Well… culling through the rows of overwintered dahlias is going to have to wait.

As I mentioned last week, this virus really knocked me flat. I’m on the slow climb back, but it definitely forced me to shift priorities. And well? … That’s part of farming too—working with what you’ve got, not what you planned.

So instead of digging through tubers and bracing myself for potential losses, I’ve been focusing on something a little more… optimistic.

I’ve been propagating a ton of dahlia cuttings.

Those extra tubers I bought as “insurance”?

They’re paying off.

Big time.

So while I may lose some of my overwintered stock (we’ll see when I finally get in there), I already know I’ll have more than enough of some beautiful new varieties coming along.

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Okay. So.

The plan was to spend this week elbow-deep in the dahlia beds — culling tubers, checking losses, doing the full post-winter audit I’ve been putting off since March.

I had a list. I had intentions.

Then a virus knocked me flat on my back for days in a way that hasn’t happened in years.

I mean fully horizontal.

No farm.

No dahlias.

No culling.

Just me, the couch, and whatever Steve was willing to bring me, bless him.

So the schedule shifts.

Today I’m going deep on dahlia storage — because if you’re growing dahlias, you’ve probably wondered about the dig-or-don’t-dig question, and I have a lot of thoughts.

Next week, I’ll show you how my overwintered tubers actually fared this season. Fingers crossed the news is good.

To Dig or Not to Dig

Here’s what most people do: dig up the tubers in fall, wash them off, and either split them right then or store them whole and split in spring.

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Spring finally showed up.

And I — being who I am — immediately used it as an invitation to push every boundary I could find.

Let’s start with the basil.

The night before the warm temperatures, the weather app said mid-30s overnight. I knew I was flirting with disaster, but I moved my basil seedlings into the hoophouse anyway.

Felt bold. Felt confident. Felt like someone who has been doing this for years.

The actual overnight temperature? Low 30s. Feels-like: high 20s. Unexpected morning frost.

Oops.

The basil did not agree with my confidence. The basil suffered.

Every other seedling in that hoophouse came through just fine — it was the basil, specifically and exclusively, that decided to make a point.

Out with those. In with the extras from the seed room.

And that — right there — is the lesson I learned seasons ago and will never unlearn:

Always sow extra.

More than you think you need. Way more.

Because some years you’ll have a cold snap that wasn’t in the forecast. Some years you’ll have a rabbit situation (more on that in a moment). Some years you’ll just have a bad germination week and not know why.

Extra seedlings are insurance.

And if everything goes perfectly and you don’t need them? You’ve just become the most popular person in your neighborhood. Hand them off to friends, family, anyone who will take them. No loss. Only goodwill.

What’s in the Ground

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When I started my flower farm four seasons ago, roses were at the very top of my wish list.

Naturally, I did what any reasonable person would do: went straight to the David Austin Roses website and started adding to cart… with absolutely zero research.

(Look, they’re pretty. That felt like enough at the time.)

Thankfully, the varieties I chose did work for cut flowers—but what I didn’t understand yet was just how tricky roses can be to grow well.

That first year? Magic.

Big, fragrant blooms.

Healthy plants.

I was fully convinced I had cracked the code.

And then… mid-season hit.

Brown spots started appearing on the leaves.

Just a few at first.

Then more. And more. Until eventually there were barely any healthy leaves left. They dropped. The plants looked bare. Bloom production slowed way down.

It was a whole spiral of wait, what is happening?

What I learned: almost all rose bushes are susceptible to black spot — a fungal disease (Diplocarpon rosae, if you want to impress someone at a party) that spreads fast, through soil splash and air, and will strip a bush bare if you let it.

It’s not a sign that you did something wrong.

It’s just... roses. Being roses.

My first reaction, as a farmer committed to avoiding sprays, was: there has to be another way.

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The conventional wisdom says: last frost date is your boss.

In Cape May, that’s around April 7. Wait until then. Be patient. Play it safe.

And I say: sure… technically.

Right now I’ve got seedlings sitting in the hoophouse, basically tapping their little roots, ready to go.

Honestly? They’d already be in the field if it weren’t for this week’s cold front rolling in.

But the plan still stands: midish-March planting, frost cloth tucked in like a cozy blanket, and field flowers up and running.

Which means—if all goes to plan—blooms for you by the end of May.

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Okay, can we just take a second to talk about dahlias?

Because I don’t think there’s another flower in my entire growing life that has grabbed me by the collar and refused to let go quite the way dahlias have.

They arrive late — mid-summer, when most of the early flowers are fading — and then they just take over.

Every bouquet.

Every fall wedding.

Every U-pick cup I watch people fill. There’s always that moment where someone rounds the corner, sees the dahlias in full bloom, and just... stops.

That’s the power of a dahlia.

Which is exactly why — once you go down the dahlia road — it becomes very hard not to want more of them.

More colors. More varieties. More plants.

And here’s the thing: you don’t have to buy your way there.

Today I’m going to show you how to propagate dahlia cuttings from a single tuber — up to 6–10 new plants from one.

It’s one of the most satisfying things I do all winter, and I think you’re going to love it.

(Video is linked below for those of you who’d rather watch me do it in real time. Both formats, I’ve got you.)

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It’s the first week of March.

There is still snow on the ground from the Blizzard of 2026 (which I suspect will now serve as a lifelong timestamp — “Was that before or after the blizzard?”).

The warmer temperatures and rain have helped tremendously, but the soil underneath is still telling the truth: we are behind.

And waiting.

Under grow lights, however, it’s a different story.

There are trays and trays of cold-hardy seedlings ready to be transplanted. They were meant to go out weeks ago. If the ground cooperates, I’ll begin setting them this weekend.

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