Carthamus tinctorius, the false saffron from the propagator, was pricked out today. Though not saffron coloured, it’s instead the tastefully pale cultivar ‘Ice Cream’. Bought at the tale-end of 2024, it was chosen for its wedding flower potential, along with Limonium ‘Apricot Desire’ and a dwarf dill that’s perfect for pots.
The ambition to grow all the plants that would be used for our wedding was almost a reality. Neither Carthamus or Limonium appeared on the day, but dill in pots would feature alongside tomatoes, scented leaf Pelargoniums, herbs of all shapes and shades, a fig tree, Plectranthus. All planted up together in the pots my father made when I was young, centre pieces different on every table.
The bouquet was dripping Amaranthus and spraying Dahlias and twists of Jasmine towards the clear blue sky, and pedestals brimmed with dried Hydrangea heads cycled home a year earlier, cut birch and willow whips. The buttonholes were made over coffee the morning of, chrysanthemum brightening the table and my mother guiding my hand.
Despite their absence, on the windowsill now the thick squash leaves of the Carthamus take me back to that day. No Ice Cream or Apricot Desire could have bettered it.
a year in the garden 