Queen Ann’s lace is practically a weed in these parts, and for many years I decried and condemned it as such. (As is so often the case, I was the cause of my own trauma, having plucked a plant from the roadside and bringing it back to my childhood home, where it soon filled the entire garden with volunteers quickly putting those stalwart taproots down like little carrots, and giving me ample weeding opportunities.) As much as I’ve come to appreciate the plant and its delicate lace-like flowers, it has no place in the cultivated garden.
Its use as a cut flower is also iffy in my experience. Sometimes it’s grand, and sometimes the flowers wilt no matter what kind of magic one employs. While I can relate to and respect that sort of temperamental moodiness, I’m approaching the age where I just don’t have the energy for such games. Best to admire this beauty from afar, along the edges of things, where roads and meadows mingle, and the sun illuminates the creamy dreaminess of the blooms.
