Early on in June, The Daily Cupcake is giving plenty of notice: June is a month to enjoy roses.
Stop and smell them. Better yet, plant them, then (kindly) stop others and insist they smell them. Nevermind. Any way my imagination plays out the scenario, the neighbors are unhappy. Happy blog. Happy place.
Moving on. Evidently, we have Marco Polo and his fellow Asiatic explorers to thank for the hybrid, burbon, tea selections, etc. since the more glamorous roses come from Asia and India (or is India considered part of Asia?). Then in the early 1800s, French Empress Josephine was an influential patroness of the flower, championing their collection and breeding.
And from there things have spun way out of control.
That’s the only explanation as to why in 2006, the Chelsea Garden Club proudly announced the most expensive rose ever to be developed, costing a whopping $5.54 million USD and 14 years of development.
Simply called ‘Juliet’, it doesn’t appear any more elite than what could be found in a local nursery. Obviously, I don’t know my roses. But with a labryinth of names and varieties, who wouldn’t be clueless?
Which begs another question, what does a girl have to do to have a rose named after her? (Please, consider the question rhetorical.) I had thought it would be cool to have a rose named after me until I read a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt and changed my mind:
“I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.”