Back in 2002 I went to Prague, where I was able to legally sample that storied vice of brooding 19th-century artists, absinthe. The preferred method of preparation was to pour some of the liquor into a large spoon, add a pinch of sugar, and heat it over a candle flame until the sugar dissolved. It was a ritual that added to the sense of participating in a dangerous, clandestine tradition, and coupled with the pre-Industrial-era architecture and cobblestone streets, I would leave the pub fully expecting to run into a Van Gogh-like figure, or at least hallucinate one.
"The absinthe drinker" being visited by the green fairy. By Czech painter Viktor Oliva, 1901.
Somewhat disappointingly, I never hallucinated any depressive one-eared artists. Or anything else for that matter. In fact, despite the 120-proof alcohol content, I only got modestly tipsy, thanks to the absinthe’s bitter, anise-y flavor (the origin for the word “absinthe” is likely the Greek apsinthion, which means “undrinkable”). The one time I followed the absinthe up with a couple glasses of red wine, I did end up with a headache that might have inspired some gruesomely morbid poetry, but I wasn’t feeling moved by a creative impulse so much as by the impulse to find out what had happened to my Advil over the course of 3 flights and two layovers.
Fast forward to this past St. Patrick’s Day, when my friends brought over a bottle of appropriately green absinthe made and sold just a few miles away at our local distillery, St. George’s. While the mystique was not so pronounced in my living room as it had been in a Czech pub, the product was definitely the same: the bottle confidently proclaimed that it contained extracts from wormwood (Artemisia absinthium, the plant that gives absinthe its distinctive flavor and color). Ten years ago, I had to go to Europe for this stuff. Why is it legal here now? Continue reading
I spent a lot of my weekend looking at clusters of three heart-shaped leaves. You may have done the same, possibly (just possibly) in the company of a Guiness or something similar. And in the course of all that shamrock-ogling, I became slightly vexed that the shamrock’s officially recognized botanical representative is Trifolium dubium, the common suckling clover. Dubium, indeed. Its leaves are dinky, and they’re not even consistently heart-shaped. So for your consideration, I hereby nominate the various species of Oxalis (wood sorrel) that are overtaking my yard as shamrock alternatives.
White Oxalis purpurea (this guy was planted, the rest are wild). The leaves are perfect hearts, but kinda small.
Oxalis pes-capre, or Bermuda buttercup. You might remember these from "Roadside edibles on my run." They're really more notable for their fluorescent-yellow flowers.
Oxalis stricta, yellow-flowered oxalis, sometimes sports reddish leaves like these, bringing a little variety to all that green.
And finally, Oxalis oregana, redwood sorrel, whose leaves are the size of a silver dollar. Go ahead and tell me this isn't more like what comes to mind when you think "shamrock" than some dopey little clover.
After last week’s perusal of 4-winged dinosaurs, my labmates and I got into a bit of a competition to find the most outlandish prehistoric animal, which led us to meter-long millipedes, 2-foot mayflies, and something called Hallucigenia. What most captured our attention was that arthropods in the Carboniferous period were terrifyingly enormous. 50lb scorpions? GAAAAHH!!
Pulmonoscorpius was 70cm long, and makes me feel a tad bit better about sharing the world with the puny little several-inch scorpions we get now. Artist's rendition by Nobu Tamura, via Wikipedia.
But then we realized the Carboniferous (about 350-300 million years ago) was the same period that gave us 50-foot horsetails and house-sized ferns, and we paused long enough to ask ourselves: “Wait, hang on. Why was EVERYTHING so darned big back then?” Continue reading
This has nothing to do even tangentially with plants, but you guys should totally check out this article in Science about the 4-winged dinosaur microraptor (if you have trouble with the first link, try this NY Times article instead). Fossil microscopy and modelling has gotten so good that palentologists can not only tell that many dinosaurs were feathered, but also what color the feathers probably were.
The 4-winged microraptor. From Li et al., Figure 1.
Also, 4 wings=awesome. Not as awesome as the 4 wings+2 legs I first thought it had (crazy homeotic mutation for vertebrates!), but still awesome.
Oh, but wait! On the subject of ancient organisms, you should also check these plants that botanists were just able to sprout from fruit tissue around seeds buried by ground squirrels 30,000 years ago.
Silene stenophylla, a live look into the evolutionary past of this species, which now has tri-lobed petals. Photo from Yashina et al., PNAS.
I just can’t wait until we finish cloning woolly mammoths…
The gorgeous display of magnolia flowers around campus has been capturing my attention over the last few weeks, but it turns out they’re just as noteworthy for their therapeutic potential as for their aesthetics. A new article in press for PLoS One (open access for everyone!) describes a novel activity for the Magnolia officinalis derivative magnolol in repressing inflammation, which is a pretty tantalizing topic for a runner like me who’s always a little bit neurotic about the health of her joints.
Flowers of Magnolia x soulangiana, a cross between M. lilliflora and M. deundata.
The pink magnolia tree on the street outside our house has been cropped into a rather unfortunate blocky shape in an effort to keep it from obstructing the sidewalk. Nevertheless, the buds it produces this time of year are awfully pretty. The mix of fuzzy, smooth, and knobbly textures on the sepals, petals, and twigs always makes me want to grab a pencil, so…