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FORCED SPRING BULBS

NORMALLY, Tulipa clusiana ‘Cynthia’ does not make my heart race. For sure, it’s nice enough. With alternating whisper-pink and white petals on slender 2-inch (5cm) flowers, ‘Cynthia’ would not be rated as a showstopper when it unfolds in the garden outdoors. Bring that little baby onto your windowsill in winter, though, and you’ll be singing the hosannas with a whole different fervor. Proof again that a few tulip flowers in winter are worth a whole bulb meadow in spring.

It’s been a long time since I tried to survive winter without bulbs. Many years ago, I learned it was possible to coax spring bulbs to perform prematurely indoors. Ever since, I’ve enjoyed orchestrating that sneak peek at the growing season on my windowsill. Did I say enjoyed? What I really mean is that bulbs serve up salvation. I would not miss this opportunity for the world.

You’ve undoubtedly caught wind of the phenomenon. By pre-chilling bulbs, waiting patiently (or not so patiently) for several weeks, you can prod narcissus, tulips, muscari, puschkinias, fritillarias, and other harbingers of spring to blossom precociously in your home. You don’t really skip their dormant sequence, but you cut it short. You cheat. And it’s golden to have a few little bulbs happening in the warm, cozy recesses of your home when everything outside is still locked in the Big Chill.

Most spring bulbs are capable of serving as lifesavers. I’ve had resounding success with potted narcissus of all sorts (but the dwarfs and the cyclamineus types, in particular, lend themselves to forcing because they blossom earliest), tulips (especially species tulips and their kin, such as Tulipa bakeri ‘Lilac Wonder’, Tulipa batalinii ‘Bronze Charm’, Tulipa ‘Lady Jane’, Tulipa linifolia, and Tulipa marjolettii because they perform after a particularly brief chilling sequence), scillas, puschkinias, Iris cristata, fritillarias (crown imperials are within the realm of possibility, but smell distinctly skunky—a trait that can be vexing in close quarters; I go with the guinea hens, Fritillaria meleagris), and Allium karataviense, to mention only my most tried-and-true favorites. Hyacinths are a mainstay as well, partly because they’re so simple. Most of the early blooming hyacinths perform without refrigeration after arrival. Apparently, the pre-chilling they received from my vendors is sufficient (and I always obtain my bulbs through the mail to ensure the highest quality and proper storage treatment). Grape hyacinths (muscari) and crocus also perform when put in expedited mode, but the flowers come and go so rapidly, the payback is too brief. And you can often find growing, budded, or even blooming muscari at the supermarket, effectively skipping all the prep work and going straight to the glittering prize.

The prep work that I refer to is the pre-chilling sequence. You can cheat nature only to a certain degree; you have to play her game. Every year, right after we clear Thanksgiving, you can find me at my potting bench (which is just a standard-issue flea-market worktable). This moment is like Christmas, my birthday, Independence Day, and all other celebratory junctures rolled into one. In preparation, I amass an arsenal of forcing containers that far exceeds my horde of bulbs. (There is no need to go for the traditional shallow, glazed forcing pots. Any container will do the trick. But on a practical level, containers must fit into the refrigerator, leaving some space for food.)

I tuck as many bulbs of the same type as possible cheek to jowl in each container, placing them an inch or two below soil level using an organic potting mix with compost included. Combos can be tricky. My advice is, don’t bother. Those happy jumbles of hyacinths, scillas, muscari, tulips, and daffodils all thrown into one container and touted as synchronizing perfectly in blossom rarely (if ever) perform in unison as advertised. I’ve given up on the mixed bag in favor of one cultivar per container. When two pots of bulbs coincide in blossom, I display them side by side. It works for me.

If you’ve come to the conclusion that houseplants have railroaded my home, you should see the refrigerator. When the bulbs first arrive, I stash them unplanted in the salad-crisper drawers. After they are potted into containers, they pretty much monopolize the refrigerator for the duration of the chilling period, until signs of growth begin to sprout (when in doubt, leave them in the refrigerator—removing too early will result in foliage, but no flowers). And if you prefer to reserve your fridge for food, other options are the cellar, garage, barn, barely heated mudroom, or any place that remains around 40°F to 45°F (4–7°C) and does not freeze. In the refrigerator, the planted bulbs are monitored to make sure the soil hasn’t dried out during the 8- to 12-week cold treatment (tulip hybrids can take 15 to 18 weeks). After chilling, they come out as needed to brighten what could be a dangerously boring blip in time. I put mine in a bright window while they start to send up growth. The hope is that the winter sun (especially reflected on the snow) will be sufficiently bright to keep the stems from stretching. The fact that I keep my house quite cool also helps to prevent legginess, while also keeping my mother in the steady business of knitting sweaters. As another perk, the chilly environment also prolongs the flowers when they come. Blossoms are the big payoff. So, to make them linger longer, I usually move the bulbs away from direct sun while they’re performing.

And there you have it. A few simple steps that mark the difference between abject, unmitigated ennui and a long stint of anticipation and enthralling performance. Sure, the flower colors might not be as radiant as they would be outdoors. Absolutely, the stems might stretch a little longer than they would in the garden. But you will not be disappointed. If winter is your malady, forced bulbs are the cure.