Copyright © Sheryl Williams - Yardfanatic 2016. All rights reserved.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

Yeast of Eden

Whenever I see programs or read books about getting back to nature, going back in time, or giving it all up to run a goat farm, the prevailing image is people kneading bread.

What is it about bread making that seems so ancient, so authentic, so nostalgic? It's just bread and it's not like you can live on bread and water alone. Why don't other forms of food preparation seem as romantic? I mean, no one tears up wistfully watching someone make a pot of soup, even though it's packed with a lot more flavor and nutrients. The closest thing we have is making spaghetti sauce and tasting it from a big wooden spoon. Ah, the good old days, we think, before sauce came from a jar.

I'm just as bad. When I think of living off the grid I imagine all the bread I'll bake in my wood burning oven. After all I'd need the carbs to live that kind of life. But our not so distant ancestors didn't survive on grain alone, in fact it was more about fat than anything else.  Gathering nuts, rendering lard, making soap, cooking in grease, cooking over a sizzling spit, and making thick gravies is way more primeval and true to surviving away from modern civilization (although if you watch presidential politics you have to wonder whether we've evolved at all into a civilization.)

So what is it that drove me, other than Michael Pollan, to think that baking bread would soothe my troubled soul. I think maybe it's the process - the mixing, the kneading, the rising, the baking - that inspires. It's alchemy of the highest form, this metamorphosis of grass seed into fluffy loaf, all controlled by our own actions. There's no curtain to hide behind, no wires, no distracting puffs of smoke (well, hopefully,) just some hard work, a little yeast, and an oven.

True to form I am not satisfied with making bread the "normal" way with those little packets of yeast. purchased at the grocer. I am determined to capture yeast out of thin air and force it to do my bidding inside a mass of dough. How hard could it be?

And, once agin, my arrogance punishes me for thinking I can have any sort of control over the natural process. I should know better. I am, after all, the compost-making queen, and have had more than my share of failures with sauerkraut and that unfortunate incident when I tried to can fish. Thankfully nothing has ever exploded like the beer bomb that erupted in my neighbors house. Microbes are the true secret to the universe and they cannot be willed into order. Like everything else in the natural world, they can only be coaxed.

So these past weeks I have coaxed, pleaded, thought of cheating as I baked brick after brick of bread. My dear friend Carrie took pity on me and shared some of her starter, convinced that her South Austin rascally yeast would do the trick. It didn't. What was I doing wrong? I followed the directions to the letter every time.

And so the lesson begins. It's not about directions. It's not about procedure. My grandma used to keep all her flour in a big drawer in the kitchen cabinet. I still get goosebumps remembering her pulling that drawer open, cracking eggs and pouring buttermilk into the well she made.  She'd mix it right there in the drawer and then remove it to a bowl or the counter where she would finish it up. Talk about alchemy, and mastery, and oh my goodness those cinnamon rolls!

It has to feel right. The sensation of the elastic bands of dough right against our skin. The smoothness, the way it collapses right into your palm and then springs back after every touch. The patience to let things happen without stirring, rushing along, or just throwing it in the oven to just get it over with. It's the same with making compost, preparing a seed bed, or determining if fruit is ripe.

I post the photo of my success to Facebook so everyone I've been complaining to can see that I have finally done it. I sit here now and reflect on the newest loaf that is quietly baking in the oven. There is no such thing as control, no such thing as a standard practice or procedure, there is no order. There is just that precise moment in time where all the ingredients mix in a flour drawer and emerge later as a bit of air between flour particles. It's the beginning and the end and it poises of the edge of forever. So do I stay here? Or do I do something that throws me out of the moment so that I can recreate it time and time again? I'll take my chances.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

I Can Take It

Pont du Gard near Avignon
My Dad passed away recently and it has really knocked the air out of me. He suffered from cancer so his escape from all that pain was a gift - but he fought it hard. Fought, fought, fought and lived almost three years longer than the Doctors told him. He never accepted his fate, and although he was a realist, there was always the little thought that he would beat it. What was my Dad made of to charge into it so bravely? Or was it just fear that kept him going?

Earlier this year I traveled to Europe and spent quite a bit of time in Italy and the south of France. We began our trip in Rome, made our way up Italy and then back down to cross into France at Menton, staying for a few days in Avignon and Arles (among other places.) As an avid history buff, it became apparent to me that we were following the Romans and their conquest of Gaul.

And not just the Romans, all kinds of castles and battlements dotted the landscape during our entire journey. It was breathtaking.

And then something slammed into me in Arles.

Arles was a Roman fortified city. What is very interesting is that the Romans just lifted and copied a basic blueprint to every place they settled. Always a forum, a colosseum, a theater, and a huge wall. Unlike the city of Rome, Arles' colosseum is completely intact and still functions as an entertainment venue.

The architecture is impressive, and, as our guide pointed out, the technology behind it no longer exists. Modern engineers, concerned with public safety, have tried to "fix" areas that are sagging. Others are busy restoring ruins back to their broken, but original, state. Attempts to replicate the Roman engineering have failed and they have had to fall back on modern iron clamping systems.

The locals didn't love the Romans, but when Rome fell and they started to pull out of the provenances in the 5th century, what came after was much worse. The populace of Arles moved their homes into the colosseum, fortified the walls and built four towers to fire on the marauders. The village remained there until the late 18th century. By that time the buildings built on top of buildings completely obscured everything but the outer wall. It was this pile of humans that ultimately preserved the site by building on top of, instead of dismantling, this structure with the lovely square blocks.

I stood outside of that wall with my heart pounding. Can you imagine what it was like for those people who grouped inside for protection? What kind of world was it where everything completely fell apart and evil rampaged through the countryside? The Romans were the height of civilization yet what came after was worse than what the Romans were at the beginning of their empire building. Why would people do that? Why wouldn't they be glad to be rid of the soldiers, band together, and keep going? Arles was a very important cultural center, why did the people destroy that?

I only have to look at our recent Presidential election to know the answer. Humans destroy what they can't have and go on the rampage against anyone they think has a better life. It's much easier to vent and rage instead of discuss and build. The villagers of Arles knew this and protected themselves for almost two thousand years.

Two thousand years! What does that do to a community? To each descendent? To live in that kind of fear all that time. How do you move forward, hope for your children, build any kind of life when all around you the world has gone to hell?

I became so overwhelmed and completely humbled by their struggle.

All my life I have had a sense of place, an anchor, that defines who I am. I grew up on the family homestead - people who came across a sea of grass, over a mountain, and through a desert to start from nothing except their own ingenuity. My grandmother was a second generation French immigrant whose grandfather boarded a ship to travel into the unknown, hoping for a better life. She and my grandfather's family lived just like the characters in "The Grapes of Wrath" when they had to abandon their farm in Arkansas and head to California to be migrant workers during the depression. I am so proud of all of them.

In Arles, the realization crept over my skin like thousands of prickling needles and the breath left my body. Yes, my immediate family were tough, but they were descended from people like the citizens from Arles.


They are the reason the subsequent generations fought, and scrabbled, and refused to give up.

They kept their homes, their families, their culture alive believing that things would get better and took whatever baby steps were needed in that direction. They kept at it, no matter how long, or how many wars, or how many other evil empires were to be endured.

My dad. My grandfather. Both fought against the ultimate enemy - cancer. Never, ever, giving up. Always thinking about their family and even at the very end, trying to protect us from ugliness.

He-who-can-not-be-named Trump, your buddy Putin, middle eastern radicals, American-born gun-toting terrorists, KKK, neo-nazi's, Kim Jong despots, Texas Patrick-loving-Republicans and anyone else who tries to stamp out others for their own gain.

You have no idea who you are dealing with.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

In a bit of a squeeze

I can't believe that it's been seven years since I moved from Oregon to Austin, Texas. The time has vanished, and as I look out over my yard it feels like I just got started. Of course I haven't. The front and back lawn with just a few yuccas are gone. In their place is native plants, fruit and vegetables.

What an adventure that was to make the decision to move, pack everything up, then start over fresh in a state and climate that was totally foreign. I immediately dove into the nurseries, web sites, and local blogs that could teach me what to do. I was so excited that I could grow citrus in the ground, maybe avocados, miles of sweet potatoes, okra, black eyed peas, and a favorite flower - winecup, that hated the cool Oregon summers.

In this yard, I was determined more than ever to dedicate a larger percent of space to food production. Austin, I discovered, does not have much agriculture surrounding it. Most things at the grocer are trucked from California, Florida, or the Rio Grande valley. And the farmers market?  Tiny! The first time I went I thought I went to the wrong place.  Where was the two-block market that I was used to? Back in Oregon apparently.

But I have survived, thrived even, in this bit of earth being scorched by the death star. My friends here are some of the closest I've ever had, and I've had jobs and bosses that I absolutely love - all which have let me run full tilt into any challenge I wish.

However. I've had to give up some things (besides being able to sleep with the window open in the summer.) The hardest has been apples.

The combination of low chill hours and my stinginess with water has rendered the apples and pear completely barren. They won't even flower. I've cut two of them down and will probably take out the remaining two this winter. It's a shame because I've spent a lot of time training and pruning them, but I don't need ornamental trees, I want fruit! Most disappointing of all is that I don't have a crop of apples to make cider from.

A month before I lost my job in Oregon, I purchased a Correll cider press. They are absolutely top of the line and beautifully made by a gentlemen very near where I lived. My trees were poised to produce enough apples for me to press, plus there were a few abandoned trees in the fields near my home where I could glean even more. Undaunted, I packed that press and put it on the truck for Texas.  I knew it would take 5 to 7 years before I produced my own apples again, but I could wait.

And then my apples didn't grow.

The press has been living on the deck and then later in the house ever since. It really is gorgeous and a conversation starter for people who've never seen one.  However, it was never going to see an apple here in Austin. Reluctantly I put it on Craig's list.

Funny enough, no one here in the south is looking for a cider press. The apples are at least a thousand miles away and they'd be withered and juiceless by the time they arrived in Austin. I got only one inquiry and that was someone from Washington state.

Okay. Now what? Due to the mild winter, I've had a huge crop of fruit this year. Apples? Nope. Oranges and pomegranates. Wait for it - I can use my cider press!

So that's what I did. I hauled the press back onto the deck and on a warm afternoon I made orange juice. It was perfect. Unlike apples I had to peel the oranges. They are so fresh that the orange oil drips off them. I didn't want all that oil in the juice so took the time to relieve them of their rinds. For good measure I also threw in the pomegranates that were also ready.

And it worked!  I got almost a gallon of juice and was able to marvel at how well the press worked. It's slanted perfectly, the press fits into the basket easily, and with not much effort the crank lowers the press onto the fruit. Beautiful juice streamed out of the basket and into the waiting receptacle. The remaining pulp was devoid of juice and went into the compost. Finally!

What's that saying? When life gives you lemons...??

I am happy to report that the press is back in the living room in it's place of honor, cleaned up and smelling slightly of oranges. The listing on craigslist has expired and I don't intend to repost. Now I'm scheming about juicing loquats and figs - with the resulting pulp being used in some sort of chutney or quick bread.

Hey!  Keep your hands off my press! Get your own!

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Counter Culture

The problem with me is that I have too many hobbies. I like to tell myself that I am a "Renaissance" woman, meaning that I am pretty good at a lot of things, but the truth is that I have the attention span of a gnat.

Being able to jump around and multi-task has served me well, but I'm not widely known for my patience. I'm okay with long term goals as long as there is some action along the way that keeps me interested.

I have friends who make their own wine and I've flirted with the idea of giving it a try. But winemaking is really boring. All that aging. Beer is a lot more fun and I actually had a kit at one time. But a neighbor's experience of having his batch blow up in the house always gave me pause. The chief reason being that I know I would get bored, walk away, and not monitor things as warranted.

But hope springs eternal and lately I've been hankering to get back into bread baking. It was brought on by watching Michael Pollan's "Cooked" series on Netflix. I love to cook and the "air" episode was all about making bread. One of the people profiled was Richard Bourdon, a baker from Massachusettes and a proponent of making bread via fermentation versus regular yeast+flour methods. He made a good argument about digestibility and the current gluten intolerance wave everyone is talking about.  He believes there wouldn't be any intolerance if we ate some form of fermented bread like sourdough.

This argument has of course generated controversy amongst the celiac crowd and other people who believe they are experts in nutrition. I have no way to refute or endorse any of it because I am completely uneducated on the subject. However, I do have my own gut. In my twenties I was besieged with digestive issues, ranging from a pre-ulcer to what was finally coined "irritable bowel syndrome" by one of the many doctors I went through for help. Unfortunately, I learned that IBS is a catch-all for undiagnosed intestinal issues. But, once I had the term I researched possible causes and ran across gluten intolerance. I stopped eating bread and voila! Issue gone. Since then I've begun taking probiotics and I can eat small portions of bread without incident.

Am I gluten intolerant?  I have no idea. I don't seem impacted by gluten as an additive in many of the foods I eat (including commercially produced ice cream) so it could very well be another ingredient that sets me off. Give me a piece of toast and within 15 minutes I have a painful acid stomach, give me cake for dessert and I get an IBS attack unless I pop a probiotic at the same time. I'm always suspicious of claims about carbs, gluten, vitamins, etc. because like most things they seem like fads and the "experts" are just in it to promote a book (or get a series on Netflix.) I'm a Michael Pollan fan because the boy can write beautifully, and he, like me, approaches things based upon curiosity and discovery. I forgive him from profiting from it.

So I'm doing my own sourdough starter. Is sourdough a cure for me? Absolutely not and certainly not more than the organic apple cider vinegar with the Mother, greek yogurt, and sauerkraut that I eat. Any sourdough loaves I've eaten in the past gave me the same reaction as any other bread, which makes me sad because I love a good sourdough cannon ball filled with hot soup.  But the program got me curious. What if I grew my OWN sourdough starter from the environment that I live and grow food in. Will I be able to tolerate it? And really, sourdough is the same process as composting and sauerkraut, two other things I like to do. Plus I like the idea of it. Being able to bring food to the table that I grew and prepared gives me a huge dose of satisfaction. If you've eaten at my house, it's because I hold you in high esteem and serve you with an ardor that not even Shakespeare could not describe. Ok, that's a little over the top, but you get the idea.

I googled some recipes and read about sourdough baking. (What did we do before the internet? Oh, yeah, I'd ask my grandma - the source of all home cooking knowledge and whose culinary magic I still aspire to.) The real pinnacle of using sourdough is to not use yeast at all when you prepare loaves for baking. If you do a good job with your starter, those loaves should rise, and while it may not be as fluffy, it's not the equivalent of a manhole cover either.

The premise behind sourdough is that you are harvesting "wild" yeast in the flour and from the air. Lord knows the heavy air here in Austin carries all sorts of things, but I've never heard of an artisan sourdough baker coming out of Texas. And as a resident of the west coast you are raised with the mantra that San Francisco is the capital of sourdough because of their wild yeast. (I know a good marketing campaign when I hear it.) Still, it's so totally Texan to harvest something wild, domesticate it, then exploit the heck out of it. Yee haw!

The basis of my starter is the one from King Arthur Flour. They have a really nice step by step guide with some photos of what the starter should look like throughout the process.  In general, you should be able to grow a batch of starter in about a week.  I went through the FAQ's and questions from bakers and then stumbled upon my achilles heel. "You must be patient."

Yeah, right. And true to form I've been goosing my starter. It started out okay and got to bubbling - I even got a full rise on day 4, but since then it has not progressed fast enough. So I got to thinking about the environment and what I could do to hurry things along. I do the same thing to my compost - and is why I collect and add coffee grounds and grass clippings. Cook damn you, cook! For my sourdough I've been adding more whole wheat flour in order to get the yeast population up. It seems to be working because I'm getting a little more action. With the recent rains we've had came another idea - I'll use rainwater! It's stormed enough to wash out most of the pollution and the resulting water should be teaming with yeasty Texas microbes. Another ultimate compliment - if you get rainwater at my house, that means you're important. Otherwise you have to suffer with the alkaline, chloramined municipal water. I filter the water in the house, but it's only my vegetable garden that gets rainwater in the yard. That's right, not even the roses and they complain constantly with their yellowish foliage. Oh, go eat some seaweed and here's a little chelated iron.

Interestingly enough, fermentation does not occur faster if you watch it. I caught myself checking on it throughout the day on Saturday with more attention than I was paying to the homemade spaghetti sauce that I was making at the same time. The sauce got a little scorched but what a joy to see the gas bubbles pop in the starter. I think I'm on to something and I am hoping that I will have mature starter in the next week or so.

Stay tuned to see if I can discover some hidden vault of patience, make bread without yeast, and consume it without bloating up like a dead whale.

But my attention wanders and now I'm off to do something else.  Squirrel!

Friday, August 12, 2016

Dreaming of Hidcote in the South of France

While on my recent trip to France we had the opportunity to visit Jardin Serre de la Madone in Menton.

The garden was created in 1924-1939 by Lawrence Johnston, the same gentlemen who created Hidcote Manor Garden in 1907. Mr. Johnston "retired" and created the Jardin Serre de la Madone on his own property in the Gorbio Valley.

The garden occupies a former terraced hillside Olive grove and farmhouse that Johnston remodeled. One of the reasons he selected the site is that it offered a subtropical microclimate for his plant collection. Over the years he expanded the garden all the way down the hillside.  After his death the garden fell into disrepair. In 1999 the property was purchased by the non-profit Conservatoire du Littoral, who began restoring it to Johnson's design.
I've never been to Hidcote but have seen it in photos. What was cool about Serre de la Madone is that this is the garden he puttered around in after his retirement. You can see elements of Hidcote, like the hedges and water features, but it has its own personality.
What was of particular interest to me (and the Conservatoire) is the way the garden is designed to retain rainwater. French and Italian farmers have mastered the art of terracing and storing water in the soil. Here it is taken literally to the next level. He created rainwater capture systems that store the water in the ponds and fountains all the way down the hillside. As a result, it requires zero supplemental irrigation.
The property has several structures on it, my favorite being the "cool" greenhouse. It's a stone structure perched on the terrace and served as a sort of lath house for some of the tropicals.

It was fun to see Sotol in big pots flanking one of the many staircases. Big clumps of Bird of Paradise beckoned you to explore a fountain hidden in a leafy bower.

The moorish garden once had an aviary in the courtyard. Now it's main feature is the mirror pond.

Another happy discovery was the Angel's Staircase and garden.

This variegated Alstroemeria lit up one shady spot while tree leaves caught the sun in another.
 We were shown around the garden by the head of horticulture (so sorry that I didn't write down his name!) He gave us a history and pointed out some of the water conservation features. Of course being a group of gardeners he was peppered with "what's this plant?"  Finally, clearly exacerbated, he proclaimed "Mon ami, we have over 6,000 plants, I can't possibly know them all!"

Fair enough. Left to wander on our own I captured photos of plants I found interesting. Every terrace revealed new structures, water features, both tiny and large discoveries.
The Belvedere
Potato vine
This garden was meant to be explored and I could have spent days there. I imagined Mr. Johnston tucking a plant here and a seating area there as he expanded the garden down the hillside. It was highly designed yet still rough and tumble enough to get lost on a wandering path. When I think of it now it's hard for me to call it a single garden since there were so many individual features - a theme common among plant collectors (and my own jungle.)  This would be a place I'd love to work or volunteer at. Perhaps something for my retirement? Need to start learning French!!

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

When getting hung out to dry is a good thing

I am still struggling with the calendar here in Austin. It's just now the first of August and I am exhausted from summer. I hide in the house away from the heat and try to find ways to console myself during this dormant season.

Lucky for me the winter seed catalogs have arrived and once again I am in search of garlic.

Every year I plant three varieties to discover which will grow here during our droughty winters and hot springs. The only one that has been a reliable producer is Chinese Pink. It is ready to harvest in early to mid May as soon as it starts to get warm outside.

The other varieties just can't take it. I've consulted with my Austin gardening communities and have even ordered from specialty nurseries that service gardeners in the south. No matter what I do they won't survive through June and I end up with very small harvests.

I thought his year would be different. I purposely, and uncharacteristically, fertilized all three varieties every couple of weeks since last October and gave them more water than usual during the winter. It seemed to be working. I got really nice, vigorous tops and when I poked around the base the heads seemed to be forming like they should.

I was planning on an extended vacation in May so was glad that the Chinese Pink were ready to harvest before I left. They did have slightly larger heads than usual from all the extra care, so I was sure I'd cracked it. While away for the next three weeks, it rained almost five inches spread over several days, so when I returned I was hoping to see some progress.

The tops were all dead, which is okay because that usually signals that it's harvest time. I pulled them up and sighed. Skunked again.

I really like to grow garlic because it is easy to store and I cook with it a lot. You can pull them up and throw them in a paper sack, bin, or even a burlap bag and they will keep for at least a few months. I try to grow three varieties so that I get a staggered harvest, thus extending the time I can use my own bulbs instead of buying more milder flavored varieties from the grocer. I started braiding mine after seeing some for sale at a home and garden show. I'm not the craftiest person in the world, but even I can pull off a semblance of a braid. Here is a website I found that takes you through the steps:

Garlic tastes better after it's dried for a while. Sometimes when you just pull it out of the ground it can be a little green and bitter tasting. Drying evens out the flavor and intensifies the heat. I pull the garlic, trim the roots, then use a soft brush to get rid of the dirt. Sometimes I peel the outermost layer of skin just to clean them up a bit. I then braid them together and hang them someplace. I try to do the harvesting and braiding the same day while the stems are still pliable. A couple of times I have waited and it's hard to soak the stems enough so they don't break off while you are working with them.

The thing I like about these braids is that you can hang them just about anywhere. I have a great covered deck at my house so I've hung the harvest just outside of the door. I snip the lower heads off when I need them.

I am too greedy to use my stash for replanting knowing that I'll run out in January, so I've got to solve this production problem. With the amount of moisture and mild temperatures this spring, I think my theory about the heat has proven to be untrue. Perhaps it's the heavy clay soil? Or maybe the issue is that the soil itself heats up too much? My raised beds do get quite toasty.

I look through the catalogs and plot a new strategy. Maybe if if used a higher compost-to-soil ratio the ground would be more friable, airy, and not prone to heating up. I'm not ready to admit defeat and just plant Chinese Pink - especially when these other varieties promise to produce in the South.

Meanwhile, I've brought in a batch that I couldn't braid and am storing it in the kitchen inside a pair of pantyhose. Since I no longer wear nylon stockings due to a career and climate change (out of banking and into the heat), I've found them immensely useful in the garden. Great for tying things up or for stuffing with herbs and garlic to dry.

The house has taken on a bit more of an aroma on top of the usual garlicky cooking smell. Should keep the vampires and mosquitos away while being just below noxious for people less enthusiastic about the "stinking rose."  I only hope people who look at my garlic stuffed hose and then back to me aren't eyeing my legs for cellulite.  Ha!

Sunday, July 31, 2016

A Froth of Roses at the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild

This year I had the good fortune (or should I say I SPENT a fortune) to go on a extended trip to Europe.  It was my first time off of the North American continent, and I figured if I was going to go all that way, I was going to go big.
I've been planning this trip for over a year, ever since receiving an email from Earthbound Expeditions, a travel company I've toured with before.  This tour focused on gardens in Italy and France and was hosted by Garden America, a nationally syndicated radio show in San Diego, California.  Just like last time, the tour was with a small group of like-minded gardeners who were just as excited as I was to tromp around Europe and ogle plants.

There were several big highlights for me, some "aha's", and moments of extreme revelation to the point of transcendence.  I know that sounds really grandiose, but it's true.  This trip changed me in ways I could have never predicted.

My husband and I did a leg in Italy prior to the tour, and then stayed on in Paris afterward.  Recent events in the news have hit me harder than they would have prior to the trip.  I was standing in the exact same place in Nice where that truck plowed through the crowd weeks later.  My loss was not that it could have been me, but for the people of Nice that I met and the grief they are going through.  It is entirely possible that the lovely woman who was selling herbs at the market that I chatted with for over a half an hour could have been a victim.  We are all connected by these gossamer threads - there is no "us" or "them", just "we".

One of the things that I really appreciated about the organized tour is that it mixed formal estates and botanical gardens, plus a healthy dose of tourist activities in between.

I'm starting here, at the Villa Ephrussi De Rothschild, because it was so beautiful but also because we passed through Nice on the way there.

A little background from wikipedia: "The villa was designed by the French architect Aaron Messiah, and constructed between 1905 and 1912 by Baroness Béatrice de Rothschild (1864–1934) .

A member of the Rothschild banking family and the wife of the banker Baron Maurice de Ephrussi, Béatrice de Rothschild built her rose-colored villa on a promontory on the isthmus of Cap Ferrat overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The Baroness filled the mansion with antique furniture, Old Master paintings, sculptures, objets d'art, and assembled an extensive collection of rare porcelain. The gardens are classified by the French Ministry of Culture as one of the Notable Gardens of France.

On her death in 1934, the Baroness donated the property and its collections to the Académie des Beaux Arts division of the Institut de France and it is now open to the public."

Pink was the Baroness's favorite color and it is repeated everywhere on the estate.  Roses were her favorite flower and they were blooming profusely during our May visit.

What struck me about this place was that someone who really loved plants designed it.  The gardens were not just to show off, but to feature really interesting specimens - many from the New World and deemed quite exotic.  To this Texan transplant it was quite amusing, because many of our native southwest agaves and cacti were prominently showcased.
As you enter the nine gardens you are directed down the right, along the cliff and the vista of the Mediterranean Sea.  Hundred year old Olive trees guide you along the path. The older trees were transplanted, so they could very well be much older.

The hillsides at the foot of the Alps along the Cote d'Azur are terraced - and have been for over a thousand years.  This practice enabled the inhabitants to farm on flat surfaces and also served to capture the rainwater. This garden is gracefully tucked into these terraces, so you first descend into a tiled and walled Spanish themed garden.
The lushness of the plants muffles sound save for the musical tinkling of the fountain hidden in a grotto.

The Florentine garden is next. Once again you hug the edge of the property and pass by arbors until you arrive at another fountain.  The brugmansia caught my eye here.
So much to see that you dare not linger.

Up one terrace you come across the Stone Garden with it's pieces of leftover stone bits gathered from various sites.  Another lesson in European "Recycling" as our guide in Rome explained to us.

It is followed by the Japanese garden with stone lanterns and requisite bamboo thicket.

This banyon tree marked the end of that garden and offered a peek at the sea

Climb into the next terrace and I find myself at home.  "Jardin Exotique" the sign said.  My head interpreted this as "Welcome to Texas." Once again I see the Baroness' love of roses as this soft white froth is juxtaposed against the cacti. Eschewing the way we landscape with these plants - placing them as specimens surrounded by gravel or bare ground - and instead combining them as one would in an English style garden, was my "aha" moment here. Being a rose lover myself I related to this need to have those blossoms everywhere. In my garden I have them surrounded by perennials so that they peek above foliage. No more. This fall they are going to be moved and placed next to the agaves and yucca that are planted by themselves.

I have to tell you that at times I got a little disoriented.
How could it even be possible that I'm looking at Agaves next to the Mediterranean?
And here is something that I found hilarious. Due to the hot dry climate of the coastline, Agaves have escaped and become invasive species in France and Italy. HA! Payback for star thistle.
Now you climb back onto another terrace and walk all the way through the garden. The beds are quite deep but the slope allows you to view edge to edge. Reminded me of walking the canyons back in Oregon.

A fun thing that I found myself doing was taking a picture of me with a Prickly Pear at each of the gardens.

At last we come to the rose garden.  However, compared to the layout of the gardens below it, it was a bit boring.  Well, until you look at the roses.
This trellis was just one row of cattle panel staked to steel posts.  Think I'm going to do something similar - if I can find the bolt cutters.

From there you go through the Provencal Garden and then head back down the hill to the main "French" garden.  Here you see the classic symmetry and order that highlight the house.

The pools all had fountain jets that were timed to the classical music playing through discreetly placed speakers.  Eat your heart out Las Vegas.
The liveliness of the dancing fountains couldn't disturb the serenity of the lilies - who refused to be outshone by the frivolity around them.

The statuary throughout was really stunning - but hard for me to admire amongst the plethora of blossoms. Loved the Rothschild crest on this jar and the innocence of this statue on the terrace.

This place was so beautiful and we were there at peak bloom. So beautiful in fact I never once thought about how hard it would be to weed, never wondered about their pest control, and had zero interest in finding out their fertilizer schedule.  Plus I didn't go into the house - even though you are supposed to view the garden from the upstairs windows.  Very grateful that gardens like this are open to the public and that I got to visit and dream.