Wave after wave of colors, larger than believable flower forms and all with tantalizing textures. Are you feeling the need, the want, the desire to buy what you remember from Grandma’s garden back in the Mid West?  The flowers depicted on Chinese Porcelain, stitched into an old tapestry, printed on modern textiles as well as painted by masters and starving artist alike? Well then, It really is a case of NOW or next year. Willamette Valley temperatures can change overnight from the mid 40’s to the mid 80’s at this time of year and then the Peony waits for no one. Not for you nor I, prince nor pauper, and never but never for bride or bridezilla.

You should be so lucky as to view these farms… vast acreages of nicely aged, enormously sized Peony “bushes”, rank after rank of stately rows undulating within and over a landscape left by the Willamette river ( that still inundates on rare and expensive occasion  ) A Peony plant left to its own devices throws up multiple stalks, each containing numerous buds. We walk (wade through) those ranks of buds in their multiple millions and remove all but the  terminal one while still tiny. This terminal bud grows fat and plump and and very vigorous as one can imagine… it is now feasting on nutrients once bound for a score of others.

On a good May day, with a sky of Oregon blue and the large puffy white clouds making a back drop to Cottonwoods trees, fluttering freshly minted leaves that stir on the merest hint of breeze… it is as if a million drum sticks held high, slowly take on color as the same breeze sways them rhythmically, hypnotically in near endless rank. A few ooze a sweet stickiness, a siren call to hastening ants, others sprout a solitary bright petal from a still tight green sheath ( as a hatchling bird frees itself from the egg ) and slowly but ever so surely they feel to our enquiring and knowledgeable squeeze, much like marshmallows… like Somoas. You have heard of Somoas, right? Well if the temps keep climbing (especially the night time temps) as they invariably do in May and early June, there are going to be days when we pick a heck of a lot more than just ‘Somoa’ of these Peonies.

SO we shall pick and you shall buy. That’s the deal for the next three weeks and should you plan your wedding or a “must have Peony” party outside of this brief window you can pen all the paean’s you want to the precious Peony and not produce a single, double or even a bomb. A Peony marches very much to the beat of its own drum. Now the Peonies you and I deal with in our transactions at Flowerbud are referred to as herbaceous as they die down to the ground every winter, unlike their tree form brethren and as far as history is concerned they are right in there with the longest used flowers in ornamental culture… some 2500 years and are symbols and emblems in both China and Mongolia. Japanese history notes them as more for medicinal purposes, particularly in the arena of convulsions. Talking of convulsions, I bet the lowly Zinnia had one when the state of Indiana booted it as the state flower in favor of the Peony a little more than fifty years ago. It is deliciously fitting that our fields today are located a short jaunt down a potholed road from Portland as a little research also reveals the Peony to be the common subject of Japanese tattoos and the decrepit masses over the age of thirty may not know (or care) that this pleasant city, once a bastion of forestry, fishing and farming is now the inked flesh capital of the USA. I must say that among the barbed wire bracelets, the Kilroy’s were here, the Maori war paint along with the odd anchor  and M Jagger’s lips, I have yet to see a Peony. I now have an incentive to look harder… and soon, before Gen’s X,Y and Z  fall foul of the sun, gravity and years. A ‘pruning’ process begetting wrinkles enough that their Peony tatts morph from tramp stamps to Rorschach ink blots… or worse.

A planted Peony’s preference is to remain that way and the only way to get premium flowers is from plants established a bare minimum of four years. These rows we wade through rain or shine during harvest season are waist high and better, and on a rainy day in the valley when even Ospreys cling tight to the nest, one slips and slides from cold bath to cold shower, stooping to slip a razor sharp knife low down and through a stem that gets quite woody… as the mud slicks your boots and the water pours down your collar and up your sleeves. We generally liberate a mature plant for 2/3 rds of its stems every year and it can go on like this for years providing the root is happy enough planted shallowly in its mucky soil, doesn’t get over fed, over watered or over seen once flower harvest is complete. Pampering a Peony proves pointless! A mature peony plant that is going to be used for propagation to further the species, enlarge your acreage or be sold into the garden trade can be so tenacious of its location it can take a back hoe to pry it free and then to carve the root mass into plantable pieces containing from three to five “eyes” can take a young man with an axe and loppers to get it down to the pruning shears and knife stage. Its a chore, and goes far in explaining the cost of a peony which at twice the price would still be cheap.

A beautiful gift, a treasure of nature and good husbandry, as a bunch of drumsticks turn into a bowl of beauty. For you for anyone and everyone, delivered almost anywhere in the USA tomorrow for $86 all in. Impossible in China 2500 years ago. Not possible in the USA 25 years ago! Possible today from Flowerbud.com

Bombs Away!

Hot off the Edinburgh Fringe Press is a tale of flower deliveries gone woefully awry, an all too common occurrence. As you well know, Flowerbud contracts with FedEx to carry our cargo in entirety, largely I might add, because the USPS is too busy bemoaning the decline of mail to see much further than the length of their shorts, and that there might just be a whole galaxy of packages to lift and carry from the burgeoning ecommerce businesses currently swelling the coffers of Brown and Purple. All the while the “Brown Shorts” over at UPS seems barely interested in competing against that “Purple Promise” from Memphis from a price point of view and of course the trouble making DHL ( denizens of the German Post Office no less ) have been summarily ejected as a factor from the US and thus can not be the lovely thorn of competitiveness in the side of anyone.

Anyway, back to the Brit Postie, less you think it is only us that has reason to complain. Flower companies that operate substantially like flowerbud.com in the UK have the option of using the Royal Mail to deliver their flowers to a recipient. Well it turns out that nobody consulted the postmen themselves, as apparently they do not like the loading and delivering of parcels. I guess they are taking the “letter carrier” thing to an extreme. As the Edinburgh Fringe Press so succinctly put it ” they cannae be arsed carrying parcels”. So what do they do? Well now, they quickly and sneakily slip a card through your letter box that says you where out  (Oh no you where not!) when they were in! Your recourse?  You can go on down and collect it from the post office. It turns out that one gal got wind of this and chased after the Postie, getting him to “fess up” that he did not even have the parcel in the van as he had chosen to leave it at the depot. In the case I am familiar with the recipient, knowing they were flowers ( as does the post office ) went to the depot only to be told they were not there ( maybe still on the van?) and best to come back tomorrow. Of course the flowers being perishables and Edinburgh being perishingly cold…. a thoughtful gift from nephews had done the expected… perished.

Post script  on 3/11/10

A peely wally  mouthful (some two months in the making) of PC waffle from one whose inaction when speaking of action, speaks volumes to ineptness and an I could care less attitude of one in a safe seat and with no “skin in the game”.

Thank you for contacting Royal Mail.

I’m very sorry to hear of the problem you’ve had regarding the ‘Sorry.you
were out’ card we recently left you.

Of the huge volumes of letters and packets we handle, very few encounter a
problem along their way - but we take every reported failure seriously.

I fully appreciate the inconvenience and delay caused as a result of us
leaving a ‘Sorry.you were out’ card for an item, even though you were at
home.

It’s important that our customers have confidence in us to always deliver
their mail to a secure and high standard, so I apologise again that we have
let you down.

I have passed these details to the manager of your local Delivery Office
who will do all that is required to ensure you receive the quality of
service you should expect in future.

I hope that the action above resolves your enquiry and concludes this
matter: if you need to get back in touch with us, please remember to quote
your unique reference number 1-1348330448.

Once again, please accept my sincere apologies on behalf of Royal Mail for
the problem you’ve had, and our thanks for taking the time to make us aware
of this. Please be assured that we take letting our customers down
seriously and will use this information to make further improvements.

Regards

Anthony Ryles
Customer Service Advisor

But I am getting blown off course here and I have a few hours in the middle of the day to learn something new and interesting and great good fortune has a recent acquaintance of mine, a young and indecently prosperous graphic designer taking me to a client for lunch and a ‘field trip’ all in one location deep in the endless megalopolis that is Sao Paulo. A brief visit to his office is confirmation that a certain C21 skill set, in this case a geek x artist hybrid, given sufficient monitors, tablets and with computing horsepower fast heading towards brainpower, can reach out in real time and touch clients be they in Brasil, Portugal, the US or Timbuktu. Finished work for printing presses flashes out across our known world in seconds and can be in production in hours if not minutes. It can be done almost within the same breath and spandau like staccato of  key strokes, appearing in catalogs, on packaging and adorning garments. Multiple monitors with multiple windows open, Skype and IM. Old fashioned email and of course the fanciest Nokia cell du jour ringing, vibrating and texting. Simultaneously juggling the demands of the demanding in order to meet the demand. Growing all the time. Quicker all the time. It brings to mind James Carville’s coining of “Its the economy, stupid” phrase that won the day for BC. In this day and age one guy can accomplish an awful lot of what it took an organization of many to do just a decade ago. It does though take a killer work ethic, an ability to work way beyond the clock and a hungry appreciation for the lucre and all it can bring when spent. A concept worth hanging onto in the US and just now a burgeoning one in places like Brasil.

We head down to CEPAM, a Bakery, a Chocolatier and a Paderia. I have previously talked about the Paderia’s of Brasil. Those noisy, crowded places where the hungry go to feed as if food were free and the hungry then feed as if food were free. You eat in a Paderia with great gusto, an outsized joy for the moment and an appreciation for the privilege of eating… larger by far than the miniscule paper napkins. Well, Cepam is a 600 seat establishment where dough rises, bread bakes, chickens roast, eggs crack and oranges get squeezed and all the while with patrons arriving and departing like from a war zone mess hall. If one word were to sum up the experience, it would be loud. Loud enough to almost loose focus on a sandwich which I hear (barely) is called ‘The American’. I view it as a Brazilian concoction, pure and simple… tasty at about 5000 calories per bite.

Rafael , scion of one of six owners greets us, teased by his father into showing me the operation as it will give his English language skills (which have taken heavy investment) a little exercise. That may be so but It also gives me a lesson in bakery wardrobe etiquette as we don white coats and hats, face masks and cinch our pant legs tight as if for a bike ride… instead we head off into the world of Panettone. You can imagine the scent as we enter this industrial sized bakery. Flour, eggs dough, yeast, dried fruit, and yes, somewhere out there … chocolate. Tanker loads of the stuff warmed to a viscosity required to make today’s Truffles.

First things first.  I am taken through the production cycle of a loaf of Panettone, that tall, cylindrical, fruit-filled sweet bread from Milan, now an essential part of the Christmas season around the world and obviously a big hit here in Brasil. Rafael, barely combating the perpetual ‘Curious George’ in me gives up the numbers for the throughput of the monstrous ovens in the bakery. All are about 25 meters long and jointly pop out  for the Christmas season, some 20 million Panettone over a few months. Each perfect loaf metered, mixed, kneaded and risen into taking its 43 minute journey on the endless chain belt through the searing heat to perfection. The smell of baking bread at this point is otherworldly and would turn US realtors into dervishes and might well sell every foreclosed home in Nevada, Florida and California combined. (to be cont.)

The mood in the queue is jovial and patient, not at all like being at the airport and we are not at the back of the line for very long at all, as its tail keeps growing. Hundreds of people are showing up and all are expected to fit into a pretty small space between pots and pans and the bed linens. There are too few chairs and a few tall tables to lean upon and cleverly, the wine provided takes the edge off any perceived discomfort. This is starting to look like the Feeding Of The Five Thousand. People talk of books Tyler has written and carry his books to be signed. I am pretty sure there are books to be bought as well. The man has an avid following by the look of things here and I have a difficult time trying to sound intelligent to those with whom I am propped against a table, not knowing a jot about TV chefs nor the finer points of cooking beyond that necessary to feed a household most often comprised of three guys.

Tyler Florence  http://www.tylerflorence.com/blog/ appears with something of a flourish, introduced by both Macy’s and The Oregon Food Bank and the assembled fans applaud heartily. The man is an entertainer and the audience is rapt as it is wined and dined with samples of what he is preparing up front. I recall a delicious artichoke dish, some tasty pork with some pretty fancy mashed spuds. The preparation of which was good fun to watch as he went about it all with some pretty rudimentary tools and a lot of positive energy, all the while bantering back and forth with his audience. I must say I am quite entertained and in no hurry to leave… especially as it means missing the desert.

When out and about I have heard people making mention of celebrity chefs, almost as if they are rock stars. I see their products on the grocery shelves and am aware of my youngest being a sometimes follower of their shows on TV when not more productively engaged in football practice or homework… but am still surprised to see the entertainment value, in person. More than ever there seems to be a fascination with food and its preparation plus a plethora of shiny and sharp utensils in stores whose lighting twinkles and shimmers off stainless steel, cool copper and featherweight crystal. In these Aladdin’s caves, guys like Tyler Florence are every bit the magicians. Now, while people are quite happy to spend an hour or so listening and learning of culinary delights I wonder how many would give that same time or even a little less to be entertained by flowers and all their is to know about them? Can a feast for the eyes be put to work as well as that for the pallet? I think we had best find out some day soon…

GPS’s prove far more useful than cup holders, cruise control and perhaps even the AC when on a search for a warehouse in Hawthorn and then a variety of farms that stretch from Vista to Arcata. The Hertz/Magellan “Never Lost” lives up to its name flawlessly and saves me untold hours, miles and stress induced atherosclerosis as I load the giant Chevy for the initial runs north to Santa Barbara and Santa Maria. The following series of runs will take me to the San Diego region before parking the vehicle and hopping an Alaskan flight back to Portland to see a Friday night football game that debuts my youngest as Center on a Varsity team that gets handed a narrow defeat by the ‘08 State Champs. Saturday morning sees me winging back to San Diego to resume my role of erstwhile teamster…. but only after stretching the legs on a quick ride from Carlsbad to Torrey Pines and back.  On this morning’s pass over the Station Fire, it is visibly more under control and the onshore breeze has cleansed the LA basin of smoke and a considerable amount of the everyday smog.

As the miles blur by under the ‘burb I am quite pleased to see it returning an average of 18.5 mpg… especially as I am paying 55 cents more per gallon than just about anywhere else in the US. Rather good seeing as we are loaded to the gunwales and keeping time with LA’s speedier traffic. Of interest is the Chevy motor’s seemless transition from 8 to 4 cylinders on those miles needing less than full grunt. For certain jobs and certain roads this is just the ticket and is not to be sneered at. It is also quiet and comfortable while handling 700 count vase loads. While GM/Chevy are  the whipping boys du jour I sincerely hope it is not because of vehicles like this, as they make admirable vehicles for many commercial applications. An emergency vase run in a Prius would remain exactly that, an emergency, even allowing for me as a sole occupant, being granted use of the HOV lane… complete with PC sticker on my rear bumper.

The trips north with the Santa Barbara Channel on my left are very familiar too me and never fail to delight. The glimpses of blue ocean, the promise of dolphins at Mussel Shoals, the white spanish colonial homes roofed in red tile and the oak dotted hills of now brown grasses are attractive by any standards. In this area a number of the highway medians actually have more flowers than litter and look lovely in the pinks and whites of oleanders. The ‘camo’ patterned Eucalyptus’s with sloughing bark, stand pale blue and grey, scruffily happy in groves. Rank after green rank of trim vines undulate over hill and dale as I get beyond Buellton’s claim of being the home of Split Pea Soup and close in on strawberry fields standing cheek by jowl with the flexing muscles of Santa Maria’s city limits.

Flower farms too long out of vases are happy to see them and as each drop concludes, the Flowerbud office in Lake Oswego once again lights up the vase option on those products. It can/has become awkward telling customers we are short a vase for their flower purchase. This will undoubtedly result in being one of those textbook cases where having them in plentiful supply will dry up demand again. For days now I am in and out of Hawthorn as precisely and unerringly as a homing pigeon, the ever obedient servant of the all knowing Ms. Magellan. I think there is something of the Stockholm syndrome creeping into this ” in-car relationship”. Finally the last load of acrylic has filled out every cubic inch including beneath the seats and including where a passenger might sit and we are ready for the jaunt to the mid and far northern reaches of the Golden State.

I clear the Los Angeles basin to the north and Labor Day traffic on the Grapevine is rather light so good time is made towards the flat and heated expanses, the cotton fields and the feed lots close to Bakersfield before snagging route 46 back towards the coast. Todays first drop will be over by where the artichokes grow, on the bluffs overlooking Monterey Bay. Route 46 is a first for me and I marvel at the arid lands of the San Joaquin Valley, the hundreds if not thousands of pump-jacks slowly “nodding” oil out of the Lost Hills oil field and the endless vistas of Pistachio orchards, the property of Paramount Farms. Without water from the aqueduct here it is land that would be better utilized for re makes of a Lawrence of Arabia movie or Clint’s spaghetti westerns. While even as far west as Paso Robles the vines looked parched and there is death among the rows. Seemingly I had scant idea that what we might consider our bread baskets here in the west, are in fact quite harsh and arid places.

Winding my way through artichoke patches, fields ready to replant with strawberries, acres of celery and billions of lettuce I get to unload, by prior arrangement my vases in a private driveway… this a holiday and the farm being closed. Such a beautiful view of the bay being afforded from this particular loading dock I could dally a while. There is regrettably no time, as really I am only half way into todays haulage escapade and will now face the homeward bound long weekenders as I thread my way towards the Golden Gate Bridge and the quietening, darkening loveliness of Marin, Sonoma and Mendocino counties before coming to roost even further north amid those giant Redwoods redolent with the “Humboldt Herb”.

Hojo’s in Arcata gets more and more grubby and when they hand you the $90+ bill your appetite for the half ripe bananas and orange juice that could only have come from powder… is none existent. This really is a rip off price and considering the towels are the size of a kleenex and as absorbent as a roof tile it really is past time to give up my allegiance to this place. The customary fog-bank looms just along the shore line and is darkly dramatic this morning. Its hours however are numbered, as today the sunshine is hell bent on winning through and indeed by 9 am is victorious. Vases offloaded and stored away, commiserations re the state of affairs in the flower world traded through a veil of half truths with people transparently playing the “simple farmer” role. Yes, definitely time to hit the open road again. The reason for more “open road” being that common sense air connections between Arcata and Portland appear to have been abandoned and one has to fly south to San Francisco or LA to then get a flight north. It has become more expedient and economical to drive the 400 miles back to Portland. Yes, even in a Chevrolet Suburban.

The route along the coastal headlands to Crescent City is gorgeous and the morning mist recedes to the merest vapors hanging in the Redwood trees while the ocean sparkles below. The Elk herds are absent, driftwood sculptures populate the beaches and road crews inhabit highway 101 as signs of TARP money being injected into the highway infrastructure finally becomes evident here and through a few sections of southern Oregon. The road curves inland and follows the opaline Smith River, Grants Pass comes and goes and the hometown Dutch Brothers serves up a cup of coffee with their customary good nature to sustain me for the drone up I5 that ticks off  some rather pretty scrub oak hills, featureless cities and grass seed fields as traffic builds and builds indicating that Portland is up ahead.

If Hertz at PDX is startled to see the road grime and the 1975 miles on their property they take care not to mention it, being only concerned with my satisfaction with the vehicle. I think back on all those fast, flawless and comfortable miles that showed me an incredible if rather linear snapshot of the State of CA. For 106 gallons of gas I got one heck of a road trip, farms got resupplied and I picked up ideas for future products. Chevy still builds one heck of a vase runner.