The Garden Isn't Dying. It's Getting Ready.

October 10, 2026 — Sweet Botanicals, Granby, Massachusetts

By October, the garden in Western Massachusetts looks very different from the one we knew in July. The perilla leaves that flourished in summer are finishing their season. The tomato vines are tired, the raspberry canes are changing color, and the fruit trees are preparing to surrender their leaves.

To a casual observer, the garden might appear to be shutting down.

But something much more interesting is happening. Plants are responding to shorter days, colder nights, and a changing supply of sunlight. Some are storing energy underground. Others are preparing their seeds for winter. Trees are withdrawing valuable nutrients from their leaves, while soil organisms continue working long after the last vegetables have been harvested.

The garden isn't simply dying. It's preparing for what comes next.

How Plants Know Winter Is Coming

One of the remarkable things about plants is their ability to measure time without a clock.

Many species respond to changes in day length through a process called photoperiodism. Specialized light-sensitive proteins help plants detect changes in their environment, triggering seasonal responses such as flowering, dormancy, and the development of cold tolerance.

Temperature also plays an important role, but day length provides a particularly reliable seasonal signal. A warm October afternoon might resemble a day in May, but the hours of daylight tell a different story.

Our Korean sesame leaves, known as kkaennip or perilla (Perilla frutescens), offer an interesting example.

Perilla is generally a short-day plant, meaning that flowering is promoted when nights become sufficiently long. During summer, the plants devote much of their energy to producing the aromatic leaves we harvest. As the days shorten, they begin shifting toward flowering and seed production.

For gardeners growing perilla primarily for its leaves, this transition marks the natural conclusion of the harvesting season.

For the plant, however, it's the beginning of its reproductive finale.

The Secret Work of Autumn Leaves

Every autumn, New England puts on one of the world's great botanical performances.

The forests turn brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red. Visitors travel hundreds of miles to photograph landscapes that residents sometimes take for granted.

But the colors aren't simply decorative.

During the growing season, chlorophyll gives most leaves their familiar green appearance while allowing them to capture sunlight for photosynthesis. As autumn approaches, many deciduous trees begin dismantling their photosynthetic machinery and recovering nutrients, including nitrogen, before shedding their leaves.

As chlorophyll breaks down, yellow and orange carotenoid pigments become more visible. In some species, red anthocyanin pigments are produced during autumn, contributing to the spectacular colors of maples and other trees.

The exact display depends on species, weather, sunlight, and the physiological condition of the tree.

What looks like a celebration of color is also a carefully regulated process of conservation.

The tree is reclaiming what it can before winter arrives.

Beneath the Soil, Life Continues

One of the most persistent misconceptions about gardens is that biological activity stops when the growing season ends.

It doesn't.

Soil contains an astonishing community of bacteria, fungi, protozoa, nematodes, arthropods, earthworms, and other organisms. Together, they participate in the decomposition of organic material, the cycling of nutrients, and the formation and maintenance of soil structure.

As fallen leaves and dead plant material accumulate, decomposers begin breaking them down.

The rate of decomposition slows as temperatures fall, but activity can continue whenever moisture and temperature conditions permit.

Fungi are particularly important in this process. Their networks of microscopic filaments, called hyphae, can penetrate organic material and help break down complex compounds that many other organisms cannot readily digest.

Some fungi also form mycorrhizal partnerships with living plant roots, exchanging nutrients and water for sugars produced through photosynthesis.

These relationships are part of the hidden economy of a healthy garden.

When we look across an apparently empty garden in November, we're seeing only the surface of a much more complicated biological system.

Why I Don't Believe in a Perfectly Clean Garden

For generations, autumn gardening advice often emphasized removing every fallen leaf, cutting every dead stem, and leaving the landscape looking tidy before winter.

There are good reasons to remove diseased plants, manage invasive species, and prevent certain pests from overwintering in garden debris.

But excessive cleanup can also remove valuable habitat.

Many native insects spend part of their lives in fallen leaves, hollow stems, soil, or other sheltered places. Some butterflies and moths overwinter as eggs, caterpillars, pupae, or adults, depending on the species.

A layer of leaves beneath trees and shrubs can help moderate soil temperatures, retain moisture, and provide shelter for small organisms.

Standing plant stems may also offer nesting opportunities for certain native bees during the following growing season.

This doesn't mean every garden should be abandoned to disorder. It means that ecological health and visual tidiness aren't always the same thing.

Sometimes leaving a little mess is one of the most useful things a gardener can do.

Perennials Are Playing the Long Game

Annual vegetables complete their life cycle within a growing season, but perennial plants operate on a different schedule.

Raspberries, blueberries, fruit trees, and many perennial herbs must survive repeated winters.

As autumn progresses, these plants undergo physiological changes that improve their ability to withstand cold temperatures.

Growth slows, tissues mature, and carbohydrates and other compounds accumulate in various parts of the plant. Depending on the species, these changes help protect cells against freezing damage and provide stored energy for spring growth.

In deciduous fruit trees, the buds that will produce next year's leaves and flowers are already present before winter begins.

In other words, part of next year's orchard is already waiting inside this year's branches.

I find that remarkable.

The apparent inactivity of winter conceals an enormous amount of preparation.

The Garden as a Living Record

One of the pleasures of maintaining a garden over many years is watching how it changes.

Some plants thrive in locations where others struggle. Soil improves or deteriorates depending on how it's managed. Trees gradually reshape the distribution of sunlight. Wildlife discovers new sources of food and shelter.

A garden becomes a record of decisions, accidents, experiments, and natural processes.

At Sweet Botanicals, we've grown vegetables, herbs, berries, fruit trees, and Korean perilla in a landscape that also supports an extraordinary variety of wild plants and animals.

The surrounding environment is never separate from the garden. Birds carry seeds. Pollinators move between cultivated plants and wildflowers. Fungi and microorganisms participate in processes that extend well beyond the boundaries of any particular garden bed.

Even the changing seasons are part of a larger ecological conversation.

Autumn Is Not an Ending

There's something reassuring about the seasonal rhythm of a garden.

Spring is full of anticipation. Summer is a period of extraordinary growth. Autumn brings harvest, change, and preparation. Winter offers a quieter landscape in which much of the important activity becomes invisible.

Each season makes the next possible.

The leaves that fall in October may eventually contribute nutrients and organic matter to the soil. Seeds wait for favorable conditions. Perennial roots and woody plants carry stored reserves through the cold months.

And somewhere beneath the surface, countless organisms continue the work of maintaining the living systems on which next year's garden will depend.

So when I look across the garden in October, I don't see a place that's finished.

I see a place that's getting ready.

And I find that every bit as interesting as watching it grow.

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Sweet Botanicals — Gardening, plants, nature, and the living landscape of Western Massachusetts.

https://sweetbotanicals.blogspot.com/

When the Frost Comes: What Cold Weather Really Does to the Garden

 

There is a point every fall when the garden changes almost overnight. You walk outside in the morning and the grass is white, the raspberry leaves look edged in silver, and the vegetable garden that was still pretending it was summer yesterday suddenly isn't.

Frost looks destructive, but in an orchard, berry patch, or vegetable garden, the story is more complicated. Some plants are finished by the first real frost. Others barely notice it. For many perennial plants, cold weather isn't an enemy at all. It's an essential part of the annual cycle.

Frost and a freeze aren't quite the same thing

Frost forms when surfaces near the ground become cold enough for water vapor to freeze on them. That can happen even when the official air temperature, measured several feet above the ground, is slightly above 32°F.

This is why one corner of a garden can frost while another doesn't. Cold air settles into low areas. A protected south-facing slope may escape while the bottom of a field turns white. Buildings, trees, wind, soil moisture and even cloud cover can change what happens during a particular night.

A light frost around the freezing point may damage tender leaves without killing the whole plant. Temperatures down into the upper 20s are a different matter. Once there is a sustained hard freeze, the growing season is essentially over for most tender annual vegetables.

The practical lesson is simple: don't look only at the forecast temperature. Know the cold spots on your own property. After a few autumns, you'll discover that your land has its own miniature climate map.

Apple trees are tougher than they look

For an established apple tree in autumn, frost is normally nothing to worry about. The tree is already preparing for dormancy. Leaves change color and fall, growth stops, and the tree becomes increasingly resistant to cold.

In fact, apples and many other temperate fruit trees need winter cold. They require a certain amount of chilling before they can properly break dormancy and flower the following spring.

The dangerous frost for an orchard usually isn't the first frost of October. It's the late frost of spring.

Dormant apple buds can withstand temperatures that would destroy an open flower. But as the buds swell, show color and finally blossom, their cold tolerance drops dramatically. A freezing night during bloom can mean the difference between a full crop and very little fruit.

That is why orchard growers become weather obsessives in April and May.

For a small home orchard, the best defense begins long before the frost warning. Avoid planting fruit trees in obvious frost pockets if you can. Cold air flows downhill much like water and collects in low ground. Good air drainage can sometimes matter more than a few degrees of regional climate.

And if a spring frost does occur, don't immediately assume the crop is lost. Apple trees produce far more flowers than they need to make a reasonable crop. Damage can be surprisingly uneven, even on the same tree.

Raspberries and blueberries play by different rules

Established raspberry plants are generally quite capable of handling normal New England winter cold. Autumn frost kills or damages remaining leaves, but the important question is what happens to the canes and buds that will produce next year's crop.

This is also why fall isn't the time to panic and start cutting everything down. With summer-bearing raspberries, the canes that grew this year may be the ones that fruit next year. Pruning without knowing which type of raspberry you're growing can mean pruning away your next crop.

Blueberries are similarly built for winter, assuming the variety is appropriate for the climate. Their greater vulnerability comes after dormancy begins to break. As with apples, developing flower buds become progressively more susceptible to freezing temperatures.

One useful fall job around blueberries is maintaining mulch. Their shallow root systems benefit from an insulating organic layer, and mulch also helps maintain the acidic, moisture-retentive soil conditions blueberries prefer. But don't bury the crown of the plant under a mountain of mulch. Think blanket, not compost volcano.

The vegetable garden is where frost gets dramatic

This is where the first frost really announces itself.

Tomatoes, peppers, basil, beans, cucumbers, squash and many other warm-season crops have very little tolerance for freezing temperatures. Their leaves may turn dark and limp after a single frosty night.

If frost is forecast and there are still tomatoes or peppers worth saving, pick them. Mature green tomatoes can ripen indoors. Herbs such as basil should be harvested before the cold gets them.

But don't assume the entire garden needs rescuing.

Kale, spinach, carrots, leeks, Brussels sprouts and several other cool-season vegetables tolerate cold remarkably well. Some actually taste better after exposure to cold because changes in plant chemistry increase the concentration of sugars.

Carrots are a wonderful example. Rather than racing to pull every carrot before the first frost, gardeners can often leave them in the soil well into cold weather, particularly with a good layer of mulch.

A frost can therefore be both an ending and a harvest technique.

Covering plants: useful, but do it correctly

For an isolated early frost, covering tender plants can buy additional growing time.

The goal isn't to warm the garden like a greenhouse. You're trying to hold some of the heat that the soil accumulated during the day and reduce heat loss from the plant.

Row cover, old sheets and frost cloth work well. Plastic can work in some situations, but it shouldn't rest directly against delicate foliage during freezing conditions.

Cover plants before evening temperatures collapse, and make sure the covering reaches the ground. You're trying to trap warmth coming from the soil, not merely put a little hat over the leaves.

Then remove or open the covering when temperatures rise the next day.

It's worth asking whether the plant is worth saving, though. Covering six healthy pepper plants before one early frost may give you several more weeks of peppers. Draping sheets over exhausted tomato plants in late October to gain three more tomatoes may simply be gardening denial.

I've certainly practiced gardening denial.

Water matters more than people think

Plants going into winter shouldn't be severely drought-stressed. If autumn has been unusually dry, perennial plants may benefit from adequate watering before the ground freezes.

Moist soil also holds and releases heat differently from very dry soil, which can sometimes help moderate temperatures immediately around plants during a radiation frost.

That doesn't mean soaking everything every time frost appears in the forecast. It means going into winter with healthy plants and reasonably hydrated soil rather than assuming that cold weather makes water irrelevant.

Don't clean everything up

The traditional image of a "properly prepared" fall garden is almost sterile: dead plants removed, stems cut to the ground, leaves hauled away and bare soil exposed.

There are good reasons to remove diseased plant material and certain crop residues. But an excessively tidy garden isn't necessarily a healthier garden.

Leaves and standing plant stems provide winter habitat for insects and other wildlife. Organic material protects soil from erosion and eventually returns nutrients to it. Bare soil has very little to recommend it.

Our preference is to distinguish between diseased material that should leave the garden and healthy organic material that can remain part of the ecosystem.

Fall cleanup doesn't have to mean stripping the garden bare.

The first frost isn't a disaster

Perhaps the most useful thing about frost is that it forces us to stop thinking of a garden as something that exists only during the growing season.

The apple tree standing bare in January isn't doing nothing. The blueberry bush isn't dead. The raspberry patch hasn't stopped being a raspberry patch. The soil beneath the mulch is still full of biological activity, even though that activity has slowed dramatically.

Winter is part of the system.

So when that first white morning arrives, harvest the basil. Bring in the last tender vegetables. Protect anything genuinely worth protecting. Check the mulch around the berries. Make sure perennial plants haven't gone into winter desperately dry.

Then leave some things alone.

A healthy garden doesn't need to be rescued from every frost. Much of it already knows exactly what to do.

Pick Your Own Fresh Kkaennip (Korean Perilla)

For the past eight years, one of the crops we’ve grown and sold consistently at Sweet Botanicals has been Korean perilla, or kkaennip (깻잎). You may also know it as sesame leaf, which is the name many of our customers use when they ask for it.

Despite that name, kkaennip isn’t actually related to the sesame plant. It belongs to the mint family and has a flavor all its own: fresh, aromatic, slightly minty and a little reminiscent of basil. It’s also different from Japanese shiso, even though the two plants look similar. In Korean cooking, fresh perilla leaves are used whole as wraps with rice and grilled meats, shredded into dishes, pickled, steamed, or made into kkaennip kimchi.

One of the nice things about growing kkaennip ourselves is that customers can get the leaves about as fresh as they possibly can. Some people like to come to the farm and pick their own, choosing the size and leaves they want right from the plants. Others would rather have us harvest and package them so they're ready when they arrive.

Fresh kkaennip prices:

Pick your own: 12 leaves for $2.49
Picked and packaged by us: 12 leaves for $2.99

We also make marinated kkaennip. If you’re interested in buying it prepared, contact us and ask about current availability and pricing.

If you’ve never eaten kkaennip before, one of the simplest ways to discover it is as a wrap: take a fresh leaf, add a little rice and whatever meat, vegetables or other fillings you like, fold it up and eat the whole thing. But there are a remarkable number of things you can do with this one leaf. Korean cook Maangchi has recipes for kkaennip kimchi, pickled kkaennip (kkaennip-jangajji), steamed leaves, pan-fried stuffed leaves and many other dishes.

For a good introduction to the ingredient and ideas for using it, we recommend Maangchi’s guide to perilla leaves (kkaennip).

After eight years, kkaennip has become one of those plants that simply belongs here. Every year it comes back into the garden, and every year people come looking for it. Some already know exactly what they want to make with it. Others have never tasted it before.

Either way, if you’d like some, get in touch with Sweet Botanicals or come pick your own while it’s in season.

The Center of Granby That Disappeared

  

If you drive along West Street in Granby and come to the intersection with Amherst Street, there isn't much about the crossroads today that announces, this used to be the center of town.

But it was.

Long before the common, Town Hall and churches farther east became the Granby center we know today, this was where the community gathered. And the reason that center existed in the first place tells much of the story of how Granby became a town.

The first European settlers began arriving in what is now Granby around 1727, when this land was still part of South Hadley. Most families were farmers, scattered across a landscape that must have looked very different from the one we know now: cleared fields and pastures around individual farms, but also extensive woods, wetlands and rough country between them.

As settlement spread eastward, getting to the South Hadley meetinghouse became increasingly inconvenient. In colonial New England, the meetinghouse was far more than a church. It was where religious services were held, but it was also at the center of civic life. Where you put the meetinghouse effectively determined where you put the community.

And people argued about it.

Residents in the eastern part of South Hadley wanted a meetinghouse closer to where they lived. The dispute eventually went to the courts, which decided that a new meetinghouse should be built closer to the center of South Hadley instead.

The people out here took another route.

They created their own community.

A meetinghouse was erected near what is now the corner of West and Amherst streets, and in 1768 Granby was formally incorporated as a separate town. The population was only about 475 people. The town says Granby was named for John Manners, the Marquis of Granby, a British military figure from the Seven Years' War.

A village at the crossroads

It is difficult now to picture West and Amherst as downtown Granby.

There were no cars, utility poles or paved roads. West Street would have been a country road connecting farms and neighboring settlements. Travel was by foot, horseback or wagon.

But around the meetinghouse grew the things a small New England community needed. Homes stood nearby, along with businesses and places where neighbors could meet, exchange news and conduct the ordinary business of life.

For the families living around here, this wasn't the western outskirts of Granby.

It was Granby.

There is still a physical reminder of that earlier landscape. A stone and plaque at the intersection commemorate the site of the old meetinghouse. The town's own historical account specifically identifies the corner of West and Amherst as the location.

And some of the old houses survived.

That is one of the things I find fascinating about living here. We tend to think of history as something preserved behind glass or marked by a sign. But in Granby, much of it is simply mixed into the landscape. You can drive past an old house a thousand times without thinking about the people who built it, the road they traveled or what the neighborhood around it looked like when that house was new.

Then the town moved

Granby didn't literally move, of course.

Its center did.

As settlement continued, the location at West and Amherst became increasingly inconvenient for people living farther east. In 1821 a new meetinghouse was built near what became the present town center.

Not everybody was pleased.

The move contributed to a division between East and West parishes, another reminder of just how important the location of a meetinghouse could be in a New England town. Most of the West Parish eventually reunited with the East Parish in 1836.

Gradually the civic and commercial center followed.

Today, when someone says "the center of Granby," we picture the common and the collection of historic buildings surrounding it. The town describes that area as retaining much of the character it has had for the past century.

West and Amherst became just another crossroads.

The swamp beside the town

There is another part of this story that especially interests us at Sweet Botanicals.

Pitchawam Swamp is right here.

In our previous post, we wrote about the large wetland that still occupies this part of Granby. About five of our eight acres are part of that same swamp landscape.

It is easy today to think of a swamp as someplace away from civilization, a wild patch of land beyond the places where people live.

But early Granby grew right beside it.

The meetinghouse and the first town center stood near the southern end of the Pitchawam wetland. The farms, roads and houses of early Granby existed alongside a landscape of wet woods, streams, beaver habitat and seasonally flooded ground.

In other words, the swamp wasn't somewhere beyond town.

It was part of the neighborhood.

That relationship between human settlement and the land is still visible if you know what you're looking at. West Street follows the higher, usable ground. Houses sit where generations of people found places dry enough to build. Behind them the land falls away into woods and wetlands that resisted the plow and, later, development.

Those wet places are one reason parts of the old landscape survived.

Looking at an ordinary corner differently

That's what makes the intersection of West and Amherst interesting to me.

There isn't a reconstructed colonial village there. There aren't crowds of tourists. Most people drive through in a few seconds.

But imagine stopping there around 1770.

Granby is only a couple of years old. The meetinghouse stands nearby. A horse and wagon come along West Street. Smoke rises from the chimneys of neighboring farms. Someone is walking toward the meetinghouse. Beyond the cleared ground are woods, and beyond those woods is the wet country of Pitchawam.

For the people standing there, this isn't "historic Granby."

It's just home.

More than two and a half centuries later, we're living on the same landscape. The roads have changed. The town center moved. Forest returned to many former fields. Houses appeared where farms once stood.

But the swamp is still here.

And if you know where to look, so is the old center of Granby.

Sources

Town of Granby, Open Space and Recreation Plan, History of the Community.

Town of Granby — About & History

Town of Granby — Charter Day Committee

We Live in Pitchawam Swamp

 

When we talk about Sweet Botanicals as our little eight-acre farm in Granby, Massachusetts, it gives a slightly misleading picture. There are gardens, fruit trees, blueberries, raspberries and herbs around the house, but most of our land looks nothing like a farm.

About five of our eight acres are in Pitchawam Swamp.

For years, that was simply the name of the wetland behind us. It’s the place where the ground gets soggy, where water collects and drains, where wildlife moves through the property, and where nature has considerably more say about what grows than we do. But Pitchawam Swamp turns out to have a history that goes back much farther than Sweet Botanicals, and much farther than Granby itself.

The name appears to come from an Indigenous name recorded as Pitchawamiche, or in some older sources Pitchawamuche. A Massachusetts Historical Commission survey of Granby identifies a Native travel route that probably ran from the area of Bachelor Brook toward Pitchawam Swamp, roughly along what later became Easton Street and possibly North Street. The same survey suggests that the wetlands around Pitchawam would have been natural locations for small hunting camps.

The people using that landscape were likely connected with the Norwottuck, whose communities were centered farther west in the Connecticut River Valley around what are now Hadley and Northampton.

That changes the way we think about the swamp.

Wetlands can look like the empty spaces on a map, the places between roads, farms and houses. But long before those roads and property lines existed, a swamp like Pitchawam would have been anything but empty. It provided water, plants, animals and habitat, and it sat within a landscape crossed by people who knew the woods and waterways in ways we can barely reconstruct today.

The name survived.

An 1890 description of Granby recorded the name as Pitchawamuche, shortened to Pitchawam, and said it was believed to be the only Native place-name still surviving in the town. Whether that claim was completely accurate is something we'd like to investigate further, but the survival of the name itself is remarkable. Generations came and went, Granby was settled, roads were built and farms divided, yet people kept calling this wet ground Pitchawam.

The swamp also became part of Granby's colonial history. The early center of town developed near its southern end, around the present-day Amherst Street and West Street area. Granby's first meetinghouse was there, along with some of the community's earliest homes. The center of town eventually shifted, but Pitchawam remained.

And now part of it is behind our house.

That makes us think differently about what we're doing here at Sweet Botanicals. We grow berries, fruit and herbs on a relatively small part of these eight acres. The majority isn't ours to cultivate in any conventional sense. It is wetland, and perhaps that's exactly what it should remain.

Those five acres are doing their own kind of growing.

They're habitat. They're part of the local watershed. They're a corridor for wildlife. They're storing water and supporting plants that chose this ground long before we arrived. And they connect our little patch of Granby to a landscape whose human history reaches back centuries before there was a town called Granby.

So as we begin telling the story of Sweet Botanicals, we want to tell the story of the land too.

We thought we lived next to an old swamp.

It turns out we live in Pitchawam.

Sources

• https://unfenced.land/map#ma
• Massachusetts Historical Commission, Granby Reconnaissance Survey
• Pioneer Valley Planning Commission, Granby Open Space and Recreation Plan
• Massachusetts Gazetteer, 1890, historical description of Granby
• U.S. Geological Survey mapping, Pitchawam Swamp, Granby, Massachusetts

 

Some Recent Pics

 

Some recent pics

  

Sweet Botanicals Is Growing Again

Years ago, Emily and I had an idea.

We were already growing herbs, berries, vegetables and fruit here at home, and at some point we started talking about putting up a little roadside stand. Nothing elaborate. Just a place out front where we could put whatever happened to be coming out of the garden: a basket of raspberries, some blueberries, bunches of herbs, maybe vegetables or flowers.

We even gave it a name: Sweet Botanicals.

Then, as often happens, life got busy and the idea got put aside. But the funny thing about putting aside an idea involving plants is that the plants don't necessarily cooperate.

The raspberries kept spreading. The blueberries grew bigger. We planted more fruit trees. Herbs came back every spring. Some things thrived, some things disappeared, and every year the garden taught us something new.

Today we have around 65 raspberry bushes, 15 blueberry bushes and 18 fruit trees, along with the herbs, vegetables and other things we grow around the property. We don't use the land like a commercial farm. It's our home, our garden and a place we've been slowly shaping over the years.

And lately I've been thinking about that old Sweet Botanicals idea again.

So we're bringing it back.

We're starting small. The plan is still basically the same one we had years ago: when we have more than we need, we'd like to make some of it available to our neighbors. What you'll find will depend on the season and on what Mother Nature decides to give us. There won't be a warehouse in the background or produce shipped in from somewhere else. If we didn't grow it here, it won't be sitting on the stand pretending we did.

Right now we're working on the stand itself. I'm looking for an old farm wagon, preferably something big, wooden and weathered, with enough room for baskets and shelves. I want something that looks like it belongs here, not a shiny new retail display ordered out of a catalog.

We'll use this blog to document the process: getting the stand together, watching the berries and fruit through the seasons, experimenting with herbs, figuring out what works and probably documenting a few things that don't.

We'll also let you know what's actually available. If the raspberries suddenly decide they're all going to ripen on the same Tuesday in July, you'll hear about it here.

Sweet Botanicals isn't really a new business.

It's an old idea that kept growing while we weren't looking.

And now we're curious to see what it becomes.