Marge sent a bonus gift assortment, including a paperwhite narcissus kit.

The kit included a generous, goldwashed metal bowl containing four robust bulbs, each sprouting new leaves. Below them lay a chocolate-brown disc, maybe three inches across and half an inch deep. It was packaged in plastic. On one side was a notice: “Do Not Eat” because it looked like an overgrown cookie.

Holding all this together was a cardboard strip, with directions for starting the bulbs into growth and flowering. The bowl and its contents came from India and Sri Lanka.

I took everything out of the bowl and peeled the plastic from the disc. The first directions ordered me to add 3 1/2 cups of warm water to the bowl, where the disc now lay.

I let the water expand the disc. When it was completely absorbed, I took an old kitchen fork and pulled the particles apart. Now the dampened material fluffed up as I poked and raked the “soil” all the way to the bottom of the bowl.

Following directions, I set the four bulbs on the brown stuff, about an inch apart, with their beginning leaves pointed upward. About 1/3 of each bulb was above the planting medium. 

I moved the bulbs in their pot to a cool (not cold) place near the trio of 6-year-old amaryllis now thinking of blooming again. I watered all those pots.

Now it’s waiting time. In six to eight weeks, they say, I should expect those dazzling white, heavily scented blooms to fill the pot. But before that, I’ll move the narcissus into more light. 

Since Sri Lanka is equatorial, I am not believing that, as the package recommends, after they finish flowering I can plant the forced bulbs outdoors for future blossoming. Maybe it’s possible in Maryland, but not in Maine. But I can follow the same procedure with other bulbs next year. 

Perhaps I’ll try some heirloom narcissus from Old House Gardens, which is finishing its 20th year as a first-rate antique bulb mail order business. For engaging bulb-and-plant history, try newsletter@oldhousegardens.com/. 

To refresh your memory: Narcissus is the botanical name for those mostly-trumpeted spring flowers. Or call them daffodils, as does the American Daffodil Society. Many New England people refer to all daffodils as “jonquils,” but that name really refers to one delightful kind.

Now: that “chocolate cookie”? 

This is compressed coir, the word from the Malayan “koyaru.” Coir is the material between the outside of a ripe, hard-shelled coconut and the outer husk. Dark brown coir, when processed, may be used for upholstery padding. Start seeds in it. Use it for mulch or to make a coarse rope. Coir mats may be used to stop or slow erosion. It’s relatively weed-free. A few people may be allergic to its use; otherwise, it’s a good substitute for sphagnum peat moss, whose harvesting process is more like mining and which is slowly destroying whole ecosystems.

From unripe coconut fiber: “white” coir, comes a weaker fiber. Dark coir makes tough mats; the white type may be spun for “yarn,” or used to make finer-bristled brushes. If I have a choice, and I’m not afraid to ask, I’ll use coir instead of peat any day. Sometimes it comes in brick form. When one is asked to moisten and expand it, don’t be surprised at the amount of water it uses or the astounding expansion. 

I enjoy the lingering flowers which grace the after-Christmas windowsills, and this bowl will add a fresh touch to the indoor scene. Well-watered (but not overwatered) house plants can also supply a little more humidity to a winter-dry house, so don’t feel you’re too extravagant if you sometimes add a new begonia, or kalanchoe or other plant to your living space.

Thank you for this continuing gift, Marge.