And no, we aren’t speaking soccer.
Updated January 13, 2021
Even although winters are about as delicate as they arrive in my hometown of Charleston, South Carolina, I’ve at all times dreaded the season, with its grey skies and naked branches and noncommittal perspective in direction of the climate (frost on the bottom one morning, 70 levels the following). But there may be one redeeming high quality of winter that retains me from praying away its existence altogether: It’s camellia season. Their waxy emerald leaves and ruffled petals in creamy whites and sensible pinks are welcome indicators of life in an in any other case Melba-toast panorama, a promise that spring and its razzle-dazzle colours will come again quickly, if we’re just a bit affected person.
My dad planted the camellia bushes in our yard some twenty years in the past, grafting them from the backyard of candy Mrs. Edith, our former neighbor who had a knack for rising inexperienced issues that I’ve not witnessed since. And yearly, when the camellia blooms make their look, so too does the crystal bowl that usually lives in our eating room hutch.
It’s a shallow bowl with a wide lip, and whereas in idea it may be used to serve salads or sides, we have solely ever used it for floating camellias in an inch or two of water, a homegrown tackle Monet’s water lilies that bursts with shade. It sits on the kitchen counter or the eating room desk all season, crammed with a rotating solid of flowers till the final blossom lastly browns.
Because one was such a constant a part of my very own childhood, I assumed “camellia bowls” had been a factor in every single place, at the very least within the South. But after I began Googling to find out its origins, the Camellia Bowl that saved popping up was the faculty soccer showdown that takes place in Montgomery,