Yesterday, another breakfast picnic at the Gamble Garden in Palo Alto (report on last week’s event is here).Plants not previously posted on on this blog: one edible, rhubarb, and one ornamental, dahlia. Plus re-visits to pelargoniums (for their scent) and tropical hibiscus (for their showy flowers).
Archive for the ‘Language and plants’ Category
A breakfast picnic this morning at the Elizabeth F. Gamble Garden in Palo Alto. First sandwiches, tea, and fresh fruit, then some touring of the garden.
A bench in the herb garden at GG:
The label on a plant that a friend gave me yesterday. Note the head-first word order, standard in botanical naming, in this case with the (supposed) genus name Coleus before the variety name ‘Jade'; the species name, not given on the label, is scutellariodes (that is, the plant is named Coleus scutelliodes ‘Jade’), or possibly the plant is a hybrid of several species, in which case it makes sense to leave out a species name.
Coleus plants are old friends of mine — wonderfully colorful ornamentals (for garden or house) illustrated in photos in this posting on the compound annual labiate, of which the coleus is one.
Notice that I just lowercased coleus, treating it as a common name rather than a term of botanical taxonomy. In my earlier posting, I reported, in fact, that my Sunset New Western Garden Book gives Solenostemon as the genus name for coleuses. Most seed and plant companies agree with that usage. But the relevant Wikipedia entry gives the genus name Plectranthus instead. We are in deep terminological waters here.
A recent Language Log posting by Mark Liberman (“Vigilance – Cleanliness”) reproduced a cartoon of Captain Haddock, Hergé’s character in Tintin, exclaiming nonsensically:
That’s ‘thunder of/from Brest’ (the city in Brittany) and it’s not supposed to mean anything beyond exhibiting strong emotion in the Haddockian argot.
Noted locally in planters on the street: shrubby russian-olives, with handsome gray-green leaves:
The Russian-olive is to some degree Russian in origin, but it’s not an olive, so the composite Russian-olive is non-subsective — a resembloid composite, in fact.
In the May 30th Economist, in a “Technology Quarterly” section, an article on work on transparent solar cells, including proposals to use
a family of crystalline materials called perovskites, which could allow semi-transparent solar cells to be made relatively cheaply in large rolls.
Ah, the minerals called perovskites, which reminded me of the garden plant called perovskia, which I grew in my Ohio garden. Turns out there are two different (and apparent unrelated) Russian counts named Perovski here, who lived and flourished at almost the exactly same time.
Following up on my “Cilantro, same-sex marriage, and Yoda” posting, Sim Aberson wrote to ask about culantro (with a U, not an I), another scented herb, one that grows in the part of the world where Sim lives. Two things I don’t know about culantro: what the etymology of the name is, and whether people who are sensitive to cilantro have a similar reaction to culantro.
A bit of edible greenery, in a posting I’ll soon use for another purpose: coriander / cilantro,
In the NYT on the 27th, a piece “China’s High Hopes for Growing Those Rubber Tree Plants” by Becky Davis:
[in the face of a huge drop in the price of rubber,] environmental officials just outside Jinghong, [southwest Yunnan Province’s] major city, have been testing a plantation model that they hope will become the blueprint for a more sustainable and economically stable rubber industry.
On approximately 165 acres of land, workers have interspersed the rubber trees with cacao, coffee and macadamia trees, as well as high-value timber species. The mix, promoted as “environmentally friendly rubber,” is intended to decrease soil erosion, improve water quality and increase biodiversity, among other benefits.
So here we have rubber trees. But what about the houseplants commonly called rubber plants? Those, believe it or not, are a species of fig.
In the NYT yesterday, a feature story on agriculture’s contribution to the California drought. The teaser on the front page:
How We Drain California
Each week, the average American consumes more than 300 gallons of California water by eating food that was produced there. To fundamentally alter how much water the drought-ravaged state uses, everyone may have to give something up. A guide to thirsty foods, like the avocado.
Illustration: a slim sliver of avocado, with the caption:
The average American eats a sliver of California avocado each week. It takes 4.1 gallons of water to produce.
Alas, the avocado is California’s iconic food. Avocados would be a considerable sacrifice for Californians, and everybody, Californian or otherwise, would have to give up guacamole, even on Super Bowl Sunday.