Tag: gardening

Pumpkin Folklore & Magical Properties
Plants and Herbs

Pumpkin Folklore & Magical Properties

J.3 Comments

I mean, this one was pretty much inevitable.

(For a useful companion guide, you may also want to read this bit about nutmeg.)

I was never much of a fan of pumpkins growing up, but my experience with them was also limited to cleaning handfuls of cold, stringy, slimy pumpkin guts out of jack-o-lanterns and eating pasty-textured pumpkin pie from the grocery store. This year was my first experience processing fresh pumpkins, and it’s changed my entire outlook.

For as much work as it is to halve them, remove the prickly stems, clean them out, roast them, and puree them, it’s very well worth it. The flavor of a freshly roasted pumpkin is sweet, almost buttery, and nothing like the canned pumpkin pie filling of my youth. (Which is, let’s be honest, mostly made of other types of squash anyhow.)

As I’ve been gradually processing more of my ludicrous pile of pumpkins, I figured it’d be a good time to write a bit about their magical uses and relevant folklore.

The Folklore and Magical Uses of Pumpkins

While pumpkins are the predominant produce for jack-o-lanterns in the US, it wasn’t always this way. The original jack-o-lanterns were carved from turnips, and absolutely terrifying. While they’re a lot smaller than your average carving pumpkin, you can fit a ton of unsettling details into a turnip.

Jack-o-lanterns were originally used to keep confused or malevolent spirits at bay during the autumn months. They’re also connected to the Irish tale of Stingy Jack, a drunkard who managed to get himself barred from entering Heaven or Hell, and was thus condemned to roam the Earth with a candle in a turnip to light his way.

A big pumpkin, carved with a big, pale, toothy grin.

While the origins of the poem “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater” are unclear, it may have some fairly dark origins. One source claims that “Had a wife, and couldn’t keep her” refers to his wife’s infidelity. Putting her “in a pumpkin shell” was a euphemism for using a chastity belt. Another source claims that putting her in a pumpkin shell was intended more literally — Peter murders his wife, and conceals her body in a large pumpkin. The structure and subject matter of the poem hints that it may have come from an older rhyme from Scotland. While this rhyme doesn’t mention pumpkins (since pumpkins are native to the Americas), it does mention a Peter and an unkeepable wife. However, rather than putting her in a pumpkin shell, he lets her be eaten by rodents:

Peter, my neeper

Had a wife

And he couldn’t keep her

He pats her I the way

And lat a’ the mice eat her.

What the fuck, Peter.

Seeds, in general, are considered useful for beginning or attracting new things. Pumpkin seeds, being large, are easy to mark. This means that pumpkin seeds can be ideal components for any spell that involves making positive changes in your life. (As long as those don’t involve banishing things. You’ll probably want to use cloves or garlic for that instead.)

In religions that sprang from the African diaspora, pumpkins are associated with several major deities, particularly Oshun and Shango. Oshun is a goddess of rivers, love, and fertility, which echoes the connections between pumpkins, the element of Water, and the concepts of fertility and abundance as seen in other cultures and traditions.

To some groups indigenous to Mexico, pumpkins were considered a strengthening, fortifying food that increased endurance and protected against cold.

According to a Huron creation story, pumpkins arose when a divine woman died in childbirth. All of the plants necessary for life sprang up from her body: Beans grew from her legs, corn sprang from her body, and pumpkin vines grew from her head.

Pumpkins are associated with the Moon and the element of Water. They’re generally considered symbols of prosperity, protection, and fertility.

Using Pumpkins

Like muscadines, these are one of the easiest magical ingredients to use. They’re edible, so prepare them with intention and the proper techniques, then eat them. Bingo, bango.

To use the seeds, clean them well and dry them thoroughly. Using a fine, non-toxic, felt-tipped pen, write your desires on a pumpkin seed. (You’ll probably only be able to fit a single word, or a symbol. That’s fine!) Seeds represent the power of infinite possibility. You can plant the seed so your luck grows as the pumpkin vine does, set it outside so your wishes may be carried to the divine by birds or squirrels, or cast it into a body of water.

Pumpkins, candles, and a pair of hands holding a deer skull.

Pumpkins are traditionally a good offering to water spirits. Depending on the spirit, however, cutting or cooking the pumpkin first may be taboo.

If you decide to carve a jack-o-lantern, empower it to protect your home from evil. Set one or two as guardians at all of the doors leading into your home.

While there’s a ton of pumpkin scented and flavored things around this time of year, most of them don’t actually contain pumpkin. They’re more likely to be a combination of fragrance oils or artificial flavors. Likewise, pumpkin spice doesn’t contain pumpkin — it’s a blend of spices used in pumpkin dishes, like pies and cakes. This spice blend can be used for its own magical purposes, but it isn’t really the same as actual pumpkin.

I’ve still got a lot of pumpkins to go through, but, according to my Handsome Assistant, I’ve also devised a pumpkin bread recipe that knocks it out of the park. (I’ll post it, it just needs a Mabon feast test drive first!) I’ve got a ton of potlucks with like-minded individuals to attend over the next few months, so I’ll be bringing plenty of prosperity and protection magic with me.

The most important things I’ve learned about gardening.
life · Plants and Herbs

The most important things I’ve learned about gardening.

J.Leave a comment

I’ve posted a lot about my stumbling efforts at growing things, from murdering the front lawn on purpose, to accidentally planting way too many passionflower vines. It’s certainly been a learning experience, though not in any of the ways that I ever expected.

A pair of ripening pumpkins.

See, I thought I’d learn stuff about soil composition and companion planting. I kind of did the former, if by “learning about soil composition” you mean “discovering that this soil is almost entirely hard clay, good luck.” I have developed strong opinions about mulch, however.

If I had to sum up the two biggest lessons that I’ve learned in my first full year of being responsible for an entire yard, they’d go something like this:

1. If I plant native (or near-native) plants, everything pretty much takes care of itself.

As part of my current course of Druid studies, I’m required to plant and tend a tree (or, lacking a tree, another, smaller plant). I began this study pretty much right after my Handsome Assistant and I planted an Eastern redbud in the front (formerly grass) plot. I was given the okay to use that tree, so that’s what I’ve been working with.

The lesson is supposed to involve building a relationship from planting, watering, and helping a young tree become established, to watching it grow. To be honest, I think I’ve watered this tree maybe three times over several months. It’s native to the area. It’s fine with this soil. It’s putting out new branches and beautiful, heart-shaped leaves on a nearly daily basis.

This seemed a bit like cheating, so I thought I’d start a smaller, auxiliary tree. I wasn’t sure what to plant at first, but the birds made that decision for me: There are an abundance of mulberry sprouts, courtesy of the crows and other birds. They didn’t enjoy being moved, but are doing just fine with minimal intervention. My takeaway here if that if I have to carefully nurture a plant, it probably isn’t the right one. Nature, even transplanted nature, doesn’t really need as much intervention as one might assume.

2. It’s not so much a garden as it is a kind of potluck.

As for the potluck… I’ve mentioned all of the pumpkins in previous entries. (They’ve made for some amazing pumpkin bread.) There’re also sprigs of various kales popping up random places where they were certainly not planted, a thriving bush of bright orange cherry tomatoes, the aforementioned mulberry bushes, and what appears to be a chia plant.

A carpenter bee, a Peck's skipper butterfly, and a sachem butterfly visiting the same flower spike on an anise hyssop plant.

Really, it seems like I don’t actually have to worry about planting fruits and vegetables myself. If I help make this place welcoming enough, tiny guests will show up and bring food. That food may not always show up where I anticipate it, but it flourishes, and I end up with more than enough to share.

A cluster of cherry tomatoes. Most are still green, but a few are beginning to blush orange.

The plants here have mostly gone to seed, so the pollinator garden is as full of birds as it is bees and butterflies. I have no idea what horticultural surprises next spring and summer may hold, but I’m excited to find out!

Milkweed Folklore & Magical Properties
Plants and Herbs

Milkweed Folklore & Magical Properties

J.2 Comments

I planted a swamp milkweed (Asclepias incarnata) in the back yard not too long ago. Though I did it well after I could hope for monarch butterflies, I still wanted one of these beautiful, interesting native plants. (Besides, they’re perennials — if it could survive this year, there’ll be plenty of plant for the monarch babies next year!)

It was blooming happily, playing host to all kinds of tiny fauna, and finally put out lots of big, fat pods. Apparently it wanted to wait until the recent supermoon to bust those suckers open, because that whole part of the yard is inundated with milkweed fluff!

Flat, brown milkweed seeds, showing their tassels of silky white fluff.

I gathered a good quantity of the fluff and seeds to save, share, and use for various purposes. So, I figured, now’s probably a good time to write about this lovely plant’s magical properties!

Like many of the plants I choose to explore, this one’s native to the Americas. That means that you won’t see it in a lot of older folk or ceremonial magic resources. This plant is still powerful, however, and has a lot to offer practitioners in its native range.

Milkweed’s Magical Uses and Folklore

Like I mentioned, milkweed produces tons of fluff. This fluff appears as silky white tassels on its seeds and helps them disperse via wind — just like dandelions. If you catch a floating milkweed seed, make a wish, then release it to go along its merry way, its said that your wish will come true.

Milkweed fluff can also be used as filling for pillows, sachets, and poppets. Thistledown is a traditional poppet filling, but, if you don’t live in an area with abundant thistles, milkweed fluff can be used as a substitute.

Filling a dream pillow with milkweed fluff is said to cause the user to dream of the fae.

The juices of the milkweed plant, when used for anointing, are said to strengthen one’s “third eye.” (However, these juices are also irritating, so maybe just place a whole leaf or sprig of flowers to your forehead instead.)

In World War II, military life jackets were filled with milkweed fluff as an alternative to kapok (Ceiba pentandra).

Milkweed’s genus, Asclepias, was named for Asclepius. He’s the Greek God of Healing, and a son of Apollo.

Though it’s associated with a god of Healing, one of milkweed’s primary virtues is its toxicity. When monarch caterpillars feed on milkweed, they take in the plant’s toxins. This, in turn, makes the vulnerable caterpillars toxic and unpalatable to predators. As a result, milkweed is associated with protection.

A plump, stripey monarch caterpillar.

There’s also a very fine line between “poison” and “medicine.” To the people indigenous to milkweed’s native range, milkweed sap was used to remove warts. Boiling helps leach out the toxins in the plant’s sap, and cleaned up extracts of milkweed proved useful for respiratory ailments, sore throats, and kidney problems. Some of the toxins in milkweed sap are cardiac glycosides, which, in small doses, behave similarly to the digitalin extracted from foxglove (genus Digitalis).

Milkweed is a very liminal plant. Swamp milkweed (A. incarnata) can be found at the edges of wetlands, where the water meets the land. Common milkweed (A. syriaca) often grows in disturbed areas, like roadsides.

Milkweed is associated with the Moon and the element of Earth. (Personally, I also associated swamp milkweed with water.)

Using Milkweed

Milkweed’s a really lovely plant, though it can also be hazardous to work with if you aren’t careful. Personally, I limit myself to the flowers, fluff, and seeds — I have sensitive skin, and the last thing I want to worry about is getting milkweed sap on myself!

The fluff is really lovely as a filling for poppets and dream pillows. Blend it with herbs like mugwort, hops, and lavender, and add a clear Herkimer quartz crystal for a wonderful dream pillow that’ll help improve dream recall and make it easier to dream lucidly.

The seeds, like a lot of native American seeds, need to be stratified. That means that they’re great to use for sowing rituals during the colder months — the winter solstice, for example.

Seeds are a great spell component in general, because they embody as-yet-unrealized potential. They’re a bit of sympathetic magic, too. As the seed grows, so will the thing you hope to get from your spell.

Milkweed seeds are also flat, so they’re nice to incorporate into homemade paper. Once the paper’s used, you can plant it and allow the seeds to grow. Just make sure that you’re using varieties native to your area!

The pink flower clusters of A. incarnata.

Milkweed is a beautiful, protective plant that has much to offer those who can get past its defense mechanisms. Inside those pods, protected by poisonous, milky-white sap, is an abundance of silky, silvery fluff and seeds. If you have the ability to grow or otherwise hang out with milkweed, I highly recommend it.

I decided to eat the anise hyssop (and here’s a really tasty recipe).
Plants and Herbs

I decided to eat the anise hyssop (and here’s a really tasty recipe).

J.Leave a comment

Not too long ago, I wrote a bit about the magical properties of hyssop. The thing that prompted me to do this was the ludicrous abundance of anise hyssop blooms (and also bees, moths, and butterflies) in the little pollinator garden in the front yard.

Anise hyssop and regular hyssop aren’t related, though. Anise hyssop, also called anise mint, is a member of the mint family. It’s called “anise hyssop” because the leaves and flowers have an anise-like scent and flavor — though I think it’s more reminiscent of root beer!

Anyhow, since some of the anise hyssop was getting tall enough to block the coreopsis and beautyberry, I figured I’d go harvest some. Sickle in hand, I shooed the bees to the other anise hyssop plants and got cutting. I also cut a few lavender flowers that were growing at odd angles.

From there, I separated the good leaves from the wilted or damaged ones, and removed the flower heads. I gave everything a good wash, then boiled it in equal parts sugar and water to make a lovely, herb-infused simple syrup.

A bowl of small, bright purple flowers and green leaves soaking in water.

Once the syrup was made, I strained out the plant matter and spread it on a bit of parchment paper in my dehydrator. After an hour and a half at 165 degrees F, once everything was dried to a crisp, I was left with some lovely candied flowers that do, in fact, taste exactly like root beer.

Anise hyssop is used as a carminative and expectorant, and is very soothing. I don’t really need an expectorant right now, but I plan to use the flowers and syrup to ease digestive complaints. The only thing is, I don’t really need that much. So what do I do when I’ve got way more delicious candied flowers than I need?

I make scones.

These are easy, nut-, egg-, and dairy-free, and delicious. They only require one bowl and about half an hour of your time.

Blackberry and Anise Hyssop Scones

Dry Ingredients:

  • 2 cups of flour (I used einkorn, but regular wheat flour is fine)
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 1 tablespoon flaxseed meal
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/2 cup cold vegan butter or coconut oil
  • 1 handful fresh anise hyssop flowers
  • 1 generous cup of blackberries (depending on their size, you may want to cut them into smaller pieces)

Wet ingredients:

  • 1/2 cup milk substitute of your choice (I used pea milk)
  • 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

Tools:

  • A nice big mixing bowl
  • A spoon
  • A whisk or fork
  • A pastry cutter or fork (optional)
  • Measuring cups and spoons
  • A baking sheet
  • A sharp knife

Making the Scones

  1. Preheat your oven to 400 degrees F.
  2. Place the sugar and fresh anise hyssop flowers in your mixing bowl.
  3. Rub them together with your hands, until the flowers are mashed with the sugar and the mixture resembles moist sand.
  4. Add the flour, flaxseed meal, and baking powder. Whisk together until well mixed.
  5. Add the cold butter substitute or coconut oil. (You might want to do this in cubes or spoonfuls, it’ll make the next bit easier.) Use a fork, pastry cutter, or just your hands to work the fat into the dry ingredients. Keep at it until the mixture looks like coarse crumbs.
  6. Measure out a half cup of milk substitute. Add the vanilla extract to the milk and stir.
  7. Pour your milk into the mixing bowl. Stir until it’s just combined — avoid over stirring. If it seems too dry to hold together, add another tablespoon or two of milk.
  8. Fold in your blackberries.
  9. With floured hands, lightly knead the dough until it all comes together. Visualize yourself kneading health, love, and prosperity into the dough.
  10. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface. Form it into a ball, and pat it out into a flat circle roughly an inch thick.
  11. Slice it into triangles. If you like, you can use a toothpick or the tip of a knife to carve the tops with runes, sigils, ogham feda, or other symbols significant to you.
  12. Place the triangles on a baking sheet. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until they’re golden brown.
Unbaked blackberry scone dough, formed into a circle, cut into triangles, and inscribed with the runes jera, sowilo, teiwaz, uruz, algiz, and laguz.

Making Them Extra Fancy

If you like, you can also ice your scones. Mix up a cup of confectioner’s sugar, two tablespoons of milk substitute, and, if you like, some finely crumbled candied anise hyssop leaves and flowers. Stir well until the mixture is smooth and liquid. If it seems too thick, add some more milk substitute. If it’s too thin, add more sugar.

Once your scones are cool (give them about 20 minutes), drizzle the icing on with a spoon. Give the icing a few minutes to harden, then serve.

A baked scone, inscribed with the rune uruz and covered with a sweet glaze.
Echinacea Folklore and Magical Properties
Plants and Herbs

Echinacea Folklore and Magical Properties

J.Leave a comment

Echinacea, or coneflower, is a genus of flowering plants found solely in parts of the US. They’re native to where I currently live, so I’ve added several different wild type and nativar plants to the front and back yards here. They’re a unique addition to the landscape, and help bring in even more pollinators than the bee balm and anise hyssop already do!

These flowers are probably best known for their medicinal qualities. The first time I’d ever heard of echinacea was from my father’s former significant other. She had some echinacea tea, and I overheard her talking about how she used it medicinally. (Though they’ve since split up, I’m still friends with her — she went on to become a bodywork therapist who specializes in sound healing and craniosacral therapy, and is one of the founders of the nonprofit Columbia Resilience Integrated Health Community Project. She’s a pretty cool lady.)

Unfortunately, the popularity of echinacea means that wild populations are suffering from overharvesting (two species, E. tennesseensis and E. laevigata, have only recently recovered from being on the endangered species list). If you want to use these plants, it’s best to grow your own. Fortunately, that’s really easy to do — they self-seed super easily and will grow pretty much anywhere there’s sun. They’re also great for helping populations of native pollinators.

Since these are American plants, they’re not found in European-based grimoires. They’re still very valuable to develop a relationship with, even if they don’t show up in old world folk or ceremonial magic.

Echinacea Magical Uses and Folklore

To the Ute people, echinacea’s traditionally called “elk root” due to the belief that injured elk sought out these plants to use medicinally.

Echinacea roots are used as a physical and spiritual medicine. They’re a traditional healing herb for burns, pain, and inflammation, and some peoples have chewed them as part of their ritual purification ceremonies.

The name “echinacea” comes from the Greek word for hedgehog, “ekhinos.” This is because the center of the flowers is round and spiky, like a hedgehog.

Today, echinacea is often touted as a way to help prevent or eliminate respiratory viruses like the common cold. Research doesn’t really bear out assertions that coneflower can significantly help with the common cold, but there’s evidence to suggest that coneflower’s immune activity may have a lot to do with the bacterial populations within the plant itself. These studies are on isolated cells in vitro, however, not on humans. Overall, it seems like echinacea isn’t really a great remedy for upper respiratory viruses.

Topically, infusions of echinacea are helpful for soothing the skin. Prepare a strong brew of the root (and any other soothing herbs you like, like chamomile or marshmallow), filter out the plant matter, and add the liquid to a bath.

Some green witches use echinacea as a way to increase the power of their spells. It’s best employed when attempting to overcome a problem that doesn’t respond to other measures, but adding a little of the root or seeds to any spell will help increase its effectiveness.

Hanging a sachet of echinacea over the bed is said to act as a fertility charm.

A bright red cultivar of echinacea, showing the characteristic spiky center surrounded by a ring of bright, daisy-like petals.
One of the bright scarlet echinacea cultivars in the front yard. You can see a bit of the mysterious pumpkin vine in the background.

Coneflowers are also associated with strength and vitality. Sprinkling powdered echinacea root in one’s shoes is said to increase physical vitality and endurance. This is particularly interesting to me, since the same is said of mugwort. Both echinacea and mugwort are pretty opportunistic plants that will tolerate poor soils. The plants’ own resilience could be why they’re connected to the idea of endurance and strength.

Some sources also claim that placing a single echinacea flower on one’s brow can enhance psychic abilities. Interestingly, mugwort is also used to enhance psychic abilities.

When cut and kept in a vase, it’s believed to bring prosperity into the home.

The large, brightly colored flowers are frequently used as natural offerings to the spirits of a place.

Coneflowers are also part of an herbal formula to attract same-sex love, particularly by men. Combine deerstongue herb (which has a lovely vanilla aroma), echinacea, and imitation musk, ambergris, and civet.

Echinacea is associated with the planet Mars and element of Earth.

Using Echinacea

In general, it seems like the flowers are used for offerings and laying on the body, and the roots and seeds are used for everything else. The roots and seeds are also said to have the most magical power. I can definitely see that — seeds, in particular, are symbols of infinite potential. If you want to start something new, include some seeds in your spell.

The easiest way to use echinacea magically is to include a bit of the whole seeds or ground root in sachets, jars, or herbal spell blends. There doesn’t seem to really be a limit to what this plant can empower.

You can also steep some larger bits of root in a carrier oil and use it as a protective or empowering anointing oil.

Personally, I plan to experiment with using echinacea alongside and in place of mugwort. There seems to be a fair amount of crossover in both their ecological and magical uses, though their planetary and astrological correspondences differ. Echinacea is native and grows like nobody’s business here, while mugwort is invasive. I’ll definitely harvest invasive wild populations of mugwort when I have the chance, but I’d like to see how far I can get with the herbs that I grow myself.

Medicinally, echinacea tea may be made from the flowers, leaves, or roots of Echinacea purpurea. This can be taken internally or used topically. Traditionally, it’s a remedy for inflammation and pain. Nowadays, it’s often touted as a treatment or preventative for respiratory viruses, but research shows that it probably isn’t very good at that last bit.

Overall, this herb is pretty safe, but people who are allergic to members of the daisy family will definitely want to avoid it. It isn’t known how safe this is for people who are pregnant or nursing, so ask your doctor if you have any concerns.

Maypops!
life · Plants and Herbs

Maypops!

J.2 Comments

Passiflora incarnata is a weird plant.

I bought three root cuttings last year, but they turned crispy and died shortly afterward.

Disappointed, I decided to try again with two more. Those died back to the ground late that autumn, and that seemed to be it. There was no sign of them this past spring, so I figured that particular experiment was also a failure.

Undaunted, I decided to try again. I purchased two more baby vines and planted them in roughly the same spot.

And then one (and only one) of the previous vines shot up out of the ground like it had something to prove. Like I’d committed some terrible affrontery by daring to try to replace it. Vining with a vengeance.

Not only did it reappear, it’s also about twice as big as the other two, and all three of them seem to be trying to outdo each other by putting out more and more buds.

A passionflower with bright bluish-purple, fringe-like petals and a white center.
My very first passionflower.

The only thing is that, while Passiflora species are generally considered self-fertile (the flowers contain both male and female parts, and they are positioned in a way that makes it very easy for pollen to just kind of end up where it needs to go), I’ve read a lot of sources that claim that P. incarnata is self-incompatible. In other words, the flowers are built in a way that should facilitate self-fertilization, but it’s just not into that.

Since the flowers also only last for a day, that means that there needs to be some very timely coordination between pollinators and the plant itself. Pumpkins are the same way, really — they have separate male and female flowers, but the flowers don’t last long. If a bug or hummingbird doesn’t show up at the right time, the flowers close up and that’s that.

Anyway, all of this is to say that, after my disastrous experiences trying to grow passionflower, I wasn’t expecting much. That’s why I was really surprised to go out on the porch and see these guys:

A close-up of a vine with a pair of small, green, vaguely egg-shaped fruit.

Maypops! (Aka, passionfruit!)

These aren’t anywhere near ripe yet. You have to wait for them to get really soft and wrinkly, or even to just drop off of the vine. (I probably won’t let them get that far, because I doubt I’d find them again once they fell.) In this way, they’re kind of like pawpaws and American persimmons — once they seem like they’re way overripe and on the way to the compost bin, they’re perfect.

I’d like to try harvesting the rest of the plant for medicinal purposes, too. (I talked about some of these in my post about the folklore and magical uses of passionflower.) My handsome assistant and I go through a ton of chamomile, to the point where I’m starting to wonder if it’s possible to build up a tolerance. I’d like to try augmenting some of that with other relaxants. If I can grow them myself, so much the better.

Passionflower fruit are apparently much like pomegranates, in that the edible portion is little bags of juice around seeds. I’m not much for making jams or jellies, so that’s out. I don’t think they’d be conducive to drying, though I may try combining their juice with a more solid, neutral-tasting fruit (like pears) to make fruit leather. We’ve also been using our excess strawberries and pumpkins to flavor mead, so I could see using a batch to experiment with maypop juice.

So many possibilities!

And about twenty seven gallons of pumpkin bisque.
life

And about twenty seven gallons of pumpkin bisque.

J.2 Comments

So, I’ve been picking pumpkins.

Well, that’s kind of an understatement — I’ve been attempting to gather and process pumpkins quickly enough to actually make a dent in the sheer number of them. It takes about an hour to cut and bake two of them, then I need to let them cool, then puree and freeze them. Each pumpkin seems to yield a little over 16 ounces of puree. That’s enough for either one pie, one batch of pumpkin cream sauce, or one pot of pumpkin soup.

In other words, this is basically a replay of when my spouse and I went strawberry picking. This last time, we sprung for the big cardboard flat. I still have a whole loaf of strawberry bread in the freezer, two gallon bags of whole berries, and two trays of frozen strawberry puree.

I’m either going to run out of space in the freezer for pureed pumpkin, or be completely sick of pumpkin and pumpkin-adjacent things by the time October rolls around.

Eight pumpkins, sitting on a granite countertop. There's a bag of flaxseed meal and some glass canisters of rice, beans, and oats in the background.
Some of the pumpkins that still need to ripen a bit.

Fortunately, pumpkin seems to keep well. Once it’s turned to pumpkin mush, I pack it into a one cup Souper Cube tray and freeze it. After it’s frozen, I can pop it out and stick it in a reusable freezer bag. I wish I had a chest freezer (but I also know that I’d just fill it up with nonsense if I did).

In the meantime, I’m amassing pumpkin recipes. So far, I’m looking at egg- and dairy-free pumpkin pie, pumpkin cream sauce, and pumpkin bread with chocolate chunks. I hope everything turns out well, but I’m also slightly concerned that I’ll end up having to sneak around and drop off piles of excess pies and breads on my neighbors’ porches in the middle of the night.

I didn’t even plant these pumpkins. I’ve watered them maybe twice ever. I have the feeling they wouldn’t be nearly this prolific if I’d actually put effort into them.

Passionflower Folklore and Magical Properties
Plants and Herbs

Passionflower Folklore and Magical Properties

J.1 Comment

As we kill off our grass, we’re working hard to replace it with plants that serve multiple purposes. Ideally, they should be native (or at least semi-local), attract pollinators, provide food for both humans and animals, and either return or self-seed. One of the plants that passed muster is this area’s native species of passionflower, Passiflora incarnata.

Also known as maypop, true passionflower, purple passionflower, and wild apricot, P. incarnata is a really pretty, fast-growing vine that provides both wild-looking purplish blue flowers and edible fruits. The flowers don’t last long, but they’re very striking!

A fringy, bright purple Passiflora incarnata flower.
A flower of P. incarnata.

Unfortunately for me, I didn’t heed the old adage, “the first year they sleep, the second year they creep, the third year they leap.” As a result, I planted way too many passion vines. They’re going to eat my porch.
Help.

Anyway, as I watch my yard speedily being consumed by passion and pumpkin vines, I figured I’d write a bit on the magical uses and folklore of the passionflower.

Passionflower Folklore and Magical Uses

Despite the name, I’ve mostly seen passionflower used as an herb to dampen passions, not stoke them. They’re said to be useful for calming libido, cooling relationships, and cultivating platonic or romantic rather than erotic love.

This could be because the word “passion” has a number of very different and contradictory meanings. As Mark Z. Danielewski wrote in House of Leaves, “Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.”

As a new world herb, passionflower was a novel plant to the Spanish missionaries who arrived in Peru in the 1500s. Giacomo Bosio, a monk and historian, referred to passionflower as “La Flor de las cinco Llagas” (“the flower with the five wounds”). This refers to the five wounds the Christian figure Jesus Christ is said to have endured at his crucifixion. The Biblical usage of passion equates to suffering, so, to missionaries, the passionflower represented divine suffering.

A blue and white flower of P. caerulea.
P. caerulea, a passionflower native to South America.

One tale from Brazil says that the passionflower grew from the tears of a woman who was separated from her lover.

Medicinally, passionflower is used as a calming herb. Evidence suggests that it’s safe to use internally, but there’s been some controversy as supplement manufacturers didn’t meet FDA requirements for safety data. It may interact with sedatives, monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), and drugs to prevent blood clots, and is contraindicated in pregnancy.

In traditional indigenous herbal medicine, passionflower is used as a poultice to reduce inflammation and soothe pain.

In the garden, passionflower is irresistibly delicious to Japanese beetles. They’ll eat the leaves and flowers like there’s no tomorrow, which is bad news if you actually want to harvest any fruit!

Taken together, this paints the picture of passionflower as an herb to ease suffering. Since it was said to represent the five wounds endured by Jesus Christ, you could look at it as a “wounded healer.” This isn’t a plant that flows with exuberance, it’s one that knows suffering and eases it in others.

In Victorian flower language, passionflower was said to represent religious fervor or superstition.

Passionflower corresponds with the element of Water and the planet Venus.

Using Passionflower

If passionflower both represents and alleviates suffering, how do you use it? Since it’s native to North and South America, there isn’t really any information about it in ancient magical texts. Nonetheless, there are many ways to work with this unique plant.

As a vine, passionflower grows and clings (hence the whole porch thing.) This makes it useful in workings to bind something to yourself. Since it’s also a plant for relieving suffering, I’d use it specifically in situations where you’d like to bind a solution to a problem — for example, using passionflower to tie yourself to a stable, fulfilling job or enjoyable living situation.

Passionflower is also sometimes used in pillows or sachets for restful sleep and dream magic. Be careful with this, however, as placing passionflower under one’s pillow is also said to be a remedy to dampen libido.

This herb is also used in love magic. Bathing in an infusion is said to attract a potential partner to you, and it’s an often-seen ingredient in sachets, jars, and other charms for love. It works well for this purpose, as long as you know what kind of love you’re looking for. (If you’re after a passionate fling, skip it and go for cinnamon or ginger instead.)

Infuse the flowers in a carrier oil and use this to help ease worries and sooth the heart and mind. Anoint the temples and heart area whenever relief is needed.

All told, passionflower is a delightful herb. It’s beautiful, feeds bees and hummingbirds, and provides valuable medicine. As long as you don’t let its name fool you, it can help you with an array of spells and charms.

This is either going to be awesome, or the sequel to The Color Out of Space.
life · Plants and Herbs

This is either going to be awesome, or the sequel to The Color Out of Space.

J.2 Comments

One of the benefits of encouraging wildlife to hang out is that, if things go right, it’ll basically do your gardening for you. I’ve had so many volunteer plants courtesy of the birds and squirrels, it’s bonkers. Since I’m still working on re-wilding things, I’m grateful for whatever additions the local creatures want to make — I get to see what grows well and what doesn’t, and it’s all for free.

Like that time that all those delinquent squirrels paid their bar tab with a ton of tomato plants.

This is all just preamble to explain that I’ve been watching the progress of some kind of plant in the front plot. The front yard is divided into two squarish plots by a walkway. In one, we’ve finally managed to kill off the grass and replace it with a redbud tree, oakleaf hydrangea, coreopsis, strawberries, moss phlox, and echinacea. Then this thing happened.

A small plant, some member of Cucurbitaceae, just beginning to vine.

Cute, right? It seemed to appear overnight, springing up out of the ground without warning. No sprout, nothing. Just bam! This.

Out of curiosity, I left it. It was in a bare spot, and I was honestly pretty excited to see what it’d turn out to be. I tried identifying it to make sure it wasn’t something invasive or poisonous, but plant apps were stumped. It was almost definitely a member of Cucurbitaceae, but what? Pumpkin? Melon? Squash? Cucumber? Even Reddit’s gardening subs were mostly baffled. Some posters who recognized it even admitted that it looked like “some kind of weird hybrid.”

Anyhow, I figured it’d probably end up being some kind of vegetable, so I left well enough alone. I didn’t even bother watering it. I figured that it was a volunteer, it was doing fine without my interference, so it was just sink or swim from h-

The same plant as above, but now disturbingly massive.

Like something out of a weird fairytale (or Annihilation, or The Color Out of Space), it… expanded. It didn’t get any taller, but it sent out yards of thick, powerful vines across the ground. By the time you read this, it’ll probably have doubled in size.

It also started putting out flowers. Big, bright yellow ones. Each one had a firm, round base. Before long, we had a ton of these.

The same plant, now with round, speckled, green, pumpkin-like fruits.

So, not cucumbers. Not melons. Some kind of pumpkin? A squash?

This guy who sometimes cuts the (remaining) grass for us said he recognized it as an ayote. He said it’s tasty when cut up and stewed with beef ribs and vegetables. I don’t do beef ribs, but I have some lovely brisket-style tempeh that could maybe work.

The trouble with volunteer Cucurbits is that there’s a risk of poisoning. If you find a wild squash in your yard, or grow one from seeds that you’ve saved yourself, taste a little bit of the raw fruit before you cook it or serve it to anyone else. Some wild Cucurbits have a lot of a toxic compound called cucurbitacin. It tastes very, very bitter, and enough of it can absolutely kill you. Tl;dr: Do not eat bitter squash, or any other members of Cucurbitaceae that taste weirdly bad.

They’re nowhere near ripe yet, but I noticed that the stem of one had broken. I brough it inside for Experiments.

A darker green, speckled, pumpkin-like fruit on a wooden cutting board.
The same fruit, sliced in half to show creamy yellow flesh.

It looked inoffensive enough.
I took a little taste.

Surprisingly, it was pretty good! There was no trace of bitterness, just a mild, sweetish flavor. It’s not as strongly flavored as it’ll probably be once it’s completely mature, but definitely not bad.

I haven’t decided what to do with this specific one just yet. Ayote en miel? Squash soup? Roasted squash?

Whatever I decide to make from this squash, I hope I like it. I’ll definitely have plenty.

Thanks, local animals!

Wild Bergamot/Bee Balm Folklore and Magical Properties
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Wild Bergamot/Bee Balm Folklore and Magical Properties

J.1 Comment

Monarda species, also known as bee balm, Oswego tea, and wild bergamot, is one of my favorite native flowers. The blooms themselves are striking, the leaves are fragrant, they spread very easily, and they thrive where other plants falter. They’re fantastic additions to permaculture guilds, since they’re good at attracting oft-neglected native US pollinators like the raspberry pyrausta moth. It’s also tolerant of juglone, a natural herbicide produced by black walnut trees.

Bright pink Monarda flowers, growing in a bed of maroon Coreopsis.
Some bright pink Monarda didyma flowers in my garden, planted along with some deep maroon-pink lance leaf Coreopsis.

The name “wild bergamot” is a bit misleading — these plants aren’t related to bergamot at all. Monarda is part of the mint family, while actual bergamot is a citrus fruit. I haven’t been able to find an explanation for why this group of plants is called wild bergamot, so I can only venture that it’s because of the fragrance of the leaves. They’ve a sort of minty-citrusy-herbal scent, very reminiscent of Earl Grey tea.

Wild Bergamot Magical Properties and Folklore

Monarda plants are native to the US and have a very important place in the medicinal lore of indigenous American people. The leaves soothe stomach aches when used internally, treat wounds externally, and ease headaches when used as a poultice. The name “bee balm” comes from the plants ability to calm bee stings.

After the Townshend Revenue Act of 1767, colonist American people began boycotting imported British tea. Instead, Monarda leaves provided a suitable substitute.

Bright pink Monarda flowers, of a cultivar called "Marshall's Delight."

Since Monarda is native to the US, you won’t find it in ancient herb lore or medieval European grimoires. It still has a pretty long history of use as a magical ingredient, however, as people have adapted to using what’s around them over the centuries.

Some magical resources claim that lemon balm and bee balm are synonymous. Though they’re both members of Lamiaceae, the mint family, they aren’t the same plants. Lemon balm is Melissa officinalis, native to Europe, and pretty sedating when drunk as a tea. Bee balms are Monarda species, native to the US, and gently stimulating.

Due to its associations with medicine, it’s considered a healing herb.

Monarda can also be used as a purifying and cleansing herb.

It is generally considered to be ruled by Mercury and the element of Air. Due to these planetary associations, it’s sometimes used in spells for money or success in business/academic endeavors.

Using Wild Bergamot

You’ll be pleased to know that, unlike a lot of the magical herbs I talk about, wild bergamot is edible. The whole thing. Stems, flowers, and leaves. The flowers can be used to add color and interest to salads, and the leaves make a wonderful tea. You can also use the leaves to flavor pork or poultry dishes. If you do want to eat your Monarda leaves, treat them like most other herbs: Harvest the leaves before the plant flowers, when they’re sweeter and more tender. They tend to get a bit tough and bitter after the plant matures and flowers appear.

Personally, I find wild bergamot leaves and flowers to be a very nice addition to drinkable/edible brews. Use it in place of Camellia sinensis leaves as a base for magical teas. Historically, it has been drunk to ease flatulence and as a gentle, general stimulant.

One thing I enjoy doing is making simple sugar cookies and decorating the tops with magical sigils. Candied flowers, chosen for their properties, can both decorate and empower these edible spells.

For purifying, pack some fresh leaves into a large muslin tea bag and place it under your bath faucet. You can also brew Monarda leaves into a tea, strain out the plant matter, add the liquid to a bath, and fully submerge yourself.

To purify spaces or groups of people, bundle fresh Monarda stems together, dip them in salt water, and use them to asperge.

Monarda is known to attract bees, as well as ease their stings. Since it’s connected to Mercury and Air, it’s also used as a success herb. Brew a strong tea from the leaves and use it to wash your front door and steps to attract success to your door like bees to a flower. You can also add this tea to floor washes, if you wish.

A prickly-looking Monarda seed head. Its rounded, comprising many small tubes formed by the base of the flowers.
A Monarda seed head. Each of those little “tubes” houses a single loose seed, which will be picked up by birds or scattered by the wind.

In general, Monarda is a very nice herb that plays well with others. In my experience, it acts as a general attractant — magically drawing in your desires the same way that the flowers call to hummingbirds, moths, and bees. Its flavor and scent are delicious and intriguing without being overpowering, so it’s an excellent addition to brews, kitchen witchery, and spell jars. (Most members of the mint family smell pretty acrid when burned, however, so I’d avoid putting it in incense.)

If you’re in the US, Monarda is a delightful addition to the garden. It’s easy to grow, thrives on neglect, and produces an abundance of seeds and rhizomes. You’ll have plenty to harvest and share, but, unlike non-native mints, it’s not considered invasive.