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