June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Burlingame is the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens

Introducing the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens floral arrangement! Blooming with bright colors to boldly express your every emotion, this exquisite flower bouquet is set to celebrate. Hot pink roses, purple Peruvian Lilies, lavender mini carnations, green hypericum berries, lily grass blades, and lush greens are brought together to create an incredible flower arrangement.

The flowers are artfully arranged in a clear glass cube vase, allowing their natural beauty to shine through. The lucky recipient will feel like you have just picked the flowers yourself from a beautiful garden!

Whether you're celebrating an anniversary, sending get well wishes or simply saying 'I love you', the Be Bold Bouquet is always appropriate. This floral selection has timeless appeal and will be cherished by anyone who is lucky enough to receive it.

Better Homes and Gardens has truly outdone themselves with this incredible creation. Their attention to detail shines through in every petal and leaf - creating an arrangement that not only looks stunning but also feels incredibly luxurious.

If you're looking for a captivating floral arrangement that brings joy wherever it goes, the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens is the perfect choice. The stunning colors, long-lasting blooms, delightful fragrance and affordable price make it a true winner in every way. Get ready to add a touch of boldness and beauty to someone's life - you won't regret it!

Consider the lilac ... that olfactory time machine, that purple explosion of nostalgia that hijacks your senses every May with the subtlety of a freight train made of perfume. Its clusters of tiny florets—each one a miniature trumpet blaring spring’s arrival—don’t so much sit on their stems as erupt from them, like fireworks frozen mid-burst. You’ve walked past them in suburban yards, these shrubs that look nine months of the year like unremarkable green lumps, until suddenly ... bam ... they’re dripping with color and scent so potent it can stop pedestrians mid-stride, triggering Proustian flashbacks of grandmothers’ gardens and childhood front walks where the air itself turned sweet for two glorious weeks.

What makes lilacs the heavyweight champions of floral arrangements isn’t just their scent—though let’s be clear, that scent is the botanical equivalent of a symphony’s crescendo—but their sheer architectural audacity. Unlike the predictable symmetry of roses or the orderly ranks of tulips, lilac blooms are democratic chaos. Hundreds of tiny flowers form conical panicles that lean and jostle like commuters in a Tokyo subway, each micro-floret contributing to a whole that’s somehow both messy and perfect. Snap off a single stem and you’re not holding a flower so much as an event, a happening, a living sculpture that refuses to behave.

Their color spectrum reads like a poet’s mood ring. The classic lavender that launched a thousand paint chips. The white varieties so pristine they make gardenias look dingy. The deep purples that flirt with black at dusk. The rare magenta cultivars that seem to vibrate with their own internal light. And here’s the thing about lilac hues ... they change. What looks violet at noon turns blue-gray by twilight, the colors shifting like weather systems across those dense flower heads. Pair them with peonies and you’ve created a still life that Impressionists would mug each other to paint. Tuck them behind sprigs of lily-of-the-valley and suddenly you’ve composed a fragrance so potent it could be bottled and sold as happiness.

But lilacs have secrets. Their woody stems, if not properly crushed and watered immediately, will sulk and refuse to drink, collapsing in a dramatic swoon worthy of Victorian literature. Their bloom time is heartbreakingly brief—two weeks of glory before they brown at the edges like overdone croissants. And yet ... when handled by someone who knows to split the stems vertically and plunge them into warm water, when arranged in a heavy vase that can handle their top-heavy exuberance, they become immortal. A single lilac stem in a milk glass vase doesn’t just decorate a room—it colonizes it, pumping out scent molecules that adhere to memory with superglue tenacity.

The varieties read like a cast of characters. ‘Sensation’ with its purple flowers edged in white, like tiny galaxies. ‘Beauty of Moscow’ with double blooms so pale they glow in moonlight. The dwarf ‘Miss Kim’ that packs all the fragrance into half the space. Each brings its own personality, but all share that essential lilacness—the way they demand attention without trying, the manner in which their scent seems to physically alter the air’s density.

Here’s what happens when you add lilacs to an arrangement: everything else becomes supporting cast. Carnations? Backup singers. Baby’s breath? Set dressing. Even other heavy-hitters like hydrangeas will suddenly look like they’re posing for a portrait with a celebrity. But the magic trick is this—lilacs make this hierarchy shift feel natural, even generous, as if they’re not dominating the vase so much as elevating everything around them through sheer charisma.

Cut them at dusk when their scent peaks. Recut their stems underwater to prevent embolisms (yes, flowers get them too). Strip the lower leaves unless you enjoy the aroma of rotting vegetation. Do these things, and you’ll be rewarded with blooms that don’t just sit prettily in a corner but actively transform the space around them, turning kitchens into French courtyards, coffee tables into altars of spring.

The tragedy of lilacs is their ephemerality. The joy of lilacs is that this ephemerality forces you to pay attention, to inhale deeply while you can, to notice how the late afternoon sun turns their petals translucent. They’re not flowers so much as annual reminders—that beauty is fleeting, that memory has a scent, that sometimes the most ordinary shrubs hide the most extraordinary gifts. Next time you pass a lilac in bloom, don’t just walk by. Bury your face in it. Steal a stem. Take it home. For those few precious days while it lasts, you’ll be living in a poem.

Are looking for a Burlingame florist because you are not local to the area? If so, here is a brief travelogue of what Burlingame has to offer. Who knows, perhaps you'll be intrigued enough to come visit soon, partake in some of the fun activities Burlingame has to offer and deliver flowers to your loved one in person!

Burlingame, Kansas, sits along the old Santa Fe Trail like a quiet guest at the edge of a party, content to observe the rush of modern life from a distance. The town’s streets slope gently beneath broad Midwestern skies, and its brick storefronts wear their history without pretense, faded signs announcing hardware, antiques, and pie. To drive into Burlingame is to feel time slow in a way that defies the urgency of interstates. Here, the rhythm belongs to porch conversations, the creak of swings, and the low hum of tractors idling at four-way stops. The air carries the tang of turned soil in spring, cut grass in summer, and in autumn, the woodsmoke of hearths that have burned for generations.

Founded in 1856 as a stop for pioneers and railroad workers, Burlingame wears its past lightly. The Santa Fe Trail’s ruts still scar the earth west of town, subtle reminders of wagon wheels and bison herds. Locals will tell you about the Osage Nation’s presence long before settlers arrived, or point to the 1883 stone schoolhouse that stands sentinel near the park. History here isn’t a museum exhibit but a lived texture, woven into the fabric of potluck dinners and high school football games. At Veterans Memorial Park, children climb cannons from wars their great-grandparents fought while old men nod at names etched in stone. The past is neither worshipped nor ignored; it simply lingers, a quiet third guest at every table.

Same day service available. Order your Burlingame floral delivery and surprise someone today!

What animates Burlingame isn’t its landmarks but its people, a collective of farmers, teachers, mechanics, and dreamers who measure wealth in shared labor. At the Co-op, farmers trade harvest forecasts over coffee. At the diner on Topeka Avenue, waitresses memorize orders by face: scrambled eggs for the widow Jenkins, rye toast for the brothers who fix combines. Even the stray dogs seem to know their routes. On Saturdays, the community center buzzes with quilting circles and 4-H kids prepping prize rabbits. There’s a particular genius to how strangers become neighbors here. When a barn burns down, trucks arrive by dawn with hammers and casseroles. When a child is born, the church bulletin sprouts a new name. The town’s heartbeat is its insistence on looking inward, sustaining itself through a web of small, deliberate kindnesses.

Geography shapes character, and Burlingame’s surroundings insist on humility. The Flint Hills roll southward in waves of bluestem and switchgrass, a sea of green that resists fences. In spring, storms march across the plains with theatrical menace, lightning fracturing the sky. Locals watch from porches, respectful but unflinching. Come summer, heat shimmers above blacktop, and cicadas throb in the oaks. Winter brings a different austerity, snowdrifts blunt the fields, and the wind carries a bite that scrubs the air to clarity. Through it all, the people adapt. They plant gardens, patch roofs, and gather at the library for stories that outlast the weather. The land demands cooperation, and Burlingame answers by enduring.

There’s a temptation to romanticize towns like this as holdouts against modernity, but that’s too simple. Burlingame isn’t resisting anything. It’s persisting, a choice made daily by those who stay. The Dollar General on the highway thrives beside family-owned shops because practicality trumps nostalgia. Teenagers text while leaning against pickup beds, equally fluent in emojis and cattle auctions. What endures here is a balance, a way of life that prizes continuity without rigidity, community without intrusion. To visit is to glimpse a paradox: a place thoroughly ordinary, yet singular. You leave wondering if the real America wasn’t a frontier to conquer but a thousand Burlingames, stitching themselves into a tapestry quiet enough to hear your own heart beat.