I associate amaryllis with the winter holidays. An exotic flower for us, gifted when we’re fortunate, and occupying a central and highly visible perch, usually in the kitchen. Not sure why the kitchen except that there’s water handy, and life revolves around the kitchen this time of year, so the progress — from voluminous bulb to strappy leaves and robust stems to extravagant blooms — is omnipresent. We comment on the the rising and the unfolding, each time surprised by how much grandeur can explode out of that bursting bulb.
And like so many blooms that we cultivate, that we await and monitor and celebrate, the amaryllis is part of the elusive collection-cum-constellation I’ve been attempting to corral, the ingredients for a home. My home. For homeness. My homeness. What makes a house a home? Well, somewhere high on the list are plants. And this time of year there may be no more regal reminder of how beholden I am to these exuberant houseguests.
Today, I’ll defer to these blooms, a