I used to think people whose yards were full of daffodils and tulips in early spring were people who’d gotten it together to plant seeds earlier than I had. I didn’t know that “bulbs” were a thing you planted in the fall—for daffodils, hyacinths, alium, and ranunculus, at least. I was just...behind…on planting the flowers in the garden I wanted to have, which is the kind of critical self-talk I’m really good at.
Last fall we went to our local garden store, Victoria Gardens, and the kids each picked out 10 bulbs. We planted the bulbs in our weedy front garden around the base of the rhododendron bushes.
All winter, at least once a week, Julian would ask me if they had sprouted yet. We would read Planting a Rainbow by Lois Ehlert over and over again, which, despite being a succinct picture book, does get into the difference between flowers born from seeds, bulbs, and rhizomes. (Ehlert passed away this week at the age of 85; her illustrations of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, Eating the Alphabet, along with her many other titles are truly part of the kid lit canon).
While reading, Julian would ask about the bulbs again, and I’d say, “they’ll come up when it’s spring.” When the buds finally peeked through in late March, and I reminded Julian these were the bulbs we’d planted in the fall, he shrugged and said plainly, “I know, mom. It’s a sign of spring.”
By now our tulips have passed full bloom and like many city transplants to the country, I’ve gone into a deep meditative, meaning-projecting state about the the sequence by which things bloom in the spring. The yellows come first— daffodils and forsythia. Forsythia everywhere. They erupt in a blaze, unmissable by even a sleepy child, who practices his pronunciation: forsyppia, forsittia, forsythia.
Next come the magnolias, with their heavy, luxurious petals. The tulips pop from the ground with confident, upright stalks that stretch towards the sky. The cherry blossoms emerge next in white and pale pink; the eastern redbuds are a deep magenta, tumor-like on the trunk.
Ferns follow, slowly unfurling, then opening up to the breeze. Next are the purples — the gangly lilac and the wisteria vine, overwhelming in their fragrance. Finally, the abundant rhododendron take over.
Now we are here, at the cusp of summer, ready to be overwhelmed by sunscreen, heat, sweat, salt, and another season of transition: the end of the school year, back to the city (for us), post-vaccine abundance and overstimulation, new professional chapters. With that comes also the hope of continuing to notice the slower rhythm the world offering what it does, change underfoot, often not visible until it blooms a season or two later.
Some recs for the kids:
Gear: This rainbow melamine dishware collaboration between Pillowfort and Target is outrageously affordable, cute, and feels very high quality if you need to re-up.
Watch: Bluey (on Disney+) is a genius show of vignettes about a cartoon dog family that lives in Brisbane and Vulture captures said genius perfectly in “How Bluey Became the Best Kids’ Show of Our Time”
Read: A few books my kids are obsessed with right now: the graphic novel of Roald Dahl’s The Witches, The Mushroom Fan Club by Elise Gravel, and all of Aram Kim’s books about Yumi the cat, Sunday Funday in Koreatown, Let’s Go to Taekwondo, and No Kimchi for Me.
Swim/wear: Liewood’s got some cute and less-gendered swim and rash guard options for pool and beach season.
Some recs for the grown-ups:
Eat: NYT Cooking’s Farro With Blistered Tomatoes, Pesto and Spinach is the farro revivalist recipe you’ve needed. Everything ends up in one pot, is the right mix of starch and veg, and can be sold to children as “like pizza, mixed in rice.”
Read: Crying in H-Mart by Michelle Zauner is everything everyone has said so far: relatable, funny, heart-wrenching, moving, and, maybe because I’m also Korean and many of the foods cut deep into my youth (and my guilt about not being able to nurture my kids with the same foods), I’ve been inspired by Zauner to go deep on Maangchi, so I can start making the cold soups and paanchan I grew up with.
Wear: The Jungmaven Lorel Tee is the best-fitting, most satisfying t-shirt I’ve acquired in a long time.
Listen: Chanel and Tiffany Miller are back with a new episode of their podcast Childhood, which centers around their sisterly probing, joking, and reminiscing about reflections on growing up. It’s moving, empathetic, silly, unstructured, and thus, like a warm hug.
P.S. If you liked this this newsletter, share it, send it to a friend, and let me know!
Seasons change: what does it mean
What a beautiful post. I look forward to your newsletter each time!