Tea Time: Lemon Balm Tea

Cooler weather has me thinking about hot tea again. This time around I decided to go with something I’ve already tried and know that I like. Despite the fact that lemon balm can be quite abundant and readily available, I don’t really drink it that often. Yet, considering claims made regarding its calming nature, this is definitely the year to have it.

lemon balm (Melissa officinalis)

Melissa officinalis is an herbaceous perennial native to the Mediterranean Basin and beyond. It has been widely planted outside of its native range and has become naturalized – some might say weedy – in many parts of the world. It self-sows easily and also spreads readily via stolons and/or rhizomes. It isn’t picky about soil type and grows well in both sun and part shade. Lemon balm is in the mint family and acts in a similarly aggresive way to some of its relatives, but luckily isn’t nearly as tenacious as mint in its tendency to dominate a garden bed.

The leaves of lemon balm have a wrinkled appearance, are triangular or wedge-shaped with toothed margins, and are arranged oppositely on square stems up to three feet tall. Small, white or pale yellow (sometimes pale pink) flowers are inconspicuous and produced in the axils of leaves. They are often sparse enough to be hardly noticeable. This plant’s aesthetic appeal is all about its pleasant and prolific green foliage. Yet, despite the simplicity of its flowers, lemon balm is known for being attractive to bees and is often propagated specifically to feed honeybees. In fact, the genus name Melissa apparently means honeybee in Ancient Greek.

lemon balm flower

The leaves of lemon balm can be consumed fresh or dried and have a number of other uses besides tea. They have a sweet, lemon-like scent and, like so many other herbs with a long history of human use, have a wide array of medicinal claims associated with them. Many sources agree on lemon balm’s ability to calm the nerves, reduce stress and anxiety, and fight off insomnia. According to The Herb Society of America’s Essential Guide to Growing and Cooking with Herbs, lemon balm “has been used as a relaxing agent and as an aid to restful, nightmare-free sleep.” Sounds like I could use more lemon balm in my life.

dried lemon balm leaves

Lemon balm tea can be made with either fresh or dried leaves, but fresh leaves seem to make a more flavorful tea. I had only tried tea made from dried leaves until recently and have decided that I prefer fresh leaves. Simply harvest a few leaves, cut or tear them apart to release the lemony flavor, place them in a cup, and cover them in hot water. Some recipes (like this one) suggest adding honey, while others mix lemon balm with additional herbs known for their lemon-like flavor or relaxing nature (lemon thyme and lemon verbena, for example). Sierra was immediately taken by lemon balm tea when she tried it – in contrast to her experience with violet leaf tea – and even said it was right up there with her preferred black teas. I’m not surprised, as it is one of my favorite teas as well.

lemon balm tea made with freshly harvested leaves

More Tea Time Posts on Awkward Botany:

Weeds of Boise: Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden

Anyone who has maintained a garden or small farm knows that with all the work it takes to keep up on the garden itself, outlying areas can quickly become overtaken by weeds. Low on the list of priorities, areas outside of our garden borders are ideal locations for wild urban vegetation to thrive. Pulling all the weeds within the garden is a big enough task as it is; thus, weeds out of our reach are left to their own devices, occasionally getting mown down by a string trimmer or brush mower (if time allows), but otherwise living largely unscathed. And so, places such as these are excellent for familiarizing oneself with our wild urban flora.

I found an example of this scenario at the Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden in Boise, Idaho. This community garden is a partnership between Congregation Ahavath Beth Israel (CABI) and Global Gardens, providing refugees in the area an opportunity to grow food for their families and participate in community activities.

When I visited this site, it was clear that the weeds on the edge of the garden had been mowed down at some point. New plants had popped up after the fact while others were in the process of recovering from the “haircut” and putting on new, shrubbier growth. The mowing and the fact that it was late in the summer made identifying remnants of earlier weeds too difficult to bother. Most of the weeds that I did find were either summer annuals or perennials. A visit in the spring would reveal an entirely different cast of characters.

I stayed on the border of the garden, not wanting to invade anyone’s plot or snoop around too much. The point of the visit was to highlight weeds found outside of the borders of a garden anyway. I would imagine that, since the garden is used to grow annual fruits and vegetables, most of the weeds in the beds would be annuals as well. Longer-lived weeds don’t generally tolerate regular disturbance and instead find refuge in unkept areas outside of cultivation.

Below are a few photos from the site along with a preliminary list of the weeds that I found.

salsify (Tragopogon dubius)

puncture vine (Tribulus terrestris)

field bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis)

Siberian elm (Ulmus pumila)

common mallow (Malva neglecta)

black medic (Medicago lupulina)

Weeds found at the Ahavath Beth Israel Synagogue Garden:

  • Amaranthus spp. (pigweed)
  • Bassia scoparia (kochia)
  • Chenopodium album (lamb’s quarters)
  • Chondrilla juncea (rush skeletonweed)
  • Convolvulus arvensis (field bindweed)
  • Conyza canadensis (horseweed)
  • Digitaria sanguinalis (crabgrass)
  • Epilobium brachycarpum (tall annual willowherb)
  • Euphorbia maculata (spotted spurge)
  • Hordeum jubatum (foxtail barley)
  • Lactuca serriola (prickly lettuce)
  • Malva neglecta (common mallow)
  • Medicago lupulina (black medic)
  • Oenothera biennis (common evening-primrose)
  • Plantago lanceolata (narrowleaf plantain)
  • Polygonum aviculare (prostrate knotweed)
  • Rumex crispus (curly dock)
  • Setaria sp. (foxtail)
  • Sonchus sp. (sow thistle)
  • Taraxacum officinale (dandelion)
  • Tragopogon dubius (salsify)
  • Trifolium pratense (red clover)
  • Ulmus pumila (Siberian elm)
  • Verbena bracteata (prostrate vervain)

Like all posts in the Weeds of Boise series, this will be updated as I identify and photograph more of the weeds found in this location.

Flowers Growing Out of Flowers (Things Are Getting Weird Out There)

I’m sure that anyone living through the events of 2020 would agree, these are truly wild times. So, when I stumbled across some purple coneflowers that appeared to be growing flowers out of flowers, I thought to myself, “Of course! Why not!?!” The world is upside down. Anything is possible.

As it turns out, however, this phenomenon occurs more frequently than I was aware. But it’s not necessarily a good thing, particularly if you’re concerned about plant health. We’ll get to that in a minute. First, what’s going on with these flowers?

Flowers in the aster family are unique. They have the appearance of being a single flower but are actually a cluster of two types of much smaller flowers all packed in together. Purple coneflower (Echinacea purpurea) is a great example of this. Its flower heads are composed of dozens of disc flowers surrounded by a series of ray flowers. The minuscule disc flowers form the cone-like center of the inflorescence. The petals that surround the cone are individual ray flowers. This tight cluster of many small flowers (or florets) is known as a composite. Sunflowers are another example of this type of inflorescence.

Flowers are distinct organs. Not only are they the reproductive structures of flowering plants, but unlike the rest of the plant, they exhibit determinate growth. Flowers are, after all, plant shoots that have been “told” to stop growing like other shoots and instead modify themselves into reproductive organs and other associated structures. Unlike other shoots, which continue to grow (or at least have the potential to), a flower (and the fruit it produces) is the end result for this reproductive shoot. This is what is meant by determinate growth. However, sometimes things go awry, and the modified shoots and leaves that make up a flower don’t develop as expected, producing some bizarre looking structures as a result.

An example of this is a double flower. Plants with double flowers have mutations in their genes that cause disruptions during floral development. This means that their stamens and carpels (the reproductive organs of the flowers) don’t develop properly. Instead, they become additional petals or flowers, resulting in a flower composed of petals upon petals upon petals – a look that some people like, but that have virtually nothing to offer the pollinators that typically visit them. Because of their ornamental value, double-flowered varieties of numerous species – including purple coneflower – can be found in the horticultural trade.

double-flowered purple coneflower

Genetic mutations are one way that odd looking flowers come about. It is not the cause, however, of the freak flowers that I recently came across. What I witnessed was something called phyllody and was the result of an infection most likely introduced to the plant by a leafhopper or some other sap-sucking insect. Phyllody, which has a variety of causes, is a disruption in plant hormones that leads to leaves growing in place of flower parts. As a result, the flowers become sterile and green in color. In the case of purple coneflower, leafy structures are produced atop shoots arising from the middle of ray and/or disc florets. In other species, shoots aren’t visible and instead the inflorescence is just a cluster of leaves. In a sense, the reproductive shoot has returned to indeterminate growth, having switched back to shoot and leaf production.

Phyllody can have either biotic or abiotic causes. Biotic meaning infection by plant pathogens – including certain viruses, bacteria, and fungi – or damage by insects. Abiotic factors like hot weather and lack of water can result in a temporary case of phyllody in some plants. Phyllody plus a number of other symptoms made it clear that the purple coneflower I encountered had a fairly common disease known as aster yellows. This condition is caused by a bacterial parasite called a phytoplasma, and is introduced to the plant via a sap-sucking insect. It then spreads throughout the plant, infecting all parts. The phyllody was a dead give away, but even the flowers that weren’t alien-looking were discolored. The typical vibrant purple of the ray flowers was instead a faded pink color. The flowers that had advanced phyllody – along with the rest of the plant – were turning yellow-green.

This inflorescence isn’t exhibiting phyllody yet, but the purple color in the ray flowers is quickly fading.

Hundreds of plant species are susceptible to aster yellows, and not just those in the aster family. Once a plant is infected with aster yellows, it has it for good and will never grow or reproduce properly. For this reason, it is best to remove infected plants from the garden to avoid spreading the infection to other plants. As cool as the flowers may look, infected plants just aren’t worth saving.

Further Reading: 

Awkward Botanical Sketches #4: Boise Goathead Fest Edition

Covid-19 be damned, Boise Goathead Fest is happening in 2020. However, since we’re in the middle of a pandemic and the number of infections in Idaho have been far greater than we’d like them to be, this beloved, summertime event (now in its third year) is going to look quite a bit different this time around. No giant bicycle parade snaking through downtown Boise, no big gathering in the park to celebrate bicycles and recogonize all who helped pull goatheads across the Treasure Valley, and (I have to assume) no bike sumo. But we’re still going to decorate our bikes and ourselves like a noxious weed and go for a bike ride, and even though we won’t all be able to gather together in one spot, the sentiment will undoubtedly be the same.

I’m a big fan of the Goathead Fest, and not simply because I love bicycles and bike-culture. In fact, it’s mostly because a plant – while despised by all who ride bikes in this area – takes centerstage in the celebration. Not too many plants get this kind of attention. And sure, it may only find itself in the spotlight because of its bad behavior, but at least it has people paying more mind to green things.

In anticipation of this year’s Goathead Fest, I decided to make a few attempts at drawing Tribulus terrestris. Goathead art has played a big part in the festivities since year one, and this year is no exception. In a normal year, all of the artwork would be displayed together in Cecil D. Andrus Park. This year, pieces of art will be displayed around town for us all to happen upon as we embark on our socially distanced bike rides. However, you won’t see any of my artwork out there (for good reason). Maybe someday (one can dream, I guess). Until then, I’ll include a few of my awkward attempts below.

the flower of Tribulus terrestris

an attempt to color the flower of Tribulus terrestris

goathead nutlets #1

goathead nutlets #2

Tribulus terrestris leaf rubbing

Goathead Monster #1

Goathead Monster #2

More Awkward Botanical Sketches: 

The Hidden Flowers of Viola

Violas keep a secret hidden below their foliage. Sometimes they even bury it shallowly in the soil near their roots. I suppose it’s not a secret really, just something out of sight. There isn’t a reason to show it off, after all. Showy flowers are showy for the sole purpose of attracting pollinators. If pollinators are unnecessary, there is no reason for showy flowers, or to even show your flowers at all. That’s the story behind the cleistogamous flowers of violas. They are a secret only because unless you know to look for them, you would have no idea they were there at all.

Cleistogamy means closed marriage, and it describes a self-pollinating flower whose petals remain sealed shut. The opposite of cleistogamy is chasmogamy (open marriage). Most of the flowers we are familiar with are chasmogamous. They open and expose their sex parts in order to allow for cross-pollination (self-pollination can also occur in such flowers). Violas have chasmogamous flowers too. They are the familiar five-petaled flowers raised up on slender stalks above the green foliage. Cross-pollination occurs in these flowers, and seed-bearing fruits are the result. Perhaps as a way to ensure reproduction, violas also produce cleistogamous flowers, buried below their leaves.

an illustration of the cleistogamous flower of Viola sylvatica opened to reveal its sex parts — via wikimedia commons

Flowers are expensive things to make, especially when the goal is to attract pollinators. Colorful petals, nectar, nutritious pollen, and other features that help advertise to potential pollinators all require significant resources. All this effort is worth it when it results in the ample production of viable seeds, but what if it doesn’t? Having a method for self-pollination ensures that reproduction will proceed in the absence of pollinators or in the event that floral visitors don’t get the job done. A downside, of course, is that a seed produced via self-pollination is essentially a clone of the parent plant. There will be no mixing of genes with other individuals. This isn’t necessarily bad, at least in the short term, but it has its downsides. A good strategy is a mixture of both cross- and self-pollination – a strategy that violas employ.

The cleistogamous flowers of violas generally appear in the summer or fall, after the chasmogamous flowers have done their thing. The fruits they form split open when mature and deposit their seeds directly below the parent plant. Some are also carried away by ants and dispersed to new locations. Seeds produced in these hidden flowers are generally superior and more abundant compared to those produced by their showy counterparts. People who find violas to be a troublesome lawn weed – expanding far and wide to the exclusion of turfgrass – have these hidden flowers to blame.

That being said, there is a defense for violas. In the book The Living Landscape by Rick Darke and Doug Tallamy, Tallamy writes: “Plants such as the common blue violet (Viola sororia), long dismissed by gardeners as a weed, can be reconstituted as desirable components of the herbaceous layer when their ecosystem functionality is re-evaluated. Violets are the sole larval food source for fritillary butterflies. Eliminating violets eliminates fritillaries, but finding ways to incorporate violets in garden design supports fritillaries.”

sweet violet (Viola odorata)

In my search for the cleistogamous flowers of viola, I dug up a sweet violet (Viola odorata). I was too late to catch it in bloom, but the product of its flowers – round, purple, fuzzy fruits – were revealed as I uprooted the plant. Some of the fruits were already opening, exposing shiny, light brown seeds with prominent, white elaiosomes, there to tempt ants into aiding in their dispersal. I may have missed getting to see what John Eastman calls “violet’s most important flowers,” but the product of these flowers was certainly worth the effort.

Fruits formed from the cleistogamous flowers of sweet violet (Viola odorata)

Up close and personal with the fruit of a cleistogamous flower

The seeds (elaiosomes included) produced by the cleistogamous flower of sweet violet (Viola odorata)

See Also:

Tea Time: Violet Leaf Tea

The genus Viola is large and widespread. Its flowers are easily recognizable and obviously popular. A significant number of Viola species, hybrids, and cultivars are commercially available and commonly planted in flower beds and container gardens. Certain species have even become weeds – vicious lawn invaders in some people’s opinion. Violets (or pansies in some cases) are also edible. Their leaves and/or flowers can be used in salads, drinks, and desserts. One way to use the leaves is to make tea, so that’s what I did.

I imagine you can make tea from any Viola species, but after some searching I found that two species frequently mentioned are Viola odorata and Viola sororia – two very similar looking plants, one from the Old World and the other from the New World.

sweet violet (Viola odorata)

Viola odorata – commonly known as sweet violet, wood violet, or English violet – is distributed across Europe and into Asia and has been widely introduced outside of its natural range. It has round, oval, or heart-shaped leaves with toothed margins that grow from the base of the plant, giving it a groundcover-type habit. Its flowers range from dark purple to white and are borne atop a single stem that curves downward at the top like a shepherd’s crook. It has no leafy, upright stems, and it spreads horizontally via stolons and rhizomes. The flowers are distinctly fragrant and have a long history of being used in perfumes.

One way to get a good whiff of these flowers is to try a trick described in the book The Reason for Flowers by Stephen Buchmann:

Go into a garden or any natural area and select one or more flowers you want to investigate…. Select a small, thoroughly washed and dried glass jar with a tight-fitting lid. Place just one type of flower in the jar. Set your jar in a warm, sunny place such as a windowsill and come back in an hour or two. Carefully open the lid and sniff…. If you’ve selected a blossom with even the faintest scent, you should be able to smell it now, since the fragrance molecules have concentrated inside the jar.

sweet violet flowers inside glass jar

Viola sororia – native to eastern North America –  is also commonly planted outside of its native range. It’s clearly a favorite, having earned the distinction of state flower in four U.S. states. Known as the common blue violet (or myriad other commons names), it looks and acts a lot like sweet violet. I distinguish them by their flowers, which are wider and rounder (chunkier, perhaps) than sweet violet flowers, and their leaves, which are generally more heart-shaped. Feel free to correct me. If, like me, you’re having trouble identifying violets, keep in mind that Viola species are highly variable and notorious hybridizers, so don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s their fault, not yours.

common blue violet (Viola sororia)

Violets bloom when the air is cool and the days are short. They are among the earliest plants to flower after the new year and among the latest plants flowering as the year comes to a close. In his entry on violets in The Book of Forest and Thicket, John Eastman refers to these early bloomers as “this low, blue flame in the woods.” They are like “a pilot light that ignites the entire burst of resurrection we call spring.” I can’t really picture spring without them. I find their unique flowers so intriguing that I fixate on them whenever I see them. And once I learned that I could make a tea out of their leaves, I had to try it.

I used the leaves of Viola odorata (or what I, with my amateur skills, identified as V. odorata). I picked several of what looked to be young leaves and left them to dry in the sun for several days. Later, I chopped them up and brewed a tea according to the instructions found on this website, which suggests using one tablespoon of dried leaves in sixteen ounces of water. Apparently, a little goes a long way, and I probably could have used fewer leaves than I did.

dried, chopped up leaves of sweet violet (Viola odorata) for making tea

The tea has a nice green color and smells a bit like grass to me. It may even taste like grass. I found it fairly bitter. Sierra didn’t like it and called it musty. I enjoyed it, but would likely enjoy it more if I hadn’t made it quite so strong. The aforementioned website also recommends combining violet leaf with other things like mint, dandelion, clover, and/or chamomile. I imagine a combination of ingredients could be better than just violet leaf on its own. Another site warns that “some of the wild violets have an unpleasant soapy flavor,” so that’s something to keep in mind when selecting your leaves for tea and other things. Either way, violet leaf tea is an experience worth having.

See Also: Pine Needle Teas

Botany in Popular Culture: Close It Quietly by Frankie Cosmos

Frankie Cosmos – the stage name for Greta Kline and also the name of her band – is not a new thing but was new to me in 2019. Their music is classified broadly as indie rock or indie pop, and could easily be placed in a number of subgenres. I, however, consider it punk. The songs are short, emotionally raw, unconventionally structured, simply arranged, and independently produced. That’s punk enough for me. Their most recent album, Close It Quietly, is easily my top pick for best album of 2019. The reason I’m saying this here on a blog about plants is because plants are featured in some of the lyrics. But it’s more than that really.

Quite often plants find their way into the lyrics of songs. They are, after all, great subject matter for all kinds of art. The special thing to me about the lyrics of Close It Quietly isn’t so much that plants get mentioned, but the sentiments that surround the references and the lessons learned from them. It may just be personal bias, but to me the plant references are more than just cursory. They come from a place of connection and personal relationship. Plants have things to teach us, and when we are open to it – which is often during challenging times in our lives – we can hear their lessons.

Trees receive the bulk of the plant references on this album. Like the song “Trunk of a Tree,” for example, in which Greta sings, “You’re the trunk of a tree / silent, filled with clarity.” That’s no surprise though. As David George Haskell writes in his book, The Songs of Trees, “To listen to trees, nature’s great connectors, is therefore to learn how to inhabit the relationships that give life its source, substance, and beauty.” There is great wisdom in trees. Confiding in or consulting with them can help bring clarity to a moment or feeling. This doesn’t have to mean anything weird – just being among trees and observing them in a reflective way will do the trick.

What follows is a list of some of the songs on Close It Quietly along with their plant references and some thoughts about them.

“41st”

This song is pretty fitting for the start of a new year, with the first line asking, “Does anyone wanna hear the 40 songs I wrote this year?” Looking back, maybe it was a crummy year. Perhaps you weren’t treated well, or maybe someone in your life didn’t turn out to be who you thought they were. There may be some comfort in knowing that you’re not the only one going through such things. Glancing up at the trees, Greta sings, “I look at the branches and hold a mirror up / They’re looking at me and say, ‘You don’t have a comb, do ya?'” The tangled branches of trees speak of past difficulties. As it turns out, we all have challenges that we’re trying to move past.

“A Joke”

We often find ourselves under pressures to be or act a certain way – to conform to some standard that was decided by someone else. Timelines created by other people direct our lives and tell us how or where we should be at a certain age or point in life. But, as Greta notes, “Flowers don’t grow in an organized way. Why should I?” It’s okay to be yourself, and there is no rush to become someone or something else.

“Rings (on a Tree)”

Sometimes we have to walk away from relationships, particularly when those relationships are not good for us. It’s never easy, but perhaps you’ll come to the realization that “it was wrong, so wrong / to try to hold on to a fallen tree / one that wouldn’t even look at me” or one that wasn’t “holding arms out lovingly.” It doesn’t mean that person wasn’t or still isn’t meaningful to you in some way. It’s just that it’s time to move on.

“This Swirling”

In our worst moments we are “like a dandelion,” and “just a little bit of breath blows [us] apart.” Our lives feel as chaotic as the swirling of a dandelion fluff tumbling through the air. However, a closer look reveals that a dandelion seed in flight is actually more stable than we originally thought. Perhaps we can take some comfort in that.

More Botany in Popular Culture

From Cut Flower to Noxious Weed – The Story of Baby’s Breath

One of the most ubiquitous plants in cut flower arrangements hails from the steppes of Turkey and neighboring countries in Europe and Asia. It’s a perennial plant with a deep taproot and a globe-shaped, multi-branched inflorescence loaded with tiny white flowers. In full bloom it looks like a small cloud hovering above the ground. It’s airy appearance earns it the common name baby’s breath, and the attractive and durable nature of its flowers and flower stalks, both fresh and dried, have made it a staple in the floral industry. Sadly, additional traits have led to it becoming a troublesome weed outside of its native range.

baby’s breath (Gypsophila paniculata) via wikimedia commons

Gypsophila paniculata is in the family Caryophyllaceae – sharing this distinction with other cut flowers like carnations and pinks, as well as other weeds like chickweed and soapwort. At maturity and in full bloom, baby’s breath might reach three to four feet tall; however, its thick taproot extends deep into the ground as much as four times its height. Its leaves are unremarkable and sparse, found mostly towards the base of the plant and sometimes with a blue or purplish hue. The flowers are numerous and small, have a sweet scent to them (though not appreciated by everyone), and are pure white (sometimes light purple or pink).

Each flower produces just a few seeds that are black, kidney-shaped, and minuscule. Many of them drop from their fruits and land near their parent plant, but some are retained within their little capsules as the flower stalk dries and becomes brittle. Eventually a stiff breeze knocks the entire inflorescence loose and sends it tumbling across the ground. Its rounded shape makes it an effective tumbleweed, as the remaining seeds are shaken free and scattered far and wide.

baby’s breath flowers close up (via wikimedia commons)

Being a tumbleweed gives it an advantage when it comes to dispersing itself and establishing in new locations, but this is not the only trait that makes baby’s breath a successful weed. Its substantial taproot, tolerance to drought and a variety of soil conditions, and proclivity to grow along roadsides, in ditches, and abandoned fields also make it a formidable opponent. Mowing the plant down does little to stop it, as it grows right back from the crown. Best bets for control are repeated chemical treatments or digging out the top portion of the taproots. Luckily its seeds are fairly short-lived in the soil, so vigilant removal of seedlings and not allowing the plant to reproduce can help keep it in check. Baby’s breath doesn’t persist in regularly disturbed soil, so it’s generally not a problem in locations that are often cultivated like agricultural fields and gardens.

The first introductions of baby’s breath to North America occurred in the 1800’s. It was planted as an ornamental, but it wasn’t long before reports of its weedy nature were being made. One source lists Manitoba in 1887 as the location and year of the first report. It is now found growing wild across North America and is featured in the noxious weed lists in a few states, including Washington and California. It has been a particular problem on sand dunes in northwest Michigan, where it has been so successful in establishing itself that surveys have reported that 80% of all vegetation in certain areas is composed of baby’s breath.

baby’s breath in the wild (via wikimedia commons)

Invading sand dune habitats is particularly problematic because extensive stands of such a deep-rooted plant can over-stabilize the soil in an ecosystem adapted to regular wind disturbance. Plants native to the sand dunes can be negatively affected by the lack of soil movement. One species of particular concern is Pitcher’s thistle (Cirsium pitcheri), a federally threatened plant native to sand dunes along the upper Great Lakes. Much of the research on the invasive nature of baby’s breath and its removal comes from research being done in this region.

Among numerous concerns that invasive plants raise are the affects they can have on pollinator activity. Will introduced plants draw pollinators away from native plants or in some other way limit their reproductive success? Or might they help increase the number of pollinators in the area, which in turn could benefit native plants (something known as the magnet species effect)? The flowers of baby’s breath rarely self-pollinate; they require insect visitors to help move their pollen and are highly attractive to pollinating insects. A study published in the International Journal of Plant Sciences found that sand dune sites invaded by baby’s breath attracted significantly more pollinators compared to uninvaded sites, yet this did not result in more pollinator visits to Pitcher’s thistle. According to the researchers, “a reduction in pollinator visitation does not directly translate to a reduction in reproductive success,” but the findings are still a concern when it comes to the future of this threatened thistle.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that a plant commonly found in flower arrangements is also an invasive species, as so many of the plants we’ve grown for our own pleasure or use have gone on to cause problems in areas where they’ve been introduced. However, could the demand for this flower actually be a new business opportunity? Noxious weed flower bouquets anyone?

Related Posts:

Eating Weeds: Chicory

Over the course of human history, plant species once esteemed or considered useful have been recategorized into something less desirable. For one reason or another, plants fall out of favor or wear out their welcome, and, in come cases, are found to be downright obnoxious, ultimately losing their place in our yards and gardens. The particularly troublesome ones are branded as weeds, and put on our “do not plant” lists. These plants are not only unfavored, they’re despised. But being distinguished as a weed doesn’t necessary negate a plant’s usefulness. It’s likely that the plant still has some redeeming characteristics. We’ve just chosen instead to pay more attention its less redeeming ones.

Chicory is a good example of a plant like this. At one point in time, Cichorium intybus had a more prominent place in our gardens, right alongside dandelions in fact. European colonizers first introduced chicory to North America in the late 1700’s. Its leaves were harvested for use as a salad green and its roots were used to make a coffee additive or substitute. Before that, cultivation of chicory for these and other purposes had been going on across Europe for thousands of years, and it still goes on today to a certain extent. Along with other chicory varieties, a red-leafed form known as radicchio and a close cousin known as endive (Chicorium endivia) are grown as specialty crops, occassionally finding their way into our fanciest of salads.

Radicchio di Chioggia (Cichorium intybus var. foliosum) is a cultivated variety of chicory. (via wikimedia commons)

Chicory’s tough, adaptable nature and proclivity to escape cultivation have helped it become widespread, making itself at home in natural areas as well as urban and rural settings. Its perennial life history helps make it a fixture in the landscape. It sends down a long, sturdy taproot and settles in for the long haul. It tolerates dry, compacted soils with poor fertility and doesn’t shy away from roadside soils frequently scoured with salts. It’s as though it was designed to be a city weed.

Unlike many other perennial weeds, chicory doesn’t spread vegetatively. It starts its life as a seed, blown in from a nearby plant. After sprouting, it forms a dandelion-esque rosette of leaves during its first year. Wiry, branched stems rise up from the rosette in following years, reaching heights of anywhere from about a foot to 5 or 6 feet. When broken, leaves, stems, and roots ooze a milky sap. Abundant flowers form along the gangly stems. Like other plants in the aster family, each flower head is composed of multiple flowers. Chicory flower heads are all ray flowers, lacking the disc flowers found in the center of other plants in this family. The petals are a brilliant blue – sometimes pink or white. Individual flowers last less than a day and are largely pollinated by bees. The fruits lack the large pappus found on dandelions and other close relatives, but the seeds are still dispersed readily with the help of wind, animals, and human activity.

chicory (Cichorium intybus) via wikimedia commons

The most commonly consumed portions of chicory are its leaves and roots. Its flowers and flower buds are also edible. Young leaves and blanched leaves are favored because they are the least bitter. Excluding the leaves from light by burying or covering them up keeps them pale and reduces their bitter flavor. This is standard practice in the commercial production of certain chicory varieties. The taproots of chicory are dried, roasted, and ground for use as a coffee substitute. They are also harvested commercially for use as a natural sweetener due to their high concentration of inulin.

my puny chicory root

I harvested a single puny chicory root in order to make tea. On my bike ride to work there is a small, sad patch of chicory growing in the shade of large trees along the bike path. I was only able to pull one plant up by the roots. The others snapped off at the base. So, I took my tiny root, dried and roasted it in the oven, and ground it up in a coffee grinder. I followed instructions for roasting found on this website, but there are many other sources out there. I had just enough to make one small cup of tea, which reminded me of dandelion root teas I have had. Sierra found it to be very bitter, and I agreed but still enjoyed it. I figure that wild plants, especially those growing in stressful conditions like mine was, are likely to be more bitter and strong tasting compared to coddled, cultivated ones found in a garden.

roasted chicory root

roasted and ground chicory root

When I find a larger patch of feral chicory, I hope to try one of several recipes included in Luigi Ballerini’s book, A Feast of Weeds, as well as other recipes out there. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.

Are you curious to know how chicory became such a successful weed in North America? Check out this report in Ecology and Evolution to learn about the genetic explanation behind chicory’s success.

Idaho’s Native Milkweeds (Updated)

As David Epstein said in an interview on Longform Podcast, “Any time you write about science, somethings is going to be wrong; the problem is you don’t know what it is yet, so you better be ready to update your beliefs as you learn more.” Thanks to the newly published Guide to the Native Milkweeds of Idaho by Cecilia Lynn Kinter, lead botanist for Idaho Department of Fish and Game, I’ve been made aware of some things I got wrong in the first version of this post. I appreciate being corrected though, because I want to get things right. What follows is an updated version of the original post. The most substantial change is that there are actually five milkweed species native to Idaho rather than six. Be sure to check out Kinter’s free guide to learn more about this remarkable group of plants.

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Concern for monarch butterflies has resulted in increased interest in milkweeds. Understandably so, as they are the host plants and food source for the larval stage of these migrating butterflies. But milkweeds are an impressive group of plants in their own right, and their ecological role extends far beyond a single charismatic insect. Work to save the monarch butterfly, which requires halting milkweed losses and restoring milkweed populations, will in turn provide habitat for countless other organisms. A patch of milkweed teems with life, and our pursuits to protect a single caterpillar invite us to explore that.

Asclepias – also known as the milkweeds – is a genus consisting of around 140 species, 72 of which are native to the United States and Canada. Alaska and Hawaii are the only states in the U.S. that don’t have a native species of milkweed. The ranges of some species native to the United States extend down into Mexico where there are numerous other milkweed species. Central America and South America are also home to many distinct milkweed species. Asclepias species found in southern Africa are considered by many to actually belong in the genus Gomphocarpus.

The habitats milkweeds occupy are about as diverse as the genus itself – from wetlands to prairies, from deserts to forests, and practically anywhere in between. Some species occupy disturbed and/or neglected sites like roadsides, agricultural fields, and vacant lots. For this reason they are frequently viewed as a weed; however, such populations are easily managed, and with such an important ecological role to play, they don’t deserve to be vilified in this way.

Milkweed species are not distributed across the United States evenly. Texas and Arizona are home to the highest diversity with 37 and 29 species respectively. Idaho, my home state, is on the low end with five native species. The most abundant species found in Idaho is Asclepias speciosa, commonly known as showy milkweed.

showy milkweed (Asclepias speciosa)

Showy milkweed is distributed from central U.S. westward and can be found in all western states. It occurs throughout Idaho and is easily the best place to look for monarch caterpillars. In fact, the monarch butterfly is Idaho’s state insect, thanks in part to the abundance of showy milkweed, which is frequently found growing in large colonies due to its ability to reproduce vegetatively via adventitious shoots produced on lateral roots or underground stems. Only a handful of milkweed species reproduce this way. Showy milkweed reaches up to five feet tall and has large ovate, gray-green leaves. Like all milkweed species except one (Asclepias tuberosa), its stems and leaves contain milky, latex sap. In early summer, the stems are topped with large umbrella-shaped inflorescences composed of pale pink to pink-purple flowers.

The flowers of milkweed deserve a close examination. Right away you will notice unique features not seen on most other flowers. The petals of milkweed flowers bend backwards, which would otherwise allow easy access to the flower’s sex parts if it wasn’t for a series of hoods and horns protecting them. Collectively, these hoods and horns are called the corona, which houses glands that produce abundant nectar and has a series of slits where the anthers are exposed. The pollen grains of milkweed are contained in waxy sacs called pollinia. Two pollinia are connected together by a corpusculum giving this structure a wishbone appearance. An insect visiting the flower for nectar slips its leg into the slit, and the pollen sacs become attached with the help of the corpusculum. When the insect leaves, the pollen sacs follow. Pollination is successful when the pollen sacs are inadvertently deposited on the stigmas of another flower.

Milkweed flowers are not self-fertile, so they require assistance by insects to sexually reproduce. They are not picky about who does it either, and their profuse nectar draws in all kinds of insects including bees, butterflies, moths, beetles, wasps, and ants. Certain insects – like bumble bees and other large bees – are more efficient pollinators than others. Once pollinated, seeds are formed inside a pod-like fruit called a follicle. The follicles of showy milkweed can be around 5 inches long and house dozens to hundreds of seeds. When the follicle matures, it splits open to release the seeds, which are small, brown, papery disks with a tuft of soft, white, silky hair attached. The seeds of showy milkweed go airborne in late summer.

follicles forming on showy milkweed (Asclepias speciosa)

Whorled or narrowleaf milkweed (Asclepias fascicularis) occurs across western and southern Idaho. Its distribution continues into neighboring states. It is adapted to dry locations, but can be found in a variety of habitats. Like showy milkweed, it spreads rhizomatously as well as by seed. It’s a whispy plant that reaches one to three feet tall and occasionally taller. It has long, narrow leaves and produces tight clusters of greenish-white to pink-purple flowers. Its seed pods are long and slender and its seeds are about 1/4 inch long.

flowers of narrowleaf milkweed (Asclepias fascicularis)

seeds escaping from the follicle of narrowleaf milkweed (Asclepias fascicularis)

Swamp or rose milkweed (Asclepias incarnata) is more common east of Idaho, but occurs occasionally in southwestern Idaho. As its common name suggests, it prefers moist soils and is found in wetlands, wet meadows, and along streambanks. It can spread rhizomatously, but generally doesn’t spread very far. It reaches up to four feet tall, has deep green, lance-shaped leaves, and produces attractive, fragrant, pink to mauve, dome-shaped flower heads at the tops of its stems. Its seed pods are narrow and around 3 inches long.

swamp milkweed (Asclepias incarnata)

Asclepias cryptoceras ssp. davisii, or Davis’s milkweed, is a low-growing, drought-adapted, diminutive species that occurs in southwestern Idaho. It has round or oval-shaped leaves and produces flowers on a short stalk. The flowers have white or cream-colored petals and pink-purple hoods. The range of Asclepias cryptoceras – commonly known as pallid milkweed or jewel milkweed – extends beyond Idaho’s borders into Oregon and Nevada, creeping north into Washington and south into California. Another subspecies – cryptoceras – can be found in Nevada, Utah, and their bordering states.

Davis’s milkweed (Asclepias cryptoceras ssp. davisii)

The final species is rare in Idaho, as Idaho sits at the top of its native range. Asclepias asperula ssp. asperula, or spider milkweed, has a single documented location in Franklin County (southeastern Idaho). Keep your eyes peeled though, because this plant may occur elsewhere, either in Franklin County or neighboring counties. It grows up to two feet tall with an upright or sprawling habit and produces clusters of white to green-yellow flowers with maroon highlights. Its common name comes from the crab spiders frequently found hunting in its flower heads.

A sixth species, horsetail milkweed (Asclepias subverticillata), has been falsely reported in Idaho. Collections previously labeled as A. subverticillata have been determined to actually be the similar looking A. fascicularis.