This week, we’re joined by Margaret Funk, the curious gardener—and doctor— behind the Instagram handle Flora & Frost. This lovely conversation between guest host Ben Futa and Margaret is filled with tales from both their gardens, more than a few nerdy moments, and plenty of laughs. ...Enjoy!
Ben writes: Margaret is not just a gardener and a doctor, but also a storyteller, informal educator, and content creator. She has been cultivating her Midwest garden in Minnesota since 2019, and like so many of us, dove in deep in 2020. She and her family have now converted the majority of their lawn into a vibrant garden with a small greenhouse, raised beds for veggies, ornamental plants, and a growing collection of native plants.
She combines her love of gardening with her scientific curiosity and love for laughter when it comes to her Instagram posts, and many museums—living and otherwise—could likely take a few notes from how she often presents complex topics in an accessible, authentic, inspiring, and entertaining way.
Margaret and I cover a lot of ground in our conversation, from bearded iris and peach trees, to our shared fandom of Monty Don, and the magical properties of Liatris. On the cusp of a new growing season, I hope you’ll find your own bit of joy and excitement as you listen and dream about the growing season that is about to begin.
Margaret, I’m so pleased to welcome you to Cultivating Place!!
I think what I admire most about Margaret’s point of view at Flora and Frost is her clear love for learning, sharing, beauty, and community that I feel with every one of her posts. It’s authentic, honest, human, and so very relatable because – more than anything – it feels like a true glimpse into the *actual* experience of being a gardener.
It doesn’t just feel like content for the sake of content or reels created to bait and switch us in to buying one more thing we don’t need. Flora & Frost, to me, is about sharing the abundance of joy and happiness that come with gardening. It’s about growing a garden that’s right for you, in your place, all while nurturing a connection to the broader world and all the creatures and beings we share this time and space with.
My conversation with Margaret reminded me how much I love talking about plants and gardening with fellow gardeners, swapping successes, plant recommendations, and lessons learned. Ironically perhaps, in my own life, this doesn’t happen as often as I feel like it could or should, and it’s one reason I’m so grateful to be part of Cultivating Place, as I now have a mission and a mandate to discover and interview some truly fascinating gardeners.
Gardeners are some of the most generous, curious, and compassionate souls I know. Surely, that’s not by accident. The world needs more of us. We need more of us. I love that folks like Margaret are inviting more people in to this world we all love and care about so much by sharing what she’s learning, what she’s growing, and what ignites her curiosity. I’m saying this to myself as much as I am each of you – I hope you follow your own curiosity in 2025. Don’t be timid or afraid to explore and learn. Let your curiosity be your guide through difficult moments. It’s pulling you toward something good. Trust it.
No matter where you’re listening, happy spring, and happy gardening.
Follow along with Margaret on Instagram:
All Photos courtesy of Margaret Funk, all rights reserved.
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Thinking out loud this week...
Hey, y'all, it's Ben-
I am fascinated by origin stories. Especially the ones that surprise you. Margaret didn’t set out to “build a following” or “be an influencer” or the next great “garden communicator” with Flora & Frost - instead, she set out to share something she loved that brought her joy. She wasn’t a trained video editor or media mogul – she’s a physician when she’s not in the garden, after all, yet her training as a physician has been critical to her journey because it’s also allowed her to tell captivating stories grounded in curiosity, science, and joy.
As I think about my own experience as an entrepreneur, I’m struck by the similarity here in that our life experiences have a funny way of recombining in new ways, creating new recipes and realities and opportunities for our minds and hearts to create and explore. Hybrids, if you will.
As I imagine each of you listening to our conversation today, and the many unique experiences and combination of ingredients we hold within yourselves, I wonder what else you may be capable of that hasn’t yet been realized? How might you surprise yourself if you followed a trail, wandered for a moment, and indulged your own curiosity. What would happen if you gave yourself permission to be curious again? To let go of the pressure, shame, or guilt to be, do, act, and even create in a certain way. What if you allowed yourself to be led, rather than leading.
How will you follow your curiosity this year? What are you most excited to explore, learn, or experience? I encourage you to follow that question, wherever it may go, especially in the context of caring for plants and tending a garden, no matter what that might look like for you.
I think it bears repeating: plants remind us we’re connected while helping us to connect. They have the incredible capacity to act as a sort of bridge in time and space as they hold deep, powerful, and personal stories. Margaret and I both are
connected to our grandparents through Iris and a Christmas cactus, and I know there are countless more stories like this in all of you listening today.
Our conversation today is timely, because just before recording, I stepped out in to my own garden and was met with total delight when I looked down and saw the first little green pinpricks of life: snowdrops are on the way! We’re in the midst of our spring thaw here in Northern Indiana, and this will be the first year these plants are blooming in my garden. But, here’s the backstory…
Last spring, I rescued a handful of these snowdrops from a vacant lot a few blocks away from our plant shop that were about to be bulldozed for a new development. Don’t get me wrong, this is a good thing in the context of our city and neighborhood which is peppered with vacant lots, remnants of a time of great loss, change, and upheaval in our post-industrial city.
Aside from that – as soon as I saw them blooming, I got “the feeling” in my stomach. I know you’ve felt it, too. The compulsion to pull over, dash out of your car, and scoop up a special plant or seeds or cuttings from something you noticed growing along the side of the road. I’d never advocate for poaching plants from wild spaces, but I knew these little snowdrops were doomed if they didn’t move. This had become a rescue mission.
Now, they’re just your standard snowdrops – nothing “special” beyond their clear persistence and determination to survive and thrive on total neglect in an otherwise unforgiving urban landscape. They not only outlasted their original gardener, they outlived the house, too. It’s a similar feeling to when you might see an old stand of daffodils, peonies, or lilacs blooming along an old country road – remnants of a long-gone family farmstead.
One spring day last year, I made my way down to the snowdrop corner and quickly dug up a couple handfuls of bulbs – and there were hundreds of them. I rushed back home, split them up, and popped them into my own garden, a few blocks away, right next to our back porch steps. I wanted them to be one of the first things I’d see each spring.
I’ll likely never know who planted those original bulbs many decades ago. I’ll never know exactly why they left South Bend or even if they’re still alive today. But, their snowdrops are here, still growing, and about to flower for the very first time in my garden, and they mean so much more to me than if I’d just
bought them online. These plants have a history, a memory, and a connection to the city and the neighborhood we call home today, and I really, really love that.
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