Cultivating Ecosystems: Why I Chose the IKEA Milsbo and Rudsta for My Orchid Collection

There comes a point in every orchid keeper’s life when the plants start taking over the house. One day you’re shifting a book to make room for a Phalaenopsis, and the next you’re standing in the middle of the living room wondering how everything filled up so fast. My orchids were doing fine, but the house was too dry and the air too still. I needed a space that could hold humidity without turning the room into a swamp, move air gently, and still feel like part of a home. That’s what pushed me toward IKEA greenhouse cabinets, and I started with one Milsbo and one Rudsta.

When I wrote about the holiday blooms in December 2024, the cabinets had only just come home with me. The Milsbo went into the living room and the Rudsta into my office. At that point they weren’t display pieces, they were just clean, glass‑and‑metal shelves ready to work. I set them up, moved the orchids in, and started paying attention to the basics: temperature, humidity, airflow, and how the light shifted across the shelves.

Back then, I wasn’t thinking about history or Victorian orchid mania. I was just trying to keep the orchids comfortable through the dry season. We heat with a wood stove to save on energy, and while it keeps the house warm, it also pulls moisture from the air. The orchids felt that dryness long before I did. The cabinets helped almost immediately by holding humidity steady and softening the sharp edges of winter air.

As the months went on, I realized how naturally these enclosed spaces supported the orchids. They weren’t decorative curios, they were working environments. The orchids responded to the stability long before I fully understood what I was seeing. New roots, firmer leaves, and steady growth told me more than any manual could.

The two Rudsta cabinets in my office

I haven’t done a deep dive into the history of Orchidelirium yet, but it makes sense that growers have always turned to enclosed spaces when orchids needed more protection. Early attempts in the nineteenth century were often too warm or too stagnant, and many plants didn’t survive. Over time, people learned what orchids actually needed, and smaller enclosed structures, like the Wardian case, became practical solutions for those without full conservatories.  I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but it’s interesting how often the same idea returns. Give orchids a protected, stable environment, and they thrive. In that sense, our modern IKEA cabinets are just the newest version of a very old approach.

As I spent more time with the cabinets, I started noticing their differences. The Milsbo, with its taller frame and big glass panels, felt open and bright. The Rudsta, being narrower, held humidity more tightly and created a quieter environment. I found myself moving between them throughout the day, checking leaves, adjusting fans, and learning how each cabinet shaped the air.  Some orchids preferred the brighter feel of the Milsbo. Others settled into the Rudsta without hesitation. I hadn’t planned any of this, the orchids simply told me what they wanted through their growth. Over time, the cabinets became small ecosystems that needed tending and adjusting, and I found a lot of satisfaction in learning how to keep each one balanced.

As the seasons changed, so did my routine. Instead of checking windowsills, I opened cabinet doors

The Milsbo in the living room

each morning like someone stepping into a small greenhouse. I looked for new roots, fresh growth, and signs that everything was holding steady. The cabinets gave me a place to slow down and pay attention to the details the orchids used to communicate how they were doing.

When my aunt died in April 2025, the cabinets became more than growing spaces. They gave me something steady to return to when everything else felt unsteady. Some mornings, opening the cabinet doors and feeling the cool air drift out was enough to remind me that life was still moving forward in small ways. The orchids didn’t need me to be cheerful or composed; they just needed presence. That was enough.  The blooms arrived quietly, often on days when I wasn’t expecting anything bright. They felt like small reminders that growth continues even when we’re not looking for it. The orchids didn’t bloom to comfort me, but their timing often felt like a kind of grace.

As the months passed, I refined the environment inside the cabinets. Light came first with Barina T5s on timers, adjusted shelf by shelf. Then airflow with 120mm case fans at the top and bottom, creating a soft cycle of air. The Rudstas handled circulation easily; the Milsbo needed a little more encouragement.

Humidity was the hardest part. In the beginning I used candy jars and ultrasonic mist makers, but they ran constantly and wore out fast. When I added the second Rudsta, I switched to AC Infinity Cloudforge foggers and controllers. That let me dial in humidity and VPD with real accuracy. Distilled water helped everything run cleaner and last longer.  The orchids told me when I’d gotten it right: bright root tips, firm leaves, steady growth.

Watering changed too. I started with individual pots for soaking, then moved to wash basins as the collection grew. Later, I added squeeze bottles for weekly watering and kept monthly soaks for fertilizer. A countertop distiller made everything easier and more consistent. Over time, the cabinets developed their own identities.

The first Rudsta became the cloud forest cabinet: cool, misty, and soft.

The second Rudsta became the nursery: warm, gentle, and steady.

The Milsbo became the show cabinet: bright, open, and full of bloomers.

Eventually I converted an old lizard enclosure into a home for the jewel orchids, who needed lower light and higher humidity. It freed up space and gave them an environment that matched their needs.

The converted lizard terrarium (WIP)

What started as two identical glass structures became small ecosystems, each with its own rhythm. And somewhere along the way, they became places where I could rest too. The cabinets taught me that growth doesn’t always announce itself, and that healing often happens quietly in the background while we’re tending to other things.

When I look at them now, I see not just the work I put into shaping them, but the steadiness they gave back to me.  As everything settled into its rhythm, I started to realize just how rewarding these cabinets had become. They worked better than I expected when I first dragged them home from IKEA. The orchids grew, the systems held steady, and the routines I built around them became second nature. Every time I opened the doors and felt that cool, even air, it felt like confirmation that all the small adjustments had been worth it.

The cabinets have carried me through a lot, and they’ve done their job well. But as the collection grew and the orchids started filling every shelf with new roots and new growth, I began to feel the limits of the space. Not in a frustrated way but more in the sense that the orchids were outgrowing the little worlds I’d built for them.

Somewhere along the way, the cabinets stopped feeling like temporary solutions and started feeling like part of the house. They’ve worked better than I ever expected, and the orchids have made full use of every inch I’ve given them. It’s been rewarding to watch them settle in, grow, and respond to the stability of these little ecosystems.

And apparently, I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

Every now and then, my husband will walk past the cabinets, glance at how full the shelves are getting, and say something like, “So… when are you getting another cabinet?” or “Where are you planning to put the next one?” He says it casually, almost like he’s talking about moving a chair, but the meaning underneath is pretty clear. And honestly, it probably doesn’t help that I keep bringing orchids home. I mean… hello, we’re well past sixty orchids at this point. It’s the tone he uses when he’s already accepted that something is happening; he’s just waiting for me to acknowledge it out loud.

Those comments have nudged me into thinking past the next cabinet. The truth is, the cabinets have done exactly what I hoped they would. They’ve taught me how to manage light, airflow, humidity, and routine. They’ve shown me what the orchids respond to and how they grow when the environment is right. But they’ve also shown me the limits of what I can do inside a piece of furniture, no matter how well‑designed it is.  So lately, when he makes those offhand comments about “the next cabinet,” my mind goes somewhere else entirely. I start thinking about what it would be like to have a real greenhouse. Not a giant Victorian conservatory, just a practical, well‑built space outside where the orchids and my jungle of houseplants could have room to grow without me constantly rearranging shelves or negotiating airflow around glass doors. A space designed for them instead of adapted for them.

And the more he jokes about where I’m going to put another cabinet, the more I think he knows exactly where this is heading. I think we both do. The cabinets have been a great beginning, but they’ve also made it clear that this hobby has outgrown the corners of the house. A greenhouse doesn’t feel like a far‑off idea anymore. It feels like the next step, something that would give the orchids the space they deserve and give me a place that matches the care I’m already putting into them.

The greenhouse Amazon keeps
recommending to me

A greenhouse makes sense for many reasons. The cabinets have been wonderful, but they are still pieces of furniture at the end of the day. There is only so much space, only so much airflow, and only so much light I can coax out of them before I reach the limits of what they were designed to do. A greenhouse would give the orchids and the houseplants room to grow without constant rearranging or the careful engineering of small climates behind glass doors. It would allow me to manage everything on a larger scale, in a space that is meant for growing rather than one I have adapted for it.

I have carried an idea in my mind for a while of a pre‑fabricated greenhouse in the backyard, something that could become a focal point. Amazon certainly encourages this by recommending greenhouses to me on a regular basis, as though it knows exactly what kind of trouble I am capable of finding. I imagined a small structure set among natural areas, with a patio nearby where we could sit in the evenings. It would be a place where the orchids could thrive and where the yard would feel more intentional, a space that was both practical and quietly beautiful.

My husband has a different idea, and it is one that makes a great deal of sense. He imagines a greenhouse that spans the width of the side of the house, a long and simple structure that would receive more sunlight throughout the day. It would be easier to reach, easier to heat, and easier to connect to the systems we already have. The more he talks about it, the more clearly I can picture it.

In my mind it begins to resemble the old sunrooms that Wendy’s restaurants used to have, the ones with the angled glass roof and the bright light that poured in from every direction.

Not the part where the heat became overwhelming in the summer, but the shape of it. A warm and bright space that feels like an extension of the house rather than something separate. A place where the orchids and my houseplants could spread out and where I could walk among them instead of crouching between shelves. Maybe one day even selling plants that I grow.

Both ideas have their own appeal, and I am not sure which one we will choose. The important part is that we are talking about it at all, and that he is the one bringing up the idea of another cabinet. The cabinets have been a wonderful beginning, but they have also made it clear that this hobby has outgrown the corners of the house. A greenhouse no longer feels like a distant idea. It feels like the next step, and for the first time it feels possible.

Whatever shape it takes, the idea of a greenhouse feels like a natural continuation of everything these cabinets have started. They were the first step, the place where I learned how to create environments and where the orchids taught me what they needed in return. They carried me through seasons that were difficult and seasons that were bright, and they gave me a place to rest when I needed it. A greenhouse would simply be the next version of that same work, a larger and more intentional space where the orchids could grow and where I could continue learning alongside them. It feels less like a dream now and more like something we are slowly moving toward, one cabinet, one orchid, and one quiet decision at a time.

For now, the cabinets continue to do their work, and I will keep tending the orchids as they grow and settle into their spaces. Whatever comes next will unfold in its own time, and I am content to let the idea of a greenhouse take shape slowly, the same way the orchids have taught me to let everything else grow.

If you are curious about the components I used in my cabinet builds, I have gathered them here: https://blog.thepottedhistorian.com/p/system-components-indoor-climate.html

And if you have questions about your own cabinet project or would like a bit of guidance as you begin, feel free to reach out. I am always happy to share what I have learned.