What's Blooming Inside: In Praise of Heirloom Sweet Peas

It has been said many times over that a picture paints a thousand words.  However, as I contentedly find myself captivated by Lathyrus odoratus, that most delicious of summer's blooms, I ask myself how it could possibly be fair to share a mere picture with you.  Or, for that matter, few words.

Photo: Chronica Domus

The humble sweet pea happens to be my favorite summer flower.  It helps, of course, that summers in the San Francisco Bay Area rarely ever sizzle; sweet peas loathe excessive heat.  On most days, the thermometer hovers around the agreeable lower- to middle-70's range.  All of this, of course, makes me a fortunate girl as I am able to enjoy a bountiful flower haul throughout the entire summer season and into early autumn.

I adore sweet peas so much that I would like to propose a new holiday in their honor, National Sweet Pea Day.  On this day, the ephemeral and beguiling beauty of Lathyrus odoratus will be praised and celebrated throughout the land. Gardeners will clip the flowers from their tangled vines to bring indoors by the basketful.  And, for those fellow admirers who lack either a garden or a green thumb, a trip to a local florist or market to procure a bunch to bring home will be the order of the day.

If you derive as much pleasure from this old-fashioned garden staple as I do, you'll be satisfied in the knowledge that the pretty undulating blooms should be clipped with regularity.  I can think of no other plant that replenishes its flowers as swiftly as the sweet pea.  It is nothing short of horticultural magic!  Happily, one's garden shears are pressed into service on an almost daily basis during summer's flush.

Lathyrus odoratus Cupani's Original (circa 1699) basking in the June sun

Photo: Chronica Domus

The sweet pea vines as photographed on a foggy day back in late June ...

Photo: Chronica Domus

... and yesterday, mid-August, still going strong

Photo: Chronica Domus

Daily cutting encourages a profusion of blooms

Photo: Chronica Domus

Once indoors, sweet peas should be arranged in vessels and vases and the posies placed about the house. The simple act of doing so provides me with the greatest of pleasure.  It is a rite of summer I look forward to undertaking each and every year.

Ah heaven!... how I wish I could share the exquisite perfume wafting from these blooms with you

Photo: Chronica Domus  

Every room, no matter its size or decoration, will surely be enhanced by the delicate beauty and scent put forth by these posies.  At least, that is, if you select wisely and cultivate the old-fashioned heirloom varieties.  Some may argue that the daintier pink and white blooms of Painted Lady (circa  1730) for example, or those of Lathyrus odoratus America, a rich raspberry-red and white striped example dating back to 1896 are not as showy or as large as modern hybrids.  On that score, I am in agreement.  However, these are among the many older sweet pea strains I favor and believe to be far superior not only in their form and beauty, but in their scrumptious scent, an attribute so often lacking in modern sweet peas.  Why deny yourself one of nature's most luscious and exuberant scents I say!

As I meandered through the house this past Sunday afternoon, while snapping away with my camera to bring you the images you see below, it was as though I was being carried away upon a fruit and spice scented cloud.  Each room was saturated with that oh-so exquisitely delicious fragrance unique to older sweet peas.  I won't even pretend to do justice to the scent with mere words.  You'll just have to believe me when I tell you the agreeable air in those rooms could rival that of any fancy perfumery.  

A bedside posy to sweeten the air and delight the eye

Photo: Chronica Domus

A vase on the kitchen counter brimming with resplendent purple and violet sweet peas
Photo: Chronica Domus

A diminutive posy of pink and cream, and a lone striated Lathyrus odoratus America bloom, is placed upon a table in the corner of the drawing room ... 

Photo: Chronica Domus

... and its twin posy is perched atop the secretary bookcase to enliven an 

otherwise quiet corner

Photo: Chronica Domus

It is now midway through August and I've been clipping at the gangly sweet pea vines since late-June.  The blooms, I am pleased to report, exhibit no sign of dwindling just yet. Over the coming weeks I anticipate the good fortune of filling my vases with many more splendid stalks of Cupani's Original, America, Painted Lady, and other heirloom strains I planted in the spring.  

Late-afternoon summer light rakes across a sweet pea arrangement

Photo: Chronica Domus

Won't you please join me in planting a packet or two of these older types of sweet peas in your garden over the coming year?  I highly recommend an Old-Spice mix for heat resistance and, of course, for an abundant yield of colorful fragrant blooms.  You will then be ready to celebrate that much longed-for future holiday, National Sweet Pea Day.  Now, isn't that a day worthy of a celebration?

More Pink Flamingo Than Prince of Orange

Hooray for Prince of Orange the first sweet pea bloom of the season,
but wait ...it's not orange!

Photo: Chronica Domus 

It's that glorious time of year in my garden, a time to rejoice and celebrate the first of the season's sweet pea blooms.  As has become my habit in the last few years, I was again enticed into growing my sweet peas purely from the delicious descriptions printed on the attractively illustrated seed packets. Well, that and the fact that I rather fancied delving into the world of orange sweet peas, a color I had not previously attempted to grow.  Two varieties fit the bill, Prince of Orange and Henry Eckford. The Prince promised "pure, clear orange flowers of excellent substance", while Mr. Eckford assured "spectacular bright orange flowers".  I could not wait to get planting!

Heirloom varieties of sweet peas in zesty shades of orange beckoned 

to be taken home and planted in my garden

Photo: Chronica Domus

I sowed half a dozen of each variety on April 29 and patiently awaited their germination.  Sweet peas, as you may know, can take an age to get started so I make it a point to soak the seeds overnight in hopes of softening their rock-hard shells.  Right before I sow them into the moist, compost rich soil, I chip away a little of their coating in an effort to aid them along.  Even with this additional step, the seeds can take up to two excruciatingly long weeks to germinate. As William Langland reminds us in his poem, "Piers Plowman" patience is, indeed, a virtue.  I do try though.

Three months have now passed and I'm not exactly sure what happened to Mr. Eckford.  All I have to show for my efforts is a lone plant.  Perhaps the gentleman is a little shy?

Lathyrus odoratus Henry Eckford was first bred by the man himself in 1906

Photo: Chronica Domus

The few blooms I have been able to gather thus far possess such peculiarly stunted stems that arranging them in a vase is next to impossible.  Ah well, as I'm not one to give up easily I will try planting Henry Eckford again either later in the autumn or early next spring.

What in the world has happened to Henry Eckford's stems?
Photo: Chronica Domus

And, as for the Prince, imagine my surprise upon seeing his true colors come to light.

Looks more pink flamingo than Prince of Orange to me!

Photo: Chronica Domus

With barely a scintilla of orange to behold, my dream of gathering orange-hued sweet peas this summer has, alas, been dashed.  Admittedly, despite the unanticipated color, I am really quite chuffed to have pink flamingos taking flight in my vase.  The blooms are exceptionally pretty, no matter their rosy hue.

Might the Prince's orange reveal itself if I squint I wonder?

Photo: Chronica Domus

As a gardener, albeit an amateur one at best, I am constantly humbled by the act of nurturing the tiniest seed.  Regardless of how meticulously one plots and plans ahead, and despite the coddling and cosseting, Mother Nature always has the last word.  Either that or, as I suspect might be the case here, there was a mix-up at the packet-filling end of things.

Have you ever grown anything from seed with unexpected results?


Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

What's Blooming Inside: Summer's Last Hurrah

Photo: Chronica Domus

We may have entered the first days of autumn here in the Northern Hemisphere, but try telling that to my garden.  Do you remember the sweet peas about which I wrote in early August, and the surprise I received when only blossoms of a sugared almond pink color appeared from the assorted heirloom seed packet I planted? Well, this is what the sweet pea patch yielded yesterday morning:

A nineteenth century black basalt vessel sets off the exultant colors of
autumnal sweet peas to perfection
Photo: Chronica Domus

At long last, the other colors depicted so prettily on the seed packet's charming illustration - which enticed me into buying it in the first place - have emerged.  Late, I'll admit, but they made it through. Thinking back, I don't believe I have ever had the pleasure of picking sweet peas so very late in the year.

Even the glass bathroom shelf gets in on the act with a mixed rosy-hued posy composed of the last sugared almond pink sweet peas that have been in bloom throughout the summer

Photo: Chronica Domus

I think it is simply marvelous that the emergence of these jewel-toned flowers have such impeccable timing.  What could be more appropriate, as we approach the cooler months of the year, than to be greeted by the sight of vivid regal purples and crimson pinks in one's vases?  As everything around the garden fades to gold, these rich and exuberant colors reign supreme.  It's summer's last hurrah.

Photo: Chronica Domus

For those of my readers that have never planted sweet peas, let me share a secret with you.  The more one harvests these irresistible blooms, the more seem to emerge.  Each plant is a veritable factory of flowers begging to be culled every few days.  If I'm fortunate, I'll be picking sweet peas well into October this year.

Have you noticed the subtle signs of autumn arriving in your neighborhood yet or is summer refusing to surrender?

A Surprise In The Sweet Pea Patch

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been eagerly anticipating the arrival of the sweet peas in the garden this year.  I planted them at the beginning of May, which is rather late in the season as far as these things go.  I'll admit, I was entirely bowled over by the charmingly old-fashioned illustration on the seed packet when I made my selection at The Seed Bank.  Here it is:

Photo: Chronica Domus

How exciting it would be, I thought, to grow a variety of colors from a single seed packet, and an heirloom variety at that.

As you can see, the results thus far have been rather surprising.  Pink, it seems, is the only color in sight, but what a glorious pink it is.

Early morning dew clings to a fragrant bloom

Photo: Chronica Domus

Yesterday morning I snipped all the blooms I could find to bring indoors.  I arranged them in an Anglo-Irish cut glass water jug which I placed in the drawing room, perched upon the edge of the secretary bookcase. I adore the delicate sugared almond pink hue of the blooms and, of course, their heavenly fragrance.  Nothing smells more like summer to me than sweet peas.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Perhaps the other colors which are illustrated on the seed package will rear their heads in the weeks to come but for now, I plan on enjoying these delicately hued and scrumptiously scented blooms for as long as I'm able to.  For that, I am most grateful.


Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

What's Blooming Inside: The Sweetest of Sweet Peas

The season's first mixed sweet pea posy held in a black basalt vessel

Photo: Chronica Domus

What would summer be without a vase spilling over with old-fashioned sweet peas to excite the nostrils and delight the eye?  Surely, their intoxicating scent and billowy beauty set them among the most exquisite of flowers to be enjoyed and celebrated annually.  They come in a range of colors, spanning a palette of creams and bright whites, delicate sorbets and pastels, fiery oranges, crimson, and the deepest, darkest royal purple. I am certain there is a color to appeal to everyone's sensibilities.

My 1929 second edition copy of Charles W.J. Unwin's tome on the cultivation of sweet peas

Photo: Chronica Domus

I have cultivated sweet peas or rather Lathyrus odoratus, their botanical name, for the past twenty years.  I was inspired to try my hand at growing them, much like the daffodils I wrote about, upon visiting the Welsh book town of Hay-on-Wye.  It was there that I stumbled across an intriguing book titled "Sweet Peas Their History, Development, Culture".  The book was authored by Charles W.J. Unwin.  If the name Unwin rings a bell of familiarity it is because Mr. Unwin's father William founded the British seed company Unwins in 1903. Charles Unwin went on to become one of the preeminent breeders of sweet peas of his time.

The first thing that greets the delighted reader of this book is a colored plate illustrating three very showy varieties of the flower.  The plate is protected by a sheet of glassine where each flower is identified; Queen of Roumania (a curious spelling of the country to be sure), Sybil Henshaw, and Wistaria (yet again, another peculiar spelling of he popular flower wisteria).

A colored plate illustrating some very fancy sweet peas

Photo: Chronica Domus

A glassine sheet not only aids in protecting the colored plate, it also helps to identify the three sweet pea varieties illustrated

Photo: Chronica Domus

Reading the preface of the book, and the author's infectious enthusiasm for the cultivation and appreciation of this old-fashioned garden flower, had me rushing out the door to purchase my first pack of seeds.  Sadly, I  cannot recall what particular type of sweet pea I grew back then.  I don't think I was particularly bothered about either the color or the fact that it was an older variety. I have since developed quite a fancy for the heritage strains, which are simpler in form and far more perfumed than their modern cousins.  This is not to say that I turn my nose up at the newer sweet peas.  No, certainly not!  In fact, some of my favorites are the newer hybrids, at least the ones that have managed to retain some semblance of scent.

Back in March, I wrote about my visit to the Seed Bank, in Petaluma.  It was there that I purchased some of this year's seeds for planting; Lathyrus odoratus Cupani Original, which is believed to be the very first sweet pea, known since in 1699, and the rare Lathyrus Belinensis, discovered in Turkey in 1987 and on the critically threatened plant list.  To these I added April In Paris and Regal Robe, two newer hybrids with all the charm and scent of the oldies.  Lathyrus latifolius is not a true sweet pea, but it is a heritage variety, said to have been grown by Thomas Jefferson, and unusually a perennial.

Sweet pea seeds soaking overnight in the potting area in preparation for sowing

Photo: Chronica Domus

The first seeds went into the well-prepared warm soil on May 9 which, I'll admit, is very late.  I much prefer to have everything wrapped up by late March, around St. Patrick's Day, giving the seeds an opportunity to develop strong roots before the weather really heats up.  I waited patiently for the first signs of germination with all of the excitement that comes along with seeing those little green sprouts emerging from the earth.  Having crossed that bridge, I lovingly fussed over the sweet pea patch for the next ten weeks, snipping away at the curly tendrils that rob the plants of energy, and looking for the first flowers to emerge.

It was not until the end of July that I was richly rewarded for my efforts.  I was thrilled to see the bi-colored Cupani Original emerge in all it's beauty.  

The first sweet pea of the year, Lathyrus odoratus Cupani Original

Photo: Chronica Domus

Then came Regal Robe, living up to its name with its rich royal purple tones.

A close-up view of Lathyrus odoratus Regal Robe 

Photo: Chronica Domus

April In Paris seemed to have sprinted from nowhere, stretching into the warm sun and beguilingly teasing with not only its delicate lilac-hued edges, but also its agreeable scent. It is the most fragrant modern sweet pea I have yet to grow.  Many modern types have had their fragrance obliterated through hybridizing which, in my not so humble opinion, make them far less appealing to grow. The scent of April In Paris rivals that of Cupani Original in both strength and sweetness. It is utterly breathtaking!  Why, I wonder, has no perfumier managed to replicate such a delicious aroma and bottle it for the enjoyment of women (and men, I suppose) the world over?

Lathyrus odoratus April In Paris exhibiting its subtle lilac-hued edge

Photo: Chronica Domus

The diminutive and scarce Lathyrus Belinensis just coming into bloom

Photo: Chronica Domus

Pearly pink blooms of Lathyrus latifolius, an heirloom perennial lacking in scent

Photo: Chronica Domus

The wonderful thing about sweet peas is that the more flowers you cut, the more flowers emerge. Indeed, it really is a bad idea to leave them lingering on their leggy vines for too long as the flowers quickly go to seed.  When that happens, the plants rapidly cease producing their alluring blooms.

Regal Robe happily growing in the sweet pea patch and ready for cutting in late July.  I love the developing colors on the unopened flower heads 

Photo: Chronica Domus

Snip, snip, snip for more, more, more

Photo: Chronica Domus

Upon entering the house, I was compelled to capture the singular beauty of each variety for posterity and proceeded to photograph the blooms from close proximity for your viewing pleasure.

The bi-colored diminutive blooms of Cupani Original

Photo: Chronica Domus

A study of April In Paris

Photo: Chronica Domus

Lathyrus latifolius, said to have been grown by Thomas Jefferson at Monticello

Photo: Chronica Domus

The lilliputian Lathyrus Belinensis is so tiny I had to employ tweezers to aid me in capturing its unusual coloration and form - this was the first Belinensis to have bloomed in my garden and its stem was far shorter than the others that followed

Photo: Chronica Domus 

Of course, the greatest pleasure I derive from growing sweet peas is the prospect of gathering them up and filling containers with them to place about the house.  I have been doing just that over the last several weeks to my great enjoyment and satisfaction.  Sweet peas are nature's air fresheners and whenever one is so fortunate to enter the vicinity of a sweet pea arrangement, one's nose is in for a very sweet treat.

A small posy on the drawing room mantelshelf...

Photo: Chronica Domus

...and in front of the sofa

Photo: Chronica Domus

A late-eighteenth century glass vessel holds a diminutive arrangement of Lathyrus Belinensis on the dining room side table

Photo: Chronica Domus

If you too have been inspired to try your hand at growing these deliciously demure and elegant summer dazzlers, I urge you to seek out a pack or two in your favorite colors and plan on sowing them next spring.  Sweet pea cultivation is not reserved solely for those with gardens.  There are many varieties that thrive in outdoor containers and grow in bush form.

Now, if you'll please excuse me, I'm off to the garden to pick today's bundle of sweetness.

This morning's pickings enliven a corner of my kitchen

Photo: Chronica Domus

 Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.