Nature Contained

I am not one who ascribes tastes to things that are not edible. I assign plants gender, worry about hurting inanimate objects' feelings, but I never used to look at a fern and think, wow-that could taste like wasabi?

Why have I been ascribing plants and flowers tastes? I know that some plants and flowers are edible, but this time, I feel that I am reaching out of the spectrum of logical consumption. Maybe a spring plant, with all its saccharin colors, elicits something more than just visual description? Maybe all the strong smells of hyacinth, sweet pea, and lilies awaken the taste glands?

The first incident happened last week. I was at Alan Haskell’s and all the little Jack-in-the Pulpits were up and hovering about their cute foliage. Their flowering, fleshy stalks just spoke to me in Alice in Wonderland-like fashion, you know the line, “one side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.” Okay, I should stop now with the Lewis Carroll imagery, but it is just too fun to imagine the ghost of Alan Haskell, the world renowned horticulturalist, as the caterpillar; blue and three inches tall with a hookah dangling out of the side of his mouth. He would recite his famous line, “Whooo…Are…You” and would then ask me to recite the poem “You are old, Father William”. Upon finishing my recital, I would give Alan a little curtsy and bend down to taste the flower’s spadix-it tastes like marshmallow!!!


The Marshmallow flavor I am envisioning is that of those old-fashioned European mushroom candies; or maybe it is a mix of fluff, marzipan and Italian torrone? Jack's hood, or spathe, with its deep burgundy swirls would give off a jammy finish, filled with undertones of raspberries, frangellico and fig. Whatever the case may be, my instincts are far off, my inner cave man is dead and I would be sick on the ground with a bogus peppery-taste lingering in my mouth. To top it all off, dear Pat would find me in the fetal position under the lemon trees. How can a plant be so deceiving!


Jack-in-the-Pulpit is known as the Indian turnip. Natives in the eastern states used their bitter, acrid and semi-toxic root to lace meats and poison enemies maybe that is why Jack-in-the-Pulpits inspire such crazy thoughts. Speaking of crazy, I stumbled upon the most fabulous pulpit-o-riffic item on the internet a while ago; a urinal from Clark Sorensen’s: Natures Calls, exhibition. The urinals even flush beautifully. I like how the artist notes that this particular composition, the jack-in-the pulpit, “has a challengingly small catch basin". Check them out at www.clarkmade.com.

Labels: Alan Haskell, Clark Sorensen, Jack-in-the-Pulpit

I don’t know at what age I declared that it was not spring until the crocuses, which have self-sown ever so delightfully, appear in the lawn of this old house that rests on Main Road about 1.5 miles North of Tiverton Four Corners. I can say with confidence that I have been associating their bloom with the coming of spring for at least half of my life. Every year, the crocuses expand their dominion; this year they march into the abutting tree nursery. I don’t know anything about the house itself, but because of the crocus, I ascribe it some sense of magical presence. In fact, I have decided that when I have children, I will tell them that the Easter Bunny lives there. He has all that he needs; a barn and a nice work space in the back, close proximity to a tasty organic farm (Manic Organic gardens the parcel across the street) and Gray’s Ice Cream is only a hop away (I imagine he likes Butter Pecan and Rum Raisin).

While I am on the subject of the crocus I should share one of my favorite childhood stories about my brother. Growing up, David had a window in his bedroom that was very large. It hovered about a foot from the garden, which made it a great entrance in and out of the backyard for a small child. I don’t know why, but one winter he decided to sprinkle Doritos out the window; maybe to feed our resident toads, Herbert and Sherbert? Months later, a little orange crocus appeared, and four year old David insisted that it was a Doritos plant. David’s first discovery in the garden! Twenty-odd years later, he is still in the garden, now playing with plants and flowers and designing lovely things at Nature Contained.

I have been attracted to this crocus display for some time. I believe I first saw it in a Gardens Illustrated magazine. I think there may have been a similar display at Rosenborg Castle in Copenhagen as well. The photo in the magazine article was immediately clipped out and pasted into my journal. I remember sharing the photograph with Sara Begg at River Gods, in Cambridge. While drinking beer and talking about plants (what else do two twenty-something chicks do on a Friday night), the display was instantly deemed “garden magic” and to this day, we still brainstorm about ideas which have evolved from the original little magazine clipping. The display mentioned was at Petersham Nurseries in southwest London. Petersham definitely sits on my list of places to visit if I ever happened to land in London. Just visiting their website is a treat. They have a teahouse and café, which looks as though it is stocked with all sort of lovely things from the garden, like butternut squash and lemon thyme soup and elder flower cordials. Sign up for their newsletter, which lists all their nursery’s events and enjoy your moment of Zen.