I Had So Much Calendula I Started Making Hand Cream (And Accidentally Created A New Hobby)

Nobody talks about the dark side of calendula. Gardeners will tell you how beautiful it is.

They'll tell you the bees love it. They'll tell you how cheerful those bright orange flowers look scattered throughout the garden.

What they won't tell you is that calendula seems to operate under the belief that if one flower is nice, five thousand flowers must be better.

Last spring I planted a few calendula plants. A few.  Not a field.  Not a commercial farm.

Just enough to add some color to the garden. By midsummer, I had enough calendula to decorate a parade float, and let me say a LARGE parade float.

Every morning I'd walk outside and there would be more flowers waiting for me.  I picked them.

They came back. I picked them again.  They came back with reinforcements. At one point I started wondering if they were reproducing at night while I slept. Soon I had jars of dried calendula petals.

Then more jars. Then backup jars. Then jars I forgot I already had. Not to mention the ten jars I gave away to my neighbor. 

Eventually I found myself standing in the kitchen holding another basket of flowers asking one simple question:

"What am I supposed to do with all of this?"

Normally, I'm the person causing this problem.

I'm usually the one showing up with an armload of herbs and hearing my friends ask that exact question.

This was the first time the garden had turned the tables on me.

Like any responsible adult, I immediately disappeared down an internet rabbit hole.

Calendula tea.  Calendula salves.  Calendula soap.   Calendula bath products.  Calendula oils.

Calendula everything.

Apparently, people have been finding uses for calendula longer than I've been finding excuses not to weed the garden.  Then I discovered something I hadn't considered.   Homemade calendula hand cream.

Now this sounded useful.

The only problem?  I had never made hand cream before.  Not once.

I have made coffee.  I have made soup.  I have even made the occasional gardening mistake.

But hand cream?  That was entirely new territory.

Still, I was confident.

And as history has repeatedly shown, confidence and competence are not always close relatives.

I found a recipe.  Gathered my supplies.  And got to work.  The instructions suggested careful measuring.

I chose enthusiastic measuring.  The instructions recommended maintaining specific temperatures.

I maintained hope.  The instructions said to stir consistently.

I stirred whenever I remembered there was a project happening.

At one point the mixture looked like melted candle wax.

At another point it resembled something I used to waterproof my tractor.... that I affectionately call Petunia. 

Neither appearance inspired confidence.

There was a brief moment when I considered whether I was making hand cream or accidentally inventing a new construction material.

But I kept going.

Mostly because I had already committed enough calendula flowers to the experiment that backing out felt wasteful.

Eventually everything cooled.  The texture changed.  The color became beautiful.  The smell was amazing.

And somehow, against all odds, it actually worked.  Not "well, technically it's cream."  Actually worked.

The cream felt wonderful.  My hands felt soft.  And perhaps most importantly, nobody needed emergency medical treatment.   I considered that a victory.

What surprised me most wasn't the hand cream itself.  It was what happened afterward.

Suddenly I started looking at every herb in the garden differently.  The calendula wasn't just a flower anymore.  It was an ingredient.  Then I started wondering about lavender.  And lemon balm.  And mint.  The mint looked particularly nervous.  One herbal project had turned into another.  And another.  And another.

Which is how most herbal adventures seem to begin.  You start with a plant.

Then the plant gives you homework.  Before long you're learning how to dry herbs, make teas, infuse oils, create salves, and turn flowers into things you never imagined making.

The funny thing is that none of this was part of the plan.  I simply had too much calendula.

But sometimes that's how the best discoveries happen.  Not because you're trying to become an herbal expert.  Because you're trying to figure out what to do with an absurd amount of flowers.

The Calendula Hand Cream Recipe

If you'd like to try it yourself, here's the simple version that somehow survived my interpretation of instructions.

Ingredients

• 1 cup calendula-infused olive oil

• 1/4 cup beeswax pellets. (Pellets are easier for me to use)

• 10 drops lavender essential oil (optional)  I have also tried lemon essential oil...fantastic.

• Small jars or tins

Instructions

1. Place the calendula oil and beeswax in a double boiler.

2. Heat gently until the beeswax completely melts.

3. Remove from heat.

4. Stir in lavender essential oil if using.

5. Pour into jars.

6. Allow to cool completely.

7. Try not to judge it until it has fully set.

Apparently Calendula Has More Career Options Than I Do

The Herb That Started It All

Looking back, calendula may be the herb that changed how I think about herbs.

Not because it's rare.  Not because it's expensive.  Not because it's famous.

Because it taught me that herbs aren't just things you buy.

They're things you can grow, experiment with, and actually use.

And that's a completely different way of looking at the garden.

Continue Exploring

The funny thing about herbs is that one project always leads to another. Herbs are not just for cooking and making tea with.   Herbs, at least for me, are used in everyday life to make my life easier. 

One day you're growing flowers.  The next day you're making hand cream.

If you're curious about what else herbs can do, you might enjoy exploring:

• How to Use Bulk Herbs

• Herbal Tea Brewing Guide

• Herbal Tools & Wellness Builders

• How to Make Herbal Salves

And if you've ever accidentally grown enough of one herb to supply a small village, I'd love to hear about it.

Because I have a feeling I'm not the only gardener whose plants occasionally get a little carried away.