June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Short Hills is the Beyond Blue Bouquet

The Beyond Blue Bouquet from Bloom Central is the perfect floral arrangement to brighten up any room in your home. This bouquet features a stunning combination of lilies, roses and statice, creating a soothing and calming vibe.

The soft pastel colors of the Beyond Blue Bouquet make it versatile for any occasion - whether you want to celebrate a birthday or just show someone that you care. Its peaceful aura also makes it an ideal gift for those going through tough times or needing some emotional support.

What sets this arrangement apart is not only its beauty but also its longevity. The flowers are hand-selected with great care so they last longer than average bouquets. You can enjoy their vibrant colors and sweet fragrance for days on end!

One thing worth mentioning about the Beyond Blue Bouquet is how easy it is to maintain. All you need to do is trim the stems every few days and change out the water regularly to ensure maximum freshness.

If you're searching for something special yet affordable, look no further than this lovely floral creation from Bloom Central! Not only will it bring joy into your own life, but it's also sure to put a smile on anyone else's face.

So go ahead and treat yourself or surprise someone dear with the delightful Beyond Blue Bouquet today! With its simplicity, elegance, long-lasting blooms, and effortless maintenance - what more could one ask for?

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

Morning in Short Hills, New Jersey, arrives not with a jolt but a murmur, the kind of soft insistence that belongs to a place where even sunlight seems polite. The 6:03 to Penn Station exhales a queue of briefcases and half-zipped laptop bags, their owners striding across the platform with the brisk purpose of people who understand mornings as a verb. Above them, oaks older than the town itself lean in, branches interlaced like fingers, filtering dawn into dappled gold. There’s a rhythm here, not the arrhythmic clatter of cities but something steadier, a metronome of sprinklers hissing over lawns, of crosswalk signals chirping near the library, of sneakers scuffing the track at the high school where someone’s already running laps, alone with their breath and the dew.

Walk down Maplewood Avenue and the windows of small, family-owned shops blink awake. A baker slides trays of croissants into a display case, each flake a tiny monument to precision. Next door, a barber unspools his striped pole, and the postmaster raises her flag with a snap. These are people who know your name, or could learn it, their hands busy with the quiet work of stewardship. At the coffee shop, no chain, just a square room with mismatched mugs, the regulars orbit the counter, trading headlines and weather forecasts, their laughter a low current beneath the espresso machine’s growl. You notice how no one checks their phone. You notice how the line lets the elderly man take his time deciding.

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

The homes here defy simple taxonomy. Colonial facades stand shoulder-to-shoulder with mid-century moderns, their clean lines softened by ivy. Each garden seems both curated and wild: hydrangeas in military rows, then a burst of sunflowers leaning like tipsy sentinels. It’s easy to mock these streets as a diorama of affluence until you spot the treehouse in a backyard, its plywood walls slathered in finger-painted rainbows, or the lemonade stand where a kid in a dinosaur T-shirt sells Dixie cups for 25 cents, proceeds going to “save the earth, maybe.” The attention to detail isn’t vanity; it’s a language. A way of saying We care about this without needing to say it.

Central to everything is the park. Not a park, really, but 15 acres of meadow threaded by the Millburn Stream, which chatters over rocks worn smooth by decades of spring melts. Joggers nod as they pass. Retirees cluster by the duck pond, tossing crumbs and opinions with equal vigor. In autumn, the trees ignite, maple and birch burning scarlet, amber, and the air smells of woodsmoke and apples. Kids cannonball into leaf piles, while parents linger at the edges, half scolding, half envious. Winter brings sleds and cocoa in thermoses; spring, the first crocuses nosing through frost. The park doesn’t dazzle. It persists.

At the middle school, third-period biology students peer into microscopes, dissecting flowers they collected from their own yards. The teacher, a woman with a clipboard and a passion for aphids, speaks about ecosystems in a voice that suggests wonder is the highest form of rigor. Later, soccer practice erupts on the field, a chaos of shin guards and goalpost collisions, while the debate team files into a classroom to parse constitutional amendments. You get the sense that learning here isn’t a ladder to some distant future. It’s the soil itself.

Dusk comes gently. Porch lights flicker on. A family bikes home from the ice cream parlor, twins wobbling in their helmets, and somewhere a cello student saws through a scales exercise, the notes spilling out an open window. On front steps, neighbors pause mid-conversation to wave at passing dogs. There’s a feeling here, not nostalgia, exactly, but a recognition that the world can still, occasionally, cradle what it’s promised. Short Hills knows its contradictions. It just chooses, every day, to polish them into something like grace.