Book Review: The Scentual Garden

Gardening is hard work; its demands can be persistent. We work down on our knees and haul too many heavy loads – divide those rhizomes, move that mulch, weed that bed. Inhaling the scent of roses, or whatever floral feast presents itself, is one of gardening's many compensating perks. In The Scentual Garden (Abrams, 2019), author Ken Druse invites us to take another kind of well-deserved break. His book guides us along a path of botanical possibilities meant to activate our sense of smell. There for us to imagine are subtle whiffs of native spicebush (Lindera benzoin) or the potent scent of night-blooming jasmine (Cestrum nocturnum), along with introductions to scores of interesting plants. But he does not neglect the chemistry of the corpse flower (Amorphophallus titanum) with its overwhelming mix of sulfur dioxide and methane that attracts the pollinator flies that feed on dead flesh. As readers, we are taking this tour to immerse ourselves in understanding the panoply of aromas that plants produce, both good and bad. Perhaps we will discover plants we might want to grow, or at least experience.

The evaporation of volatile organic compounds (VOCs) from a plant's oil glands, in the minuscule amounts of parts per billion, is the key process in a plant's ability to create fragrance. Before I finally built a proper fence around my perennial garden, the only whiff I might catch from the flowers that tried to grow there was putrid egg, the key ingredient distilled into a spray of deer repellent. As Druse explains in this book, many of the odors and fragrances plants produce are intended to deter animal predators, hence the herb garden of lavender, rosemary, and oregano is left alone. Of course, pollination is another essential reason. He writes of nocturnal moths that seek the sweet allure of moonflower (Ipomea alba) nectar. These flowers only bloom at night and are an ideal candidate for a late summer moonlight fragrance garden, though Druse notes that some people find the fragrance they emit intoxicating, while others report it as rather disappointing. Smell is indeed subjective.

In nature, a scent can be subtle; you have to seek it out. Or it can overwhelm like a smack across your nose. Of course, in written text, like a book, no actual smells exist. Smells must be described. Druse devotes himself to organizing a lexicon of fragrance. He dives into an avalanche of description, formulating primary and secondary categories, trying to fix order to our sensory experience. Like a perfumer, he is our "nose." The lush fragrances of Gardenia are "Heavy" while lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis) smells "Floral/sweet." A dozen of these primary categories anchor our "scentual" understanding, including "Spicy," "Fruity," "Honey," and "Medicinal." We are tasked with connecting the essence of baby powder with the category of "Rose" and memories of licorice, of thyme and mint, and of the smell of fresh cut grass with plants that are classified as smelling "Herbal/green." He includes the "Animalic" aromas of musk and yeast and the "Indolic" odors of mothballs and garbage.

Druse's primary fragrances are challenging enough, but a tangle of secondary smells can often be confusing. The fragrant water lily (Nymphaea odorata), a native species found in eastern North America, has citrus as its primary scent, specifically lemon, but it is also bathed in "herbal/green, spicy, floral, indole, hyacinth, loquat" aromas. While I find it difficult to parse this combination of potential smells in my brain, both those familiar and those new, I am willing to try to imagine this complex mix. The same is true for trying to imagine the smells of all the other plants that are surveyed, despite the challenge. But the precision of how a plant will smell is less important to me than the rich body of knowledge I find within this book — all kinds of information, tips, and insights. More importantly, I never thought to sample the smell of N. odorata, but now I will undertake that quest. Hopefully, I won’t fall into a pond while satisfying my curiosity.

As with tasting wine or savoring a perfume, Druse prescribes a method for smelling flowers. Take many quick sniffs versus deep inhalations. Currents of forced air are more likely to reach the upper chambers of your nose, enhancing perception. To clear your palate, just smell the crook of your elbow.

The bulk of The Scentual Garden is an encyclopedic catalog of plants with both noteworthy and more subtle fragrance. Who knew creeping sedum had a scent? Druse recommends the ground cover Sedum terantum 'Larinem Park', though stooping down close to the blossoms will be required. Scores of trees, shrubs, perennials, and more from around the world are included, suited to many different growing conditions and grouped by their primary smell. Myrica pensylvanica, commonly called bayberry, can be found among “Forest Plants” along with many trees and shrubs that one would expect, like the genera Pinus and Juniperus, but also Chrysopogon zizanioides, a tropical and subtropical perennial grass whose long roots are the source of vetiver fragrance in perfume. The common name of this grass is, not surprisingly, vetiver, and it is categorized as having the primary scent of cedar with secondary scents of citrus, tarragon, pine, and oak.

Fragrance is intrinsically linked to the history of human interaction with plants. Along with farming, the processes of capturing fragrance mark the beginnings of civilization. Steam distillation and the production of perfume dates back to Mesopotamia; the resins from small shrubs and trees belonging to the Burseraceae family, along with Commiphora myrrha, were burned as incense. They are what we know as frankincense and myrrh. Spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove, along with all manner of aromatic bark, roots, flowers, stems, stalks, canes, and leaves, laid the foundation for global exploration and trade. In ancient and not-so-ancient times, good odors masked bad ones. A vivid memory from my high school world history class involves my teacher’s description of the clove-scented cloth Queen Elizabeth I kept handy to conceal the smell of her own rotting teeth. Druse touches upon the fascinating history of fragrance, including the bouquets of herbs and flowers called tussie-mussies that Victorian ladies and gentlemen of means would carry through rank streets. Rose water, perfumed sachets, and potpourri were early attempts to capture pleasurable smells.

In addition to being fun to peruse, Druse's book is a valuable reference. Extensive lists of not only the genera, but numerous species and cultivars that possess heightened fragrance are included for such plants as peonies, hostas, tulips, orchids, and lilacs. An index makes for quick research.

It is a beautiful book too. The large 9-by-12-inch format contains many photographs with the kind of clear images that allow for close study. In addition, lush photographic still lifes, taken with a flatbed scanner by photographer Ellen Hoverkamp, are like herbarium specimens, but in full color. They are a joy to examine. It is a book for slowing down and immersing yourself in the sensual olfactory experience of fragrance. Quite simply, Druse reminds us that "Good smells make us happy."