I like to grow interesting vegetables, and when I stumbled across these Winter Onions at a swap meet, I knew I had to add them to my garden.  Little did I know how interesting they really were.

Winter Onions go by several different names:  Egyptian Walking Onions, Tree Onions, and Top Onions.  Each of these names describes a different characteristic of the plant.

Homesteaders of days gone by kept a patch of these onions in their garden year round.  Even Thomas Jefferson had them growing in his garden at Monticello!  They are a perennial plant that can take extremely cold temperatures, so our ancestors grew these onions along with their other permanent vegetables like rhubarb and asparagus.  They always survived the winter, that's why they're called "Winter Onions".

The other names refer to how the onions actually grow.  The plant forms a small bulb below ground and a cluster of baby bulbs on top of their tall, hollow stalks.  Hence the name "Top Onion".  The tiny bulbs begin to sprout, and the resulting mass resembles miniature tree branches--that's where the "Tree Onion" name comes in.  Eventually these clusters become too heavy for the stalk to bear, so the stalk tips over, the bulbs touch the ground, and they begin to take root.  This helps the plant spread, or "walk".  The "Egyptian" part of the name most likely refers to the fascination the Egyptians had with onions, but no one knows for sure.  It certainly makes the plant sound more exotic!

Every part of this onion plant is edible.  That feature made it incredibly valuable to the old-timers, who couldn't run to Wal-Mart every time their cupboard got a bit low.  The root bulb, though smaller than the onions we buy at the supermarket, can be used just like any other onion.  The stalks can be chopped and used like chives, and they're milder than the onion bulb itself.  The baby bulbs are very flavorful and are great in soups and stews, and some folks even pickle them!

A few years back I mentioned finding these onions to my granny and I asked her if she knew about them.  She said, "Why, yes.  I've been growing those onions since I was a kid.  Go on out back and dig you up a few of mine and add them to your patch.  I hate to see them die off when I'm gone."  So I did.  And now those very onions that have been in my family for a hundred years have started to walk right out of their spot in my garden.  I can take the hint, so this spring I'll be out there digging my onions and passing them around to anybody in my family who wants to grow a little part of Granny's garden.  Sadly, we don't have her with us anymore, but by golly, we can sure honor her wishes by keeping her onion patch alive!

If you've ever taken a drive through the countryside in late summer, you've probably seen this vine growing along the roadside.  Covered in tiny white blossoms, it twines around any sturdy object it can find.  I've spotted it creeping over abandoned homesteads, scrambling along rickety fence rows, and even climbing vintage trellis' in backyards of stately old townhomes. 
I never knew what it was.  But that didn't stop me from wanting it.  Even so, I had never managed to score a cutting. 

      

Then last Spring I noticed a plant starting to vine up one of my old cement hitching posts.  I vaguely recalled sticking a small start of clematis there that I picked up at a local plant sale. All summer long I watched my mystery clematis scamper up the post and amble along the chain toward the other side.  I thought it would be one of the purple-flowered varieties popular in countless gardens, and I waited in anticipation for the blossoms to appear.  Though when the buds finally burst open, they revealed not the glorious royal hue I was expecting, but a mass of frothy white incredibly fragrant blossoms.  It suddenly dawned on me that what I had was not the well-behaved clematis I expected, but the very vine that had perplexed and eluded me for years.

After a bit of research and the help of Pinterest, I discovered it's name:  Sweet Autumn Clematis.   Originating in Japan and immigrating to this country by-way-of Texas, this clematis can reach lengths of 30ft in just one growing season.  It certainly lives up to its name by bursting into bloom in late summer like a trumpeter heralding the arrival of Fall.  Then the dainty, star-like blossoms emit such a sweet aroma that the butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds simply can't resist it.  

After the show-stopping rush of blooms, it performs an stunning encore in the form of wispy silver fronds swirling around coffee-hued seedpods.  Whew!  I'm exhausted just thinking about it.  And in awe of the performance.  To put it simply, I'm thrilled to finally have my very own  "garden star".  Not to mention, relieved to shed light on its identity and finally solve the mystery.  Even if it was by accident!

Sunflowers are a must in my summer garden.  This spring I planted the seeds around the inside of my garden fence, and they sprouted up in no time. 

The first and fastest grower was the Mammoth Sunflower, which grew to a whopping ten feet tall!  The bloom itself was a good 15 inches from petal to petal.  It was so heavy that even the 6" inch diameter stalk it grew on couldn't quite support it, so it just hung it's head and slowly went to seed.

But that was fine with me because the seeds are really what I'm after.  Sure, I love a beautiful 15" bloom as much as anybody, but the seeds are such a tasty and nutritious treat for my chickens that I don't mind it when the flower fades.  I watch for this to happen, then I cut the sunflower head off and let it dry in the greenhouse for a few days.  Once I'm convinced that all the moisture has evaporated out of the seeds, I rake them into a mason jar and store them in the cabinet.  There they sit until in winter is in full swing, the snow is flying, and the garden is frozen solid.  That's when I reach in the cabinet, grab a jar of seeds, and head out to the coop. 

I think the flock can smell them coming, because they're always gathered at the door, quivering with anticipation as they watch me approach.  I usually just end up emptying out the jar right there at the door because they won't even let me through to the feeder!  They squawk and scratch like crazy, furiously pecking at the seeds.  If you'd like to see a happy chicken, just come over next time I do this.  They are thrilled, to put it simply, and so am I--everybody needs a little winter pick-me-up!