As the mad Ophelia wandered embarrassingly around the court at Ellsinore distributing flowers and smut, she accompanied each gift of blooms with a knowing description of the meaning that each plant possessed:
“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray,
love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts.”
I’m sure that we, like the Danish court, remain a little mystified by the gnomic utterings of Hamlet’s ‘girl friend’ and notoriously poor swimmer!
However the Victorians developed the so called language of flowers. Each flower had a significance, so that, for the Victorians, a bouquet of flowers could actually be a sophisticated declaration or intriguing message.
How debased that language is today! Some people have a hazy realisation that going to hospital with a bouquet of red and white roses is the equivalent of presenting the ailing person with a wreath; they might know that in China (or is it Japan) chrysanthemums are flowers associated with death and that the colour white is allied to the Grim Reaper; some might know that May blooms should never be brought into the house; and most know of the funereal associations with lilies; but anything more precise eludes the majority of us.
Flowers which excite some repulse others. One of my mother’s favourite flowers was the
anemone; a flower many find old-fashioned and rather tawdry and a bloom which is characterised today by being something rarely found in florists. I know people who find spray chrysanthemums the floral equivalent of cheap Chardonnay and others who regard a splendid array of roses as repugnant and vulgar. I know some people who fill their house with cut flowers and others who look on that act as little short of horticultural murder and putting the flowers in vases the equivalent of the callous flaunting of corpses.
So the giving of a bunch of flowers is fraught with problems and what was, at one time, a panacea for all ills is now something more problematical. Consider what the presentation of a floral gift entails, not only on the part of the giver but also on the part of the receiver.
Unless the flowers are presented ready tied and in their own vase, the presentation of a bouquet is usually the signal for a sort of domestic melt down. After the initial expressions of delight the first problem is the finding of a vase.
Although one of the few things that ‘make over’ programmes have taught us is that anything can be used for anything: a large empty coffee tin becomes an amusing Warholesque toilet roll holder; a tractor tyre becomes the base of a bean bag seat; a lump of earth in a jam jar becomes a strategic design feature (No, I don’t know what that means either.) So the finding of a container capable of containing water should not be a problem: but it is.
When a selection of ‘possibles’ have been discarded and a final choice has been made for the flowers, the sudden discovery that it is not clean produces a flurry of cleansing operations only hindered by the fact that the convoluted shape of the container makes it impossible for the human hand to get into the highly visible dirt harbouring crevices. A variety of kitchen brushes sometimes obviates this problem and eventually the vase is ready.
The next problem is the dividing or not dividing of the bouquet. Should the receiver have a profusion of blooms in one vase or be artistic (or parsimonious) and divide them into other containers? This is a real problem and one which sometimes is solved by the “Oh I’ll do it later” approach. The fewer the blooms the more important the arrangement: quantity allows lack of restraint and the ‘plonking’ approach to be adopted.
But before the flowers are placed in the vase there is the question of cutting the stems. Most people cut the stems of cut flowers (otherwise they wouldn’t be cut would they? Boom! Boom!) Because they have been told it will prolong the plant life. But is it cut, or cut at an angle, or cut and crush, or cut and split or . . . so many choices, and with people watching you!
Then the arrangement! On TV the professional florists seem to throw a few blooms into a vase and hey presto! Art! For us mere mortals the flowers never seem to form themselves into a convincing arrangement. I remember one floral purchase which had to be transferred to a smaller vase because of the constant ‘adjusting’ of the length of the stems of the flowers to make them fit.
Having got your small vase of amputated flowers ready, the next problem is, where? There is a language concerned with the positioning of a vase of flowers which have been given to you which speaks loud and clear to the donor. Place on the central table is an ostentatious thank you; while placing them in an alcove in the hallway is the equivalent of a cursory nod of the head in gratitude; leaving them in the kitchen is rejection; while leaving them in the kitchen and not in water is a declaration of hostilities for the evening; ‘plonking’ is casual and dismissive, while totally ignoring the donor and spending ages cutting and arranging is just impolite.
So give a plant. Already planted. In its own pot. Job done. Or is it?
One of the most stylist plants to give as a gift is an orchid. I know that some of the more extravagant varieties look so un-British and artificial that pleasure is lost in a sort of creepy fascination, but the simpler orchids, long stemmed and single colour live and growing in a simple pot are beautiful in that ready arranged by a native Japanese way which occidental people find difficult to achieve with cut blooms. But there are dangers inherent in this gift too.
Orchids are notoriously difficult to grow. Their literary links include General Sternwood in Raymond Chandler’s ‘The Big Sleep’ (a novel I took with me on holiday to France as my only English book so that I could read and re read it so I would finally understand who did what to whom and why) who grew orchids in the steamy hothouse which also kept him alive. In other words it needs attention to keep the things alive and constant attention needs to be given to the fluctuations in temperature to ensure survival. A gift of an orchid is therefore a time limited gift: growing to die, as it were. Enjoy it while you can.
Which is why the everlasting orchid still growing and blooming in Ingrid’s bathroom in Exmouth in Devon is a constant accusation. It blooms in an out of season; it thrives and throws flower laden shoots as if it was a dandelion. I went down to see it yesterday (and to see Ingrid too) and can attest to its potency. Now in its xth year of growth and seemingly gaining in strength.
The mystery of its thriving display is only party explained by its location in one of the sunnier parts of this rain sodden land, but I feel that it might have something to do with the ability that Ingrid has to produce other things which are just as exotic.
I refer, of course, to poppy seed cake: a speciality of Ingrid’s which I for one find delicious. I have yet to find another of my friends who agree with me, which is just as well as I am loath to share my bi annual cake! So, my advice to budding (!) orchid growers is to try their hand at poppy seed cake. I’ll be happy to sample their efforts (the cake not the flower) to encourage them on their way.
Happy cooking!
“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray,
love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts.”
I’m sure that we, like the Danish court, remain a little mystified by the gnomic utterings of Hamlet’s ‘girl friend’ and notoriously poor swimmer!
However the Victorians developed the so called language of flowers. Each flower had a significance, so that, for the Victorians, a bouquet of flowers could actually be a sophisticated declaration or intriguing message.
How debased that language is today! Some people have a hazy realisation that going to hospital with a bouquet of red and white roses is the equivalent of presenting the ailing person with a wreath; they might know that in China (or is it Japan) chrysanthemums are flowers associated with death and that the colour white is allied to the Grim Reaper; some might know that May blooms should never be brought into the house; and most know of the funereal associations with lilies; but anything more precise eludes the majority of us.
Flowers which excite some repulse others. One of my mother’s favourite flowers was the
anemone; a flower many find old-fashioned and rather tawdry and a bloom which is characterised today by being something rarely found in florists. I know people who find spray chrysanthemums the floral equivalent of cheap Chardonnay and others who regard a splendid array of roses as repugnant and vulgar. I know some people who fill their house with cut flowers and others who look on that act as little short of horticultural murder and putting the flowers in vases the equivalent of the callous flaunting of corpses.So the giving of a bunch of flowers is fraught with problems and what was, at one time, a panacea for all ills is now something more problematical. Consider what the presentation of a floral gift entails, not only on the part of the giver but also on the part of the receiver.
Unless the flowers are presented ready tied and in their own vase, the presentation of a bouquet is usually the signal for a sort of domestic melt down. After the initial expressions of delight the first problem is the finding of a vase.
Although one of the few things that ‘make over’ programmes have taught us is that anything can be used for anything: a large empty coffee tin becomes an amusing Warholesque toilet roll holder; a tractor tyre becomes the base of a bean bag seat; a lump of earth in a jam jar becomes a strategic design feature (No, I don’t know what that means either.) So the finding of a container capable of containing water should not be a problem: but it is.
When a selection of ‘possibles’ have been discarded and a final choice has been made for the flowers, the sudden discovery that it is not clean produces a flurry of cleansing operations only hindered by the fact that the convoluted shape of the container makes it impossible for the human hand to get into the highly visible dirt harbouring crevices. A variety of kitchen brushes sometimes obviates this problem and eventually the vase is ready.
The next problem is the dividing or not dividing of the bouquet. Should the receiver have a profusion of blooms in one vase or be artistic (or parsimonious) and divide them into other containers? This is a real problem and one which sometimes is solved by the “Oh I’ll do it later” approach. The fewer the blooms the more important the arrangement: quantity allows lack of restraint and the ‘plonking’ approach to be adopted.
But before the flowers are placed in the vase there is the question of cutting the stems. Most people cut the stems of cut flowers (otherwise they wouldn’t be cut would they? Boom! Boom!) Because they have been told it will prolong the plant life. But is it cut, or cut at an angle, or cut and crush, or cut and split or . . . so many choices, and with people watching you!
Then the arrangement! On TV the professional florists seem to throw a few blooms into a vase and hey presto! Art! For us mere mortals the flowers never seem to form themselves into a convincing arrangement. I remember one floral purchase which had to be transferred to a smaller vase because of the constant ‘adjusting’ of the length of the stems of the flowers to make them fit.
Having got your small vase of amputated flowers ready, the next problem is, where? There is a language concerned with the positioning of a vase of flowers which have been given to you which speaks loud and clear to the donor. Place on the central table is an ostentatious thank you; while placing them in an alcove in the hallway is the equivalent of a cursory nod of the head in gratitude; leaving them in the kitchen is rejection; while leaving them in the kitchen and not in water is a declaration of hostilities for the evening; ‘plonking’ is casual and dismissive, while totally ignoring the donor and spending ages cutting and arranging is just impolite.
So give a plant. Already planted. In its own pot. Job done. Or is it?
One of the most stylist plants to give as a gift is an orchid. I know that some of the more extravagant varieties look so un-British and artificial that pleasure is lost in a sort of creepy fascination, but the simpler orchids, long stemmed and single colour live and growing in a simple pot are beautiful in that ready arranged by a native Japanese way which occidental people find difficult to achieve with cut blooms. But there are dangers inherent in this gift too.
Orchids are notoriously difficult to grow. Their literary links include General Sternwood in Raymond Chandler’s ‘The Big Sleep’ (a novel I took with me on holiday to France as my only English book so that I could read and re read it so I would finally understand who did what to whom and why) who grew orchids in the steamy hothouse which also kept him alive. In other words it needs attention to keep the things alive and constant attention needs to be given to the fluctuations in temperature to ensure survival. A gift of an orchid is therefore a time limited gift: growing to die, as it were. Enjoy it while you can.
Which is why the everlasting orchid still growing and blooming in Ingrid’s bathroom in Exmouth in Devon is a constant accusation. It blooms in an out of season; it thrives and throws flower laden shoots as if it was a dandelion. I went down to see it yesterday (and to see Ingrid too) and can attest to its potency. Now in its xth year of growth and seemingly gaining in strength.The mystery of its thriving display is only party explained by its location in one of the sunnier parts of this rain sodden land, but I feel that it might have something to do with the ability that Ingrid has to produce other things which are just as exotic.
I refer, of course, to poppy seed cake: a speciality of Ingrid’s which I for one find delicious. I have yet to find another of my friends who agree with me, which is just as well as I am loath to share my bi annual cake! So, my advice to budding (!) orchid growers is to try their hand at poppy seed cake. I’ll be happy to sample their efforts (the cake not the flower) to encourage them on their way.
Happy cooking!
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