this orange shade was found a while back at Building Resources and seemed full of potential for…for exactly what, I wasn’t sure, but I bought six of them.
The rim makes it easy to rig for hanging.

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warm thoughts on formal gardens

Have I mentioned how hot it’s been lately?

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It’s the kind of heat that gives a boho plant nut a deeper appreciation of the cool, austere lines of a formal garden.

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A garden built not on the scaffolding of flowers but leaves, eschewing lush variety for lean repetition.

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It’s the kind of heat that makes the formal garden, that ancient response to dry climates, seem fresh and innovative again.

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Katherine Spitz’s garden, Mar Vista, California, 2012 (Katherine Spitz Associates)

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That’s how hot it’s been.

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September and its discontents


Every September I’m startled by the heat this month brings.
A heat that, if you’re not careful, can wick away inspiration.
But then that’s what photos like this are for.

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Image found here

At least two more months to go before the winter rains.
Right now, if I had a backhoe, I’d dig up the garden and make it a place for the worship of water.



more on photographer Philip Dixon’s house in Venice, California can be found here.

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Yucca ‘Blue Boy’

I’ve brought a couple home under the name Yucca aloifolia ‘Purpurea,’ but I’ve recently been seeing it tagged as Yucca desmetiana ‘Blue Boy,’ as it was here at Cornerstone Sonoma, in the Transcendence garden designed by Delmar McComb and Peter Hanson. This yucca’s soft, recurved leaves are very unlike the typically stiff leaves of Yucca aloifolia, so we seem to be shuttling between various names until the nomenclature is definitively settled. Mine haven’t colored up like these yet, which is a big part of the allure of this mysterious yucca.


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Background shrubs are phlomis, rosemary and leucadendron.

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counting on agaves

No, I haven’t done a recent tally. But, boy, do they ever count when the days heat up and stay hot. Nothing looks as composed under the sun as an agave.

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Hard to say if their numbers are increasing, since I’ve been giving away the large americanas and seeking out smaller, slower-growing kinds. New to the garden this summer, found at a recent succulent show, Agave ‘Snow Glow,’ kin to ‘Blue Glow,’ both Kelly Griffin’s hybrids.

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Not new but one of the few agaves I own that still looks like it just came off a grower’s bench. Three offsets of this dwarf butterfly agave ‘Kissho Kan’ are making good size in the front gravel garden. Good size for a dwarf, slow-growing agave.

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The mother plant has grown so snug in its small pot that dunking it in a basin is how it gets very occasionally watered now. Keeps the leaves bright and shiny too. Looks like a mean water lily, doesn’t it?

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Sweeping jacaranda leaflets off the bricks at the front of the house this morning, I noticed that Agave desmettiana is beginning its monocarpic death dance and will be throwing a bloom stalk very soon, after which it will expire in that dramatic, Madame Butterfly flourish that ends the life of every agave. So subtract one desmettiana.

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For once it’s an occasion I’ve actually been looking forward to since the Acacia podalyriifolia is getting tree-like fast and needs a lower-growing understory.

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Agave parryi ‘Cream Spike’ finally showed up at nurseries this summer in less pricy sizes, another small agave that can remain in its pot for some time.

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The big agaves are undoubtedly an awe-inspiring sight, but a small garden can support only so much awe. Thank goodness for the little ones. All the essentials for late summer on a small table.

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scenes from Long Island

It looks like the heat is fairly evenly distributed across the U.S. this Labor Day weekend. In between dipping into a steaming hot garden to cut back agastache, anthemis and senecio, I’m catching up on work and going through summer photos, a much cooler occupation than tangling with rampant summer growth. How different were the mild days of late June when a group of us toured Long Island, New York, which has a vibrant garden culture. I had expected Long Island’s weather to be pretty much what I’m experiencing now, hot and muggy, but it was the mildest, most deliciously cool touring weather one could hope for.


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Madoo Conservancy

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Longhouse Reserve

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A charmer in a container, Aruncus aethusifolius. Longhouse Reserve

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gesneriad in the greenhouse at Old Westbury Gardens

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Old Westbury Gardens

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Immaculately kept greenhouse at Old Westbury Gardens

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Tender exotics like Solandra maxima, the cup of gold vine, at Old Westbury Gardens.

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Tropical vireya rhododendrons

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If begonias are the next big thing in plants, Long Island definitely got the memo. Old Westbury Gardens.

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Old Westbury Gardens

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Old Westbury Gardens

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Old Westbury Gardens

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Possibly Alcantarea imperialis, a giant among bromeliads and a favorite of Roberto Burle Marx, at Old Westbury Gardens

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Long Island nurseries were bursting with tropicals which will flourish in the heat and humidity

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A jubilant celebration of the arrival of summer permeated the island

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Preparations for a midsummer’s eve party

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Rex begonia vine, Cissus discolor

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Garden of the owners of Landcraft Environments, growers who specialize in tender perennials and unusual annuals.

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Curving dry-stacked wall backed by a meadow blooming Knautia macedonia in June, Landcraft Environments

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Landcraft Environments

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Clematis integrifolia as ground cover, Landcraft Environments

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Landcraft Environments

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The entryway parterre at Landcraft Environments planted in color blocks of berberis

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The meadow in June at Landcraft Environments, with lysimachia and knautia in flower

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Landcraft Environments

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Landcraft Environments, greenhouses in the distance


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the controversial castor bean plant

Ricinus communis, the castor bean/oil plant, is the freshest sight in this late-summer garden. Unlike the rest of us, the swampy heat of late August only improves its looks. The tree-like mother plant, a ‘New Zealand Purple,’ lived through our typically frostless winter, just as ricinus infamously naturalizes all over Southern California. By early summer it’s 6-foot presence had become woody and gawky, and to add to its aura of unwholesomeness, it had become beloved as a perch by evil-eyed grasshoppers. It was kept mainly as a support for some tweedia vining up its trunk. I finally pulled it out in July, when its sparsely leaved hideousness was too much to ignore, but of course seedlings keep popping up, just as they have been doing since early spring.

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In early August I let a few seedlings remain, and I’m very glad I did. The new growth is fresh and lush and everything the year-old mother plant was not. Like other tropicals, they’ve grown fast in the heat of August, several feet in a few weeks, especially those seedlings left to grow in situ. I’ve transplanted a few around the garden that are much slower to throw those big palmate leaves.

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Watching these castor bean plants grow lush and beet red this August nevertheless prompts a string of ambivalent musings. Yes, it’s beautiful, but it’s also a local pest that’s escaped cultivation. In my small, walled garden, the large seeds aren’t going anywhere, but then there’s always its sinister, non-garden applications to seize the imagination. It gets a chapter of its own in Amy Stewart’s Wicked Plants, and by now we all know (or should know!) of the highly toxic and potentially lethal properties of its seeds. But processed correctly, the oil has long had many uses, both industrial and, however misguided, medicinal. In fact, it was castor oil that I mistakenly believed I had been given as a child. With vague memories stirred by these plants, I was all set to harangue my mom, who’s out of town for a couple weeks, on the still sensitive topic of childhood nutritional supplements in the form of castor oil, when I realized with a little research, and confirmed by a quick phone call, that it was tablespoons of cod liver oil she was giving us as kids, always accompanied by a couple saltine crackers to soak up the goo. Eventually, mercifully, we were given the cod fish oil in chewable tablets.


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Cod liver oil was yucky enough, but castor oil would have been an entirely different level of “taking your medicine.” Castor oil, too, had its heyday as a folk remedy and alleged nutritional supplement for children. As far as any real nutritional value, castor oil, unlike cod liver oil, offers none, but its infamous laxative properties made it an effective threat of punishment. And apart from its many industrial uses, it’s also been used as a form of torture: Wikipedia: “In Fascist Italy under the regime of Benito Mussolini…political dissidents were force-fed large quantities of castor oil by Fascist squads.”


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That’s a lot of baggage for any plant to carry.

Ricinus communis, the castor oil plant, a member of the euphorbiaceae. If you didn’t make late summer seem as fresh as spring again, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion.

I’m linking this post to Loree’s blog Danger Garden, where other favorite plants are discussed weekly.

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fall-blooming salvias and where to find some

I’ve been trying to scale the garden down, which means there will be no shed-sized, fall-blooming salvias this year like…


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Salvia involucrata, Mendocino Coast Botanical Garden, the rosebud sage. Some of the salvias like a bit more moisture than I’m doling out lately, and this one would fall into that group.

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The bog sage, Salvia uliginosa, at Cornerstone Sonoma. As its name suggests, it doesn’t mind moist soil but can manage in surprisingly dry conditions too.

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Bog sage leaning into frame with potted Eucomis and Scotch moss, sedum, Japanese anenomes, Cornerstone Sonoma

Size or water constraints won’t stop me from having a look at salvia offerings at the fall plant sales. Out of an estimated 700 to 900 species, there’s one for every situation. Colors are always intense, stems always squared. Since hummingbirds are helpless before the tubular siren call of salvias, be sure to include a seat nearby to enjoy the air show.

Here’s a gallery of salvias from gardens past, fall bloomers and otherwise. My garden unless otherwise indicated.

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Salvia africana-lutea, 2/26/13 (removed because it was crowding Phylica pubescens, which has since died. And so it goes…)

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Salvia reptans ‘West Texas Form,’ slim and upright. September 2012

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Salvia sclarea ‘Piemont.’ The biennial clary sage is famous for reseeding (in every garden but mine. And so it goes…) July 2012

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Salvia canariensis var. candissima, June 2012. Outsized, shrub-like. Very drought tolerant.

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May 2011

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Salvia macrophylla, September 2010. Large, sprawling, always presentable, with leaves clothing stems down to the ground. Not the heaviest bloomer for me though.

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Salvia littae, November 2011.

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Salvia madrensis, November 2011

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Salvia ‘Wendy’s Wish,’ September 2011. Constant and dependable bloomer. We took this year off from each other so I could make room for something touchy and undependable. And so it goes…

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Salvia ‘Waverly,’ July 2011. Utterly dependable. One of the best for Southern California.

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July 2010

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Salvia cacaliifolia, June 2011. The agave now resides in my neighbor’s garden.

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August 2010

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Salvia ‘Indigo Spires’ at the Huntington June 2011

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Salvia wagneriana, April 2011. If you have the space, this salvia is known for blooming during Southern California’s winter

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Salvia leucantha, Longwood Gardens, November 2010

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Salvia van houttei, Longwood Gardens, November 2010

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Salvia elegans ‘Golden Delicious’ Longwood Gardens, November 2010

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Salvia ‘Limelight,’ October 2010

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Salvia verticillata ‘Purple Rain,’ June 2010, blooms most of the summer

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Salvia clevelandii, June 2013, a California native, in a local hellstrip


In Southern California, a good place to find salvias is at Fullerton Arboretum’s salvia sale, September 21 and 22, 2013.

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when art and gardens collide

Those of us who chase gardens and plants seem to divide into two camps: Those who enjoy art works in the garden and those who don’t. Oftentimes, leaving out ostentatious decorative pieces is as bold a statement as their inclusion.


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No need for any distractions from the muscular trunks of this tree in Connie Cross’ garden on Long Island.

But because they are intended specifically as outdoor settings where artists can develop work in response to the site, places like Longhouse on Long Island, New York, and Cornerstone, Sonoma, California, can give the viewer an experience impossible for indoor museums to duplicate. Another example would be what the University of California Botanical Garden at Berkeley is doing with its ongoing exhibit “Natural Discourse.”

Being a simple creature, always ready to be dazzled by anything that sparkles, what I unreservedly admire is the work at Cornerstone Sonoma of Andy Cao and Xavier Perrot. Whatever the theme, such as the harsh life of Chinese migrants working on railroads in 19th century America, these two never underestimate the seduction of glittering surfaces. I love the gleam, the reflectivity, the shimmer, the swirl, the sensual results achieved with simple industrial materials — heck, I love everything I’ve seen by Andy Cao and Xavier Perrot.

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“Red Lantern,” Cornerstone, Sonoma, California


But not all artists choose the glittery approach. At Longhouse, a sculpture garden on Long Island, New York, Yue Minjun’s “Chinese Contemporary Warriors” stayed with me long after the visit. I don’t keep up with contemporary art, so hadn’t heard of this Chinese artist famous for his “laughing man” series. From what I’ve read since the visit, laughing maniacally seems to be the only response left for this artist after the heartbreak of Tiananmen Square. All I sensed at the time from the figures was a forced and disjointed communal gathering that resulted in an eerie isolation, which the enclosed setting of hedges on an austere groundwork of gravel reinforced. Very spooky and very sad.

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Yue Minjun’s ‘Chinese Contemporary Warriors,’ a cynical riff on the terracotta warriors

Two very different approaches, one that attracts and one that repels, yet both had me wanting to know more about these artists and their work.

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