This week has been heavenly. Everywhere you look, fragrant clouds of magnolia and cherry blossom are arranged against the bluest sky, with carpets of porcelain-cupped daffodils underneath. The Garden has a dozen different varieties of magnolia. We would plant even more, but around here, a perfect magnolia spring only comes along once every four or five years, if that. The blossoms of the Yulan magnolia (Magnolia denudata) pictured here are too often spoiled by frost.

Naturally, the contrarian in me seeks a counterpoint to all the prettiness. Call it a yearning for balance and moderation. Down in the streamside muck, literally, resides one of the strangest little plants around. The appearance alone is fascinating and a bit repellant to some. The unforgettable odor gives the plant its common name: Eastern Skunk Cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus). It’s a member of the Aroid family, which includes Jack-in-the Pulpit, Calla lily and the champion of all smelly plants, the Titan arum, or Corpse flower.

 

Skunk cabbage has been blooming (yes, there’s a flower under that hood), since March. It has the property of actually heating up enough to melt snow. The air around a blooming skunk cabbage can be 25 or 30 degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. This also helps to broadcast its pungent, animal scent to the insects which crowd in to pollinate it and warm themselves inside its shelter.

Another of this plant’s odd attributes is the ability to contract its roots, pulling it deeper into the mud. Over the years, the roots become extremely deep, protecting it from being washed out of its streamside habitat in flood season.

The plant causes painful burning of the mouth and throat when any part is chewed. Like many plants that are poisonous when consumed incautiously, it has been used medicinally and as a magic talisman. Like the rich mud where it grows, there’s more to Skunk Cabbage than meets the eye.

Posted by Ann McCulloh