"Edible" Landscaping

If it seems to you that FPG's progress has stalled, allow me to explain. My assistant, Daisy, and I have reached an impasse. While we are both taken with the idea of edible landscaping as a central theme for Fencebroke's plantings, our individual interpretations of what “edible” means are simply irreconcilable. This has unfortunately created tension in the office and on the grounds and has delayed what would otherwise be a smooth roll-out of my singular vision. For the most part, our disagreements remain civil, as she has proven remarkably mature for one so young, but I must admit to some occasional raised voices, senseless babbling and unhinged sobbing—all on my part, sadly.

Daisy was tolerant of, if unimpressed by, my use of plants like German chamomile, quinoa, and heirloom French leeks to create unexpected edible accents in our central ornamental bed (yes, the paisley one). But her own vision tends more towards things like small rocks, bits of trash and lawn clippings—anything, really that she can easily choke on and terrify her supervisors. It's not that I don't understand her view, it's just a philosophical difference: to her, my idea of “edible” as something safely consumable by humans is too restricting. She prefers to take the broader stance of “edible” being anything that, wholly or partially, can fit into her mouth. And I respect that. I just disagree.

So it is that our gardening sessions together start out peaceably enough, but tend to lapse into a common refrain, shouted by myself across the yard in five second intervals: “Daisy! No! Not Food!” Followed by a mad wind-sprint as I attempt to reach her and fish out whatever bit of debris she has most recently decided to consider “edible” landscaping.

We'll get it straightened out, but until then it may be slow-going at Fencebroke.

Before and After/Persian Pickles

I get a mulligan, right? A redo? That's how gardens work, if I'm not mistaken. It's kind of an unspoken rule amongst gardeners.

That being the case, I'll go ahead and use my mulligan here, with this vaguely paisley-shaped (or is it paisle-shaped?) bed I put together.

Before.

Don't get me wrong, the shape is fine, I mean who doesn't love paisley? (Actually, I'm going to interject here that “Vaguely Paisley” has some serious potential as a band name. Whoever wants it, take it. My royalty fees are reasonable.) See, I even sprung for the plastic lawn edging to help maintain and emphasize that fantastic shape. (Oh, but you know who doesn't love paisley, I bet? Zebras. It would just look terrible on them.) So the shape of the bed is fine. Unless you're a zebra, I expect no complaints about this elegant, voluptuous slither of a bed outline. No, I just don't like the plants I put in it. That's a serious problem if you're a gardener—not so much if you're a zebra. (Hey, fun fact: according to Wikipedia, the paisley motif is often referred to as “Persian pickles” by traditional American quiltmakers.) Once the bed was cut and prepped—a lone, vestal pickle just lying there—I think I panicked at the sight of such a svelte swath of unplanted earth and just started interring anything within arm's reach. Flitting about the sordid process were several newborn and timid themes, vying meekly for my attention: a bed for cutting flowers! A bed for ornamental edibles! A small, reniform swimming pool! (OK, this is terrific, can anyone guess how the Welsh textile industry referred to the paisley design? Of course you can't. “Welsh pears”. That's what they called it.) The end product achieved none of these goals admirably, and is more or less a hodge-podge of whatever plants I had lying around. (They must have some funny looking pears in Wales. Or pickles in Persia, for that matter.) So I'd like to start over, if I could. Ctrl Z on this mess of desperate planting and Paisleyed miscellany. And to formalize the illusion, I'll just post the same picture for “Before” and “After” and pretend nothing happened in between. Just showing off Fencebroke's newest Persian pickle. What do you think?

After.