June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Excelsior 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 Nigella ... a flower that seems spun from the raw material of fairy tales, all tendrils and mystery, its blooms hovering like sapphire satellites in a nest of fennel-green lace. You’ve seen them in cottage gardens, maybe, or poking through cracks in stone walls, their foliage a froth of threadlike leaves that dissolve into the background until the flowers erupt—delicate, yes, but fierce in their refusal to be ignored. Pluck one stem, and you’ll find it’s not a single flower but a constellation: petals like tissue paper, stamens like minuscule lightning rods, and below it all, that intricate cage of bracts, as if the plant itself is trying to hold its breath.

What makes Nigellas—call them Love-in-a-Mist if you’re feeling romantic, Devil-in-a-Bush if you’re not—so singular is their refusal to settle. They’re shape-shifters. One day, a five-petaled bloom the color of a twilight sky, soft as a bruise. The next, a swollen seed pod, striped and veined like some exotic reptile’s egg, rising from the wreckage of spent petals. Florists who dismiss them as filler haven’t been paying attention. Drop a handful into a vase of tulips, and the tulips snap into focus, their bold cups suddenly part of a narrative. Pair them with peonies, and the peonies shed their prima donna vibe, their blousy heads balanced by Nigellas’ wiry grace.

Their stems are the stuff of contortionists—thin, yes, but preternaturally strong, capable of looping and arching without breaking, as if they’ve internalized the logic of cursive script. Arrange them in a tight bundle, and they’ll jostle for space like commuters. Let them sprawl, and they become a landscape, all negative space and whispers. And the colors. The classic blue, so intense it seems to vibrate. The white varieties, like snowflakes caught mid-melt. The deep maroons that swallow light. Each hue comes with its own mood, its own reason to lean closer.

But here’s the kicker: Nigellas are time travelers. They bloom, fade, and then—just when you think the show’s over—their pods steal the scene. These husks, papery and ornate, persist for weeks, turning from green to parchment to gold, their geometry so precise they could’ve been drafted by a mathematician with a poetry habit. Dry them, and they become heirlooms. Toss them into a winter arrangement, and they’ll outshine the holly, their skeletal beauty a rebuke to the season’s gloom.

They’re also anarchists. Plant them once, and they’ll reseed with the enthusiasm of a rumor, popping up in sidewalk cracks, between patio stones, in the shadow of your rose bush. They thrive on benign neglect, their roots gripping poor soil like they prefer it, their faces tilting toward the sun as if to say, Is that all you’ve got? This isn’t fragility. It’s strategy. A survivalist’s charm wrapped in lace.

And the names. ‘Miss Jekyll’ for the classicists. ‘Persian Jewels’ for the magpies. ‘Delft Blue’ for those who like their flowers with a side of delftware. Each variety insists on its own mythology, but all share that Nigella knack for blurring lines—between wild and cultivated, between flower and sculpture, between ephemeral and eternal.

Use them in a bouquet, and you’re not just adding texture. You’re adding plot twists. A Nigella elbowing its way between ranunculus and stock is like a stand-up comic crashing a string quartet ... unexpected, jarring, then suddenly essential. They remind us that beauty doesn’t have to shout. It can insinuate. It can unravel. It can linger long after the last petal drops.

Next time you’re at the market, skip the hydrangeas. Bypass the alstroemerias. Grab a bunch of Nigellas. Let them loose on your dining table, your desk, your windowsill. Watch how the light filigrees through their bracts. Notice how the air feels lighter, as if the room itself is breathing. You’ll wonder how you ever settled for arrangements that made sense. Nigellas don’t do sense. They do magic.

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

Excelsior, Michigan, sits like a well-kept secret between the thumb and palm of the state’s mitten, a town so unassuming you could drive through it twice and still miss the way the light slants through the maples at dusk or the faint hum of cicadas tuning up for summer’s nightly symphony. To call it quaint feels like a betrayal. Quaint implies self-awareness, a performative charm. Excelsior doesn’t perform. It simply exists, a place where the sidewalks buckle gently under decades of frost heaves and tree roots, where the air smells of lake water and freshly cut grass even when no one’s cutting grass. The town’s pulse is slow but insistent, like the heartbeat of something that knows it doesn’t need to rush to outlive you.

The center of town is a single traffic light that blinks yellow in all directions, as if to say, Proceed, but pay attention. Here, the storefronts wear their history without nostalgia: a hardware store with hand-painted sale signs, a diner where the booths have vinyl patches the color of chewed gum, a library whose stone steps are worn concave by generations of sneakers. People still wave at strangers here, not out of obligation but habit, a reflex forged by the certainty that everyone is at least tangentially connected. You’ll see this at the weekly farmers’ market, where the woman selling rhubarb pies is the same one who taught half the town’s kids to play clarinet, and the man stacking honey jars once coached softball in the ’90s. Conversations meander. No one checks their phone.

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

Lake Excelsior dominates the town’s eastern edge, a vast, shimmering plate that changes mood by the hour. At dawn, it’s a mirror, doubling the sky. By afternoon, it’s all chop and whitecaps, slapping the docks with a sound like distant applause. Kids cannonball off piers while retirees cast lines for perch, their radios murmuring static and baseball scores. The lake doesn’t care about your deadlines. It insists you adjust to its rhythms, fish when the fish are biting, swim when the sun is high, go home when the mosquitoes descend like a biblical punchline.

What’s startling about Excelsior isn’t its beauty, though there’s plenty, or its peace, which is palpable. It’s the way the town resists the modern itch to optimize itself into oblivion. The coffee shop on Main Street still uses a chalkboard menu because regulars like the squeak of the marker. The high school football field has no bleachers, folks bring lawn chairs and cluster along the chain-link fence, cheering whether the team’s 0–8 or playoff-bound. Every fall, the entire population seems to materialize for the Harvest Walk, stacking pumpkins along the sidewalks, sipping cider, pretending not to notice whose teenager is holding hands with whose.

There’s a magic in the mundane here. A sense that folding a newspaper or tying a fishing lure or deadheading petunias isn’t a distraction from life but the point of it. The town’s unofficial motto might be Keep Going, but gently, with purpose. Winters are brutal, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes February feel like a lifetime, but Excelsior adapts. Ice-fishing huts dot the lake like a shantytown. Neighbors snow-blow each other’s driveways without asking. The diner serves hot chocolate with whipped cream taller than the mug.

To visit Excelsior is to remember a time when place wasn’t just a backdrop but a character in your story. You’ll leave wondering why we ever agreed to live any other way.