cherchez la femme

There are no photographs of the shame & horticultural neglect, but a three-foot-wide, 10-foot-tall section of my Mme Alfred Carrière just fell right from its corset to flop horizontally into the garden.  For months I really could not make time to give a fuck about it (also, thorny!  ow!) and all along the way, it was as if she had been trained horizontally, so she is covered in blooms this year, but only along that section.  Something about the word axial.

I love the flower, have written about it before, the three stages of old Mme Carrière -- the tight pink bud, all flushed at the bursting seam; the ruffly crinoline, chocolate-box-tidy layers of the bloom; the flower at its end, every petal open in every direction, not a trace of pink in sight, just an excellent, slutty, I-don't-give-a-damn mess.  Alfred Carrière must have had excellent taste in a certain kind of foxy firebrand, of that I am sure.

I never cut the flower to bring it inside, however, because the cut flower is so top-heavy on its teensy petite stems and my frogs are none the right size.  I am too distracted to find out from where to get floral foam.  Also, without a bloom, the plant is just this big brambly green monster trying to scale our house.  But this year, I have extras.  So, I just cut a big pile of them and kept cutting away at each one until they could be propped in a café au lait bowl.  I am so glad for my success, too, because it all smells incredible.          

Comments

[Lisa B-K]

God. Just gorgeous. And I'm not a rose gal.

[lala]

They are my favorite and best flower. The plant they grow on ... eh.