Fruition Flowers

01/07/2024

Just like that, it’s July. It’s hard to believe that the year is halfway over, my brain doesn’t believe it because I measure mine by brides. So far this summer, I’ve only sent eight of them down the aisle clutching my creations. While it gives me endless joy to cross things off lists, weddings aren’t always one of them. I love my brides, so letting them go from the grips of wedding planning is tough, since it’s often the only thing that tethers us. What softens the blow is all the ways I get hyped up by strangers in hotel elevators, or moms whose babies are getting married and they’re crying over a cuff that I made, out of materials that I grew. The wedding day energy is electric, and I just feel fortunate to be in the force field of it all. Saturdays post wedding exhaustion was countered by elation when I came home to a little surprise from a friend who found me through flowers; perhaps the most powerful force in my field-grown world these days. This is me, taking a big old bow, as July is an intentionally slow month for me, just one wedding, but so many road trips, beach days, and berry picking to be done in a month. Since I don’t live within the boxes of a calendar, I nearly missed American grown flowers week, we just happen to be right in the middle of that too.

19/04/2024

The face of a kid who can’t comprehend food scarcity. She’s so far removed from it that she’s been practicing her pronunciation of ‘croissant’ for that promised trip to Paris for her tenth birthday. Even after explaining what a food pantry was, she wanted to know more, begging me to let her stay at to hand daffodils out to folks who were there for something to eat, not frivolous flowers. She was disappointed we weren’t going to sell them…’not even for like ten cents?!’ -a budding capitalist. It made me think of her winter work making a business plan, she called me from her watch to ramble on about said plan, punctuated by the over emphasized word ‘payday’. Meanwhile, me, a business owner who should be the one planning for future paydays, I try not to let myself get caught up in little financial failures like too many daffodils. I can’t be bothered with business plans that pertain to each and every crop, but I’m happy to cut every flower out in the field, so they’re not left there, blooming for no one. Thank you and for being the best kind of bother by asking for centerpieces for your events, it’s kept me busy during these weddingless weekends and reminded me that there are never too many daffodils. I told my sweet little niece that we have plenty more daffodils where those came from, and when you have an abundance of something, you should share it with those who don’t. For any of you who might be experiencing your own payday today, I’ll have these stocked at 💸

07/04/2024

Here’s to being more like a hellebore. Sure, I’m not one to rush out of hibernation, seed starting isn’t my strong suit. But the notion of living all my years in one place, preferably a well shaded piece of New Hampshire is my squinty blue eyed dream come true. I’m trying harder to be a perennial princess, disappearing for the winter to visit other hellebores living in Scottish castles or formal French gardens, banking away all my energy and inspiration to bloom bigger each spring. Their rubbery stems and leathery blooms were unfazed by those greasy four inches of April snow. They sprung up to show their leathery faces the very next day, like me in a way. If you’re one of those who asks what flower farmers do all winter, it’s this: hibernate in hopes of storing enough energy to bloom for another year. And tax accounting, seed starting, reading, dahlia dividing, garden planning, wallpapering, wedding proposal writing, applying for federal funding, and above all traveling to see what’s blooming elsewhere. Oftentimes travel seeds a subtle affirmation that I’m planted in the most perfect place in the whole world, near my own hill of hellebores. I guess I’m not so far off from becoming one.

13/10/2023

Scavenging every last stem from the field to be dried for , just a few weeks away. I hate being the face of my business, but it was probably the single most useful piece of advice I took away from my time in Washington with . Most days are spent slathered with SPF 50, tending to a field full of these pretty faces, so I’d rather show theirs, not mine. But these flowers can’t sell themselves, so I’m showing up on Sunday, November 5th, hoping to see all your lovely faces, even if just to say ‘hi’! says I don’t have to wear makeup, so I won’t, nor will my flowers, all of which are free of dyes, preservatives, and pesticides; ALWAYS.

08/10/2023

Another soggy Saturday behind us. Fortunately, the once reluctant brides are making the call whether or not to brave the rain before I even arrive; because nothing is worse than pressing a couple to change their ceremony plans that we have been working towards for a year or more. My own weather related woes killed so many of my annuals in one night, throwing me into an existential crisis mid May. So I slammed in the dahlia tubers I hadn’t bothered to sell over the winter and here we are. The rain rotted plenty of them, which felt like another cruel reminder that you can’t count on the weather, even after five years of drought. This variety is called ‘diva’ and she really lives up to the name with blooms so big that they’re toppled by too much rain. The ombré color that develops in time makes it worth not cutting every stem, so she can age to perfection…just like the rest of us fabulously aging divas.

05/10/2023

Once a week, for the past two months, my dad gripes about this gorgeous dahlia, and how I never cut it. The tuber it sprung from was supposed to be ‘belle of barmera’, but it grew into this beautiful behemoth with a distinct egg yolk yellow center. In my experience, this style seems to last as long on your table as a glass of milk. The mention of my ‘experience’ and a casual reference to boiling stems for a longer vase life motivated my dad to return minutes later with a copper pot and blow torch, insisting on an experiment. It didn’t help. So now, the only dahlia in the field that has no name, seldom gets cut, and has starred in a couple dramatic ceremony designs will be retired, only to live on in landscaping applications. Standing at a little more than six feet tall, on long, strong, black stems, I’ll be lucky to have her peeking in my windows next summer. In fact, I’m considering naming her Cindy Crawford, that 90s supermodel and MTV host whose trademark mole made me hate my own face (and the mole on it) a little less. My dad has always called it my beauty mark. 🥹

25/09/2023

On the equinox of autumn I delivered my 30th wedding of the season. The rushes of adrenaline and dopamine leave me emotionally exhausted, but the impact of my art is always the most astounding part of wedding work. Strangers stop me in hotel hallways or keep me company when setting up an installation at some beautiful ocean side ceremony site, because flowers have friendly faces, even when I’m too tired to squeeze out a disarming smile. Brides leave me love notes on their day, thanking me for flowers they haven’t even met yet. To think I wanted to be an artist as a kid was pretty laughable, turns out being left handed doesn’t qualify you to attain any actual skill, no matter how many classes my grandmother paid for. I never imagined a medium outside of paint or pastels, and growing up alongside real artists like , I knew I didn’t have the skill to paint or draw something anyone wanted to look at. I’m so fortunate to have found my palette and grow my own medium; every bit of this wedding was cultivated at my folks’ farm in Newmarket. The groom and I grew up in this little town, our moms met before we were born, taking the bus to UNH. It was sometime in the early nineties, while I was still taking those after school art classes that the groom’s grandmother’s house was demolished; taken by eminent domain. It was a beautiful house with a curved plaster wall, probably the nicest in our scrubby little neighborhood. After it was gone, my mom and I dug up the hollyhocks from the lot that was left behind. Memories made around flowers are the ones that stick with me, so, in spite of this being an ephemeral art, I imagine my work lives on in the memories of other people’s minds.

05/09/2023

I’m not a purist. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m more farmer or florist, but I feel more like a farmer. It’s likely the sensation of being stung by a half dozen ground wasps when you’re trying to get some w**ds whacked that anchors me in this resolve. Maybe it’s the endless hours spent in the field, harvesting, w**ding, watering, fertilizing, singing, and belching because that’s one of the beauties of being alone out there, right? I found out when I hit that wasp nest and they hit me back so hard that my neighbors can hear me; swearing and running, I left the w**d whacker sputtering like only a two stroke can. The sound of which triggered my neighbors to think that maybe someone had an accident with a chainsaw, so they came over to check on me, only to find the w**d whacker, still running amidst a swarm of ground wasps. When they called I was already on the couch, waiting for the antihistamine to kick in, mortified and sorry that I had caused such a stir, but glad to know they’re looking out for me. So when I need to play the part of florist for the weekends, to create ephemeral art for a couples wedding day, I always feel like an imposter, trying to hide my filthy farmer fingernails. At the same time, I hide work like this pretty pocket square from my feed because I didn’t grow 100% of it; I needed to buy in that steely blue thistle to accomplish a color pop so seldom seen in nature. I’ve recently realized how ridiculous it is to tuck away what goes into the making of the bouquets and boutonnières that are such a big part of my business; my brides trust me to execute their vision using as many local flowers and foliage as possible, and for that I’m so grateful. Meanwhile, I’m out here with the occasional slug in my sandal, still looking for the AirPod I lost in the wasp assault, and accepting the reality that I can’t fart in the field anymore.

24/07/2023

‘Saturated sunset’. Saturday had me hearing my own alliteration come from someone else’s mouth. I had forgotten that was what I called her color palette nearly a year ago when I began planning this wedding with and I guess it stuck, because her bridesmaids were crediting me with putting a name to the color combination she so loved. It wasn’t easily executed, but thanks to contributions from , , , and a beloved family-owned nursery who contributed those vanilla clouds of lisianthus but can’t be bothered with social media; I pulled it off. As .senesombath helped me hustle what felt like a million bud vases into position , inquired about some flowers for a flat-lay, she said she heard that I often bring something I call a ‘f*** it bucket’ for such occasions…which is true, because I love rhymes too 😳😂

23/06/2023

It’s been a little more than a month since Jack Frost made a late season visit to this Jill. I feel like a whole new version of myself thanks to all of you who offered help and condolences (and plants!) to dull the despair over the loss of my little seedlings. even sent me flowers, arranged in a vase, by someone other than me; a luxury I seldom experience. Even though this will be the June without the freckled fairy bells of Martagon lilies, the campanulas are bringing (and ringing) the bells, and the foxglove is feeding me all the freckles my designs could demand. I’m sure the lesson in all this is to never plant before Memorial Day, but my take away is this: never skip a once in a lifetime trip with a friend like to stay home and tend to seedlings all spring. You’ll probably kill them all anyway and wish you went. Since I panic planted hundreds of dahlia tubers to make up for my lost crops, there won’t be much for flowers until August. Trying to decide between Reykjavík and Copenhagen for July, because I refuse to waste my life waiting for seeds to sprout or flowers to bloom.

19/05/2023

Farmer blues. The hue that hosts existential crises in an already crowded mind, coloring how I see the world, and my place in it. Wednesday night, mid-May, a devastatingly late frost descended on my little flower farm and killed 550 seedlings that I had started from seed. My dad had helped me cover them with frost cloth, using bulb crates to further protect the tiny plants from being crushed by said cloth, which was animated by Wednesday’s wild wind. It isn’t so much the financial loss that’s got me gutted; it’s the time. The hours spent hunched over seed trays in the basement for the last few months, multiplied by the realization that I may not cut a single stem of amaranthus until August. Farming has never been an easy equation, but if the frost took the peonies too, the sum of the damage might mean that farming flowers will be an impossible feat for me in 2023. I’ll grow what I need for the weddings (the lisianthus lives on!), but may need to refund subscribers and cancel the CSA. Excuse me if I disappear for a year.

09/05/2023

My most beautiful buoys. Hellebores keep me afloat when spring brings wild windy weather, when my seedlings are suffering, and when brides begin to emerge from hibernation in a flurry of emails. It’s my busiest time of year; when I frequently promise ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ since so much of the success of the season sits squarely on how many seeds I can coax into germination. This is the closest I’ll ever feel to being a mother; the heartache of all the little ways you imagine you could do it better. Fortunately for me it’s just seedlings, a failed tray of little living things left to harden off too long in the sun is a set back, but it’s not a baby with a sunburn. I’ll never forget how my own mom said she brought one of my summer born sisters to the beach when they were a week old. No umbrella. That’s the type of maternal oversight I don’t think I could handle, the kind that’s shared and shouldered by a little dependent. But if you ever ask, all three of us would say we had the best mom ever; juggling a career in IT when it was in it’s infancy, pitching at softball games, and leading our Girl Scout troops. She tolerated all the fighting, all the ‘S.U.’s we slung at each other, since she had barred the phrase ‘shut up’. Motherhood is hard, made harder by certain inevitabilities like squabbling sisters and the sun. Spoil your mom this Sunday with fresh local flowers like these special shade lovers, whose freckles aren’t sun damage, so don’t call CPS.

22/12/2022

Holy smokes folks! I can’t get over how many subscribers signed up yesterday to receive fresh, local flowers in 2023! Every purchase is a testament to the fact that the work I’m doing is appreciated, and since you’re all willing to make this investment weeks before the first seeds are sown, I’m shown just how much you trust in this little farm. Covid hit my subscription service hard when offices shut down, and the rebound has been slow. One of my favorite ways to spread the word about local flowers is through all of you; anyone who hosts a drop off point of 8+ subscribers gets theirs 50% off. Nothing gives me more joy than going into an air conditioned office building to deliver whole buckets of bouquets to supporters stuck inside behind a desk on some of the most beautiful days of the season. It sort of feels like bringing the sunshine indoors, without all the humidity and mosquitoes.🦟

21/12/2022

The writer in me is finally following through on one of my favorite rules: show, don’t tell. In celebration of solstice and longer days ahead, I’m offering something soft, fragrant, living, and local: these sweet ‘snow bunny’ bouquets! 🐇They’re available for free with the purchase of a 2023 flower subscription which go live on the site today at 10AM! ⏰ I can’t think of a better way to show your loved one just how unique, texture-rich, and long lasting local flowers can be. 💐 Plus, I’ve already done all the wrapping for you by sliding this jolly bunch of eucalyptus, cedar, native dogwood, and dried bunny tails into their recycled paper sleeves. ♻️ These cuties aren’t just nice to look at, they offer a whole sensory experience of touch and smell too.👃🏼Above all else, something I’ve learned to really relish in 2022 is a little thing called anticipation. These deliver just that: peak anticipation for the flower-filled seasons ahead, so much better than anticipating a late Amazon package, that’s for sure! 😘

24/10/2022

There’s something about that last bridal bouquet of the season; whether it’s wild with autumn foliage or tame and tight with just a tuft of bunny tail, it’s always my favorite. Maybe it’s because I grew every bit of it, or because I get my weekends back, but most likely it’s because I can let myself exhale a little, and stop worrying if my lisianthus patch will provide enough apricot for a half dozen bridesmaids bouquets. Most summer Saturdays fly by in a blur, which is why, I guess, I never pause to take pictures, and even if I did, there’s something too personal about posting them here. Maybe it’s really because my stupid chicken cutlet hand always ruins the picture. Whatever the reason, my brides are precious to me, and are a big part of what keep this farm afloat. Thank you all for allowing me to be such a big part of your unique celebrations. Time to put these meat mitts to work cutting down and digging up the dahlias. ✂️

17/10/2022

Loved being a part of this colorful celebration 🎉

05/09/2022

The last subscriber bouquets of 2022. I don’t say often enough how much I appreciate each one of my subscribers, how after another weekend packed with wedding pastels, I flee to the solitude of the flower field and harvest whole rainbows, heaps of bright colors that would make most brides bristle. The subscribers take away all the stems too short for the florists, or the weird ones with too much texture; all within twelve hours from the time they were cut from the field. The symbiosis is really splendid: I don’t have to try and sell the stuff I’m drowning in. If only I could bundle up my melancholy for the end of another fleeting season and slip it into a sleeve, I bet my shareholders would make that go away too.

25/08/2022

The only pause I’ve taken this summer seems to be in parking lots. Since memory is such a faulty friend, I catalog bloom times in photos. I suppose it’s the same reason most people take pictures; to capture things just as they are in this moment. Of course, I find faults, which is why I seldom share said pictures here. The veined, exposed backside of the plectranthus leaf is something I wish I could go back and fix, like every bad photo of myself. But those raised arteries make me think of the way my niece first noticed the veins I hide on the backs of my knees. She traced them with her tiny fingers and told me how beautiful the colors are; all inky purple and blue, and it felt like this six year old had the wisdom to see my body’s flaws in a way I should have been looking at them all along. After all, I’m the one who’s encouraged these kids to call my big face mole a chocolate chip.🍪

07/06/2022

Dancing in the peonies. In actuality, I was boosting this little boy up on a bucket so he wouldn’t be swallowed by foliage for the photo. I appreciate for capturing these in between moments, when you’re readying for that shot only for the perfectly imperfect preparatory image to be your favorite forever. But that’s just what life’s like; we spend our time preparing for the big events only for the most mundane moments to turn into something more. While you’re waiting for the next big thing, stop and smell the peonies. These fluffy, fragrant blooms have a short season, just like little boys. Visit the web shop for something to smell on, peonies to order for pickup on the cart.

20/05/2022

This was the spring where the whole state seemed to be steeped in the most heady lilac flush I’ve ever smelled. Lately life has felt so perfect it’s seemingly staged, like the setting to story, and I’m the main character. When I tried to describe this feeling to a friend a few weeks ago, she hadn’t heard of this concept; being the main character, so I tried to explain…You know, when the cherry trees turn to tossed confetti on the same day that you sit down to a table of six southpaws to sign the papers to buy your new house. The new house I wouldn’t have gotten if not for the selling agent being the dad of my friend and fellow florist who helped to make it mine. I realized I was just describing a series of coincidences, and it’s likely these are always there, I just haven’t had the right frame of mind to find them. Like these foxglove; I would ordinarily be disappointed that they didn’t bloom in time for Mother’s Day, but instead I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for wonderful florists who buy these blooms. Delivering to them this week was just what I needed, well that and the warm hugs that I was welcomed back with. Time to trace some new tools on the wall of this workshop. ✂️

25/04/2022

You know what the biggest joy of this job is? Giving flowers. I mean, it’s sort of wild the way people pay me to deliver vases that trigger immediate happiness in their recipients, and I’m the one who gets to see it spread over their faces. This week, for my spring subscribers, I’m including an extra bundle of blooms to give away; a high I hope everyone gets to experience. If you’d like to remain under the influence of flowers, keep the dose of grape hyacinth to put up your own nose, it’s pretty intoxicating too.

22/04/2022

Lately life has felt so surreal that I don’t have a place to put all the feelings, and then flower season starts and it only floods me with more. These ‘Rio Carnivale’ have me missing travel to warmer climates, knowing I’m nailed down now that the season has begun. When I worked for a financial advisor (yes me!) I spent my days executing trades and sweating through my shirt in an air conditioned office, when someone from the back office (my only form of human contact) likened the overwhelm to ‘drinking out of a fire hose’ which was woefully apt. I’ve long since traded the series 6 and 63 along with pressed skirts for garden hoses and overalls, but I’ll always keep that phrase in my bib pocket for days when I’m drowning. Which makes me think of one of my favorite poems, ‘Not Waving But Drowning’ and realized maybe that’s where I should be putting all these feelings, in poetry, not prose.

20/03/2022

Some solutions aren’t as sweet as cherries and caramels, but these delectable ‘cherry caramel’ phlox are part of my plan to rent (and fuel💸) a greenhouse. When I learned my grower friend wouldn’t be supplying seedlings this year, I had to practice the thing that I hated most in the pandemic; pivoting. Fortunately, another acquaintance had a greenhouse that they were looking to rent for the season, so here I am, growing more flowers than I could ever fit in my little farm. In celebration of the spring equinox, I’ll be opening up an online seedling shop; a mix of rare, seldom retailed varieties of cut flowers available in carefully curated trays for pre-order. So, even if you’re not keen on starting your own rarities from seed, you can still have these gorgeous gals (and many others) grace your garden this season. Shop drops Monday, the first full day of spring!

14/02/2022

This day is for the broken hearted, the Sylvia-Plath-loving beekeepers like me, whose strongest hive was confirmed dead this weekend. To be honest, I don’t know when they died, which might be the saddest bit, they could have perished while I was steeping in selfish behavior in Paris, like a loved one left in a lonely living room chair. While I’m being honest, I’ve been too busy catching up on client work and exercising my vacation inspiration to make things like these bell jars (Parisians love dried flowers!) to be bothered. It wasn’t til I’d been back for a dozen days did I crack the waxy lid and check. I could blame the bad weather, but I didn’t want to face my own failure; I may have treated them for mites too late in the season, but there was plenty of honey to get them through, so there’s some solace in the fact that they didn’t starve. What happens in that white wooden box over winter is too mysterious to guess. Bell jars filled with everlasting blooms are available at for all those last-minute lovers.

24/01/2022

Woke up in Paris, worrying about my ranunculus that are sprouting in the basement at the farm 3,000 miles away. I caught myself wondering if they’re too wet or dry or cold or warm, my mind keeps going to that dark corner of the hand dug cellar, while my body is here in the city of light. I’ve been here before, as a careless kid in ‘99, and as a poor college student in ‘06, but this third time is truly charmed. This one is just for me; gardens and art, wine and pain au chocolat. Sleeping in is excused as enduring jetlag and seed starting feels like a distant nightmare. These balmy 45* Parisian days feel most exotic, and in a way I do too; having chopped off half my hair on the day I departed, I don’t really recognize myself. This stranger in a strange land role really suits me. Oh, and since I’m so sure the ranunculus are just fine, I decided to slap some more spring shares up on the site, since they got snapped up so quickly last week. Here’s to a week of dodging the ‘rona, not visiting the Eiffel Tower, and charging up my creativity one croissant at a time! 🥂

20/01/2022

14/01/2022

Spring flowers evoke those warm feels with their sweet smells and familiar faces, but fresh flowers are fleeting, which is why, in part, they feel like such a luxury. People seem to save them for the special stuff, only indulging for weddings and funerals. On Tuesday I had the honor of delivering flowers to my former high school principal, who lost her husband, sent by a friend. While I stood in her door, I considered apologizing for that time I skipped school and lied about it, all at the behest of my badass friend Becky. I decided not to. Mostly because I don’t regret a thing about that day and how we spent it, especially since Becky would be gone at just 20. I’ll never forget the coral pink color her twin sister chose to bury her in, and I’ll never not think of her in spring when these quince bloom. As sad as the smell of a funeral home lily can make me, flowers can really mend a heart like no other. If you foresee needing some spring blooms to help lift you out of hibernation, the spring bouquet subscription is available on the site.

22/12/2021

Awakening from the longest night, stretching my thoughts past all the darkness I’m mired in towards spring. This feels like the right time to give us all something to look forward to, some brightness to behold. Flower bouquet subscriptions are available on the site beginning at 9AM. I’m encouraging anyone else who may have been forced to cancel their self-love trip to Paris next month, or signed divorce papers last week, or whose birthday is overshadowed by Jesus’, or whose Christmas joy has been halved by covid to buy themselves a spot of weekly seasonal botanical bliss….speaking from an abundance of experience over here😏 There’s a whole lot in this life that we can’t control, but self care in the form of farm fresh sustainable flowers isn’t one of them.

24/11/2021

Four months in the making, Arquette Apothecary is ready to unveil elderberry syrup! Loaded with immune boosting vitamins and antioxidants, this precious purple potion is making its debut at for outside 12-6:00. What began as a Christmas gift to make my father the elderberry jelly his grandmother made for him as a child, I got carried away and collected far more than that batch of jelly required. My dad is the kind of person who has no use for things sold in stores, has never owned a cell phone, and would rather drive a vehicle with a carburetor than a computer. I can trust that Luddite won’t see this and the jars of jelly are a social media secret, if there ever was such a thing.

22/11/2021

My assigned name was Adele in all four years of high school French, so I can’t help but feel it’s kismet that her divorce album would be the soundtrack for my own. She’s been keeping me company during these nights in my baby sister’s basement bedroom, through the catharsis of creating these delicate dried floral designs as the cold creeps in. It’s in the flowers fragility, and the way they’re suspended in time, all at once bright and textured, balancing on stems that are shriveled and dead. These beautiful boxes will last longer than my ten year marriage, but you can always toss it in your Christmas fire when/if you’re ready for something fresh.