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People sometimes speak of the interference a woman’s perfume can run with the flavors of food. And, of course, there’s the matter of cigarette and cigar smoke concealing the tastes and aroma of a meal. But what about flowers? While they most certainly grace a dinner table, they can be distracting to the point of taking over a meal -- and not just because of their fragrance.
Blooms among the Seder
Among other endeavors, my brother Michael grows flowers. One spring he gave my mother a dozen peonies to take to Passover Seder. Peonies are picked when the buds are so small you might well doubt that they will ever open to their full potential. But they do -- and fairly quickly, once they’ve reached a certain point. My mother doubted that they would open and tossed the peonies in the sink. They looked like nothing, an inadequate gift. But at the last minute she had a change of heart, gathered them up and brought them to her host who set them on the table.
Just as my brother knew would happen, the peonies opened during the long course of the Seder. Between readings and sips of wine, the guests were captivated by the blooms, talking about them as the meal progressed and the crimson petals unfolded in the candlelight. Their scent, which is clean and elemental, does not interfere with food, but you cannot turn away from their astonishing blooms, glorious with rich layers of petals that easily distract one from the matters at hand (which are many during a Seder).
Night-blooming cereus steals the show
Twice I’ve been at dinners that were overtaken by another opening flower, a night-blooming cereus. The first time, we were the guests of a couple we were meeting for the first time, friends of friends, both earthy and sophisticated farmers whose dining room served partly as a greenhouse. Before sitting down to dinner, Anthony pointed out an awkward-looking plant and its odd, egg-shaped bud in the corner of the room. It had been swelling for over a week and was about to open, he told us. He promised it would be quite a treat.
Petals lay close to its body, like narrow strips of paper and about as impressive. There was a small opening about the size of pea at the distal end from which a musky scent leaked lazily. It was unmistakably tropical. As the bud opened during the evening, the scent grew heavier and sweeter, and it spilled into the room with increasing force. The petals began to lift and widen, the opening grew larger and larger. And here we were, four strangers getting to know one another over a meal, but it was as if a dazzling slut had wandered into the room and sidled up to chat; it was impossible to ignore her company.
Anthony had cooked an unusual fava bean, harvested from a particularly rowdy row of miscellaneous vegetables, which he first toasted, then braised. Carole made a luscious slump, the dumplings covering the fat Chester blackberries we’d been eating from the vine only hours earlier. There was more, too. But while we ate, the petals of the blossom continued to peel further away from one another and the scent grew stronger still. The perfume and the beans fiercely fought for a moment for attention, but the beans soon lost. The dinner conversation was jerky for it was interrupted each time one of us would glance over towards the flower and exclaim how much more open it was now!
By the last glass of wine, the bloom was like fireworks, like stars. Except for the beans and the slump, I can’t recall a thing we ate, but it must have been something very good for Anthony is an exceptional grower of the most interesting edibles. But his talents were no match for the flower that took over.
Petals in the powder room
A few months later, we had a similar experience with a night-blooming cereus, and again the encounter involved a person we didn’t know -- a prospective Greek teacher. This time, the plant was located in our bathroom. There were several plump buds and we were pretty sure this would be their night. We had tended these plants for many years, but this was the first time we had ever had a blossom. We were excited, although we knew from our experience with Anthony and Carol that the flowers would be sure to disturb any conversation at the table. But the dinner was already in motion, and you can’t tell a flower to bloom another time.
We sat down to eat and just as before, the petals slowly lifted and peeled back while we ate and drank and discussed the Greek alphabet. Although the plant was out of view and two rooms away, we knew what was happening because that tropical perfume was drifting into the kitchen in waves. Every 10 minutes or so one of us, including our guest, felt compelled to get up and check the plant's progress. It was during dessert, when the blooms went unwatched, that they opened fully. At that point we simply put down our forks, got up and all went into the bathroom and admired them.
The bathroom, you’ll have to admit, is an odd place to congregate with people you don’t know, but it didn’t matter. We were all smitten. And what was for dinner? I’ve no idea. The flower completely trumped whatever food we had enjoyed.
Deborah Madison is the author many books on food and cooking, including "The Greens Cookbook," "Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone," "This Can't Be Tofu," and "The Savory Way." Her next book, "Seasonal Fruit Desserts from Orchard, Farm and Market," is due for a spring release in 2010.
Photo: (top) Night blooming cereus. Credit: Deborah Madison.
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Thanks so much for this brilliant piece of writing.
Elissa Altman
PoorMansFeast.com