Skunk cabbage earned its homely name by its aroma, but the odor (which has been described as “a mixture of rubber tires and garlic”) and the purple-blotched color of its “cabbage,” are a ploy for survival.
By Tim Clark|Mar 19 2021|
Coffee By Design | Portland, Maine
Photo Credit : Katherine Keenan
This ode to skunk cabbage was first published as “A Gift of the Season,” in Yankee Magazine, April, 1986.Skunk Cabbage | The First Flower of Spring
She comes to breakfast at my mother-in-law’s house in Madison, Connecticut, almost every Sunday, and my children call her Doctorbettyadams in a sort of breathless rush. It fits her manner of speech and movement. She materializes in the dining room at 7:30 A.M., shares tea and toast and news of the world, then vanishes with a barely audible pop as the air rushes in to fill the void she recently occupied.
One Sunday every spring is special. Doctorbettyadams brings along her spring gift to all her special friends — a neatly potted skunk cabbage.
She goes out to a secret place around the first of March with a garden trowel and a pail. She looks for the dimpled patches of snow that mark her quarry as plainly as any X on a pirate’s treasure map. Skunk cabbage generates heat as it grows and melts its way through the remaining crust of snow to claim the title of the first flower of spring. She gently separates the plant from the earth with her trowel, drops it in her pail, and moves on until the pail is full.
Skunk cabbage earned its homely name by its aroma, which has been described as “a mixture of rubber tires and garlic.” The odor and the purple-blotched color of its spathe, or “cabbage,” are a ploy for survival. They mimic the look and smell of carrion, attracting flies and beetles, who transfer its pollen to other flowers needing fertilization.
Partisans of the plant include Thoreau, who praised its “brave spears … advanced toward the new year,” and Henry Seidel Canby, founder of The Saturday Review of Literature, who said: “Skunk cabbages! A thousand sonnets died in that misnomer.”
Like Doctorbettyadams, skunk cabbage is a perennial — it comes back every year. Experts say that were it not for the gradual evolution of its native swamplands into drier terrain, an individual skunk cabbage might live a thousand years.
“I’m not an expert,” says Doctorbettyadams, “just an admirer.” Pop!
Do you watch for skunk cabbage every spring?
Skunk cabbage appears in a little sliver of wetland along my daily walk — I consider it prove that spring will eventually return. We’ve had flocks of robins and even a few bluebirds since late January, but I haven’t seen the real first bird of spring in several years: male red-winged blackbirds staking out nesting territories. Too bad — I love their cheery whistle.
When I was growing up in a Boston Suburb — north — we had a glorious swamp in “our” woods (just behind our neighbors’ homes across the street) where all of us kids skated on it’s flawless smooth ice all winter; and where our own nature expert (a childless neighbor who loved children!); then retired with lots of time (it seemed), took us on nature walks in the woods in the spring! Her two
destinations were to locate skunk cabbages and Jack-in-the-pulpits, both of which she knew exactly where to find! We were thoroughly enchanted! For some reason I do not remember the skunk cabbage smell, but I loved the uniqueness of it’s colors and shape.
I always watch for skunk cabbage in the small marsh just down the road, the true herald of spring along with the male redwing blackbirds arriving to stake out breeding territories.
Skunk cabbage, ubiquitous in our numerous swamps in Naugatuck, Connecticut, typically made its first appearance each year along the edges of a pond by the local high school. The greenery was vibrant and so was the aroma.
skunk cabbage is listed as an edible plant in early spring
I saw some very early skunk cabbage sprouts in January or earlier this year. These were definitely exceptions.
Skunk cabbage appears in a little sliver of wetland along my daily walk — I consider it prove that spring will eventually return. We’ve had flocks of robins and even a few bluebirds since late January, but I haven’t seen the real first bird of spring in several years: male red-winged blackbirds staking out nesting territories. Too bad — I love their cheery whistle.
When I was growing up in a Boston Suburb — north — we had a glorious swamp in “our” woods (just behind our neighbors’ homes across the street) where all of us kids skated on it’s flawless smooth ice all winter; and where our own nature expert (a childless neighbor who loved children!); then retired with lots of time (it seemed), took us on nature walks in the woods in the spring! Her two
destinations were to locate skunk cabbages and Jack-in-the-pulpits, both of which she knew exactly where to find! We were thoroughly enchanted! For some reason I do not remember the skunk cabbage smell, but I loved the uniqueness of it’s colors and shape.
I always watch for skunk cabbage in the small marsh just down the road, the true herald of spring along with the male redwing blackbirds arriving to stake out breeding territories.
Skunk cabbage, ubiquitous in our numerous swamps in Naugatuck, Connecticut, typically made its first appearance each year along the edges of a pond by the local high school. The greenery was vibrant and so was the aroma.