Your Granny Was Wrong About Lilies

There is a tunnel on our farm that we consider one of our favorite places in the world.

It’s not heated. It’s not fancy. It’s full of plastic crates we buy secondhand from our friends at Texas Tulips when they’re done with them. We fill those crates with potting soil, tuck bulbs in by the thousands, and grow them in a protected tunnel that shields them from the elements.

From January to June, we rotate crates in and out of that tunnel on a steady loop. We cut lilies daily once they’re ready, because we want them opening in your vase, not in ours. The blooms are fragile and don’t travel well once open, so timing matters. This year we grew close to 9,000 of them. We regret nothing.

Here’s the thing about lilies that took us a few seasons to fully appreciate: they look delicate but they’re actually tough. The bulbs are expensive, the crop is important, and the margin for error is real. But they deliver every single time. Surprising colors, new buds opening for days, a vase life that makes people come back the following weekend wanting more. They’ve been a staple on this farm for five years and we are, to put it plainly, a little obsessed.

We’re even participating in a cut lily trial through the Association of Specialty Cut Flower Growers, which means we have around 16 varieties on hand at any given time. We give our feedback on all of them, and it always shapes what we order for the following year.

Your granny thought lilies were funeral flowers. We understand. She was probably thinking of heavily scented orientals in a hospital waiting room. Our asiatic hybrids are different. They’re unscented, many are pollenless, and they come in a staggering array of colors and patterns: cheery peach, butter yellow, delicate pink, white with purple speckles, striking orange. They open slowly over several days, and it’s always a luxury to watch it happen.

Maybe you can change gran-gran’s mind about lilies, too.