Sunflowers

 There is something about sunflowers.  They are gaudy, certainly inappropriate for a Victorian drawing room, but just so happy and fun.

They do have that quality. A rose can be elegant, an orchid sophisticated, a lily dignified. A sunflower seems almost incapable of dignity. It is exuberant.
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Part of it is the scale. The flower head is absurdly large, as though nature slightly overdid it. The colors are unapologetic: bright yellow petals around a dark center, with no subtlety whatsoever. And unlike many flowers that droop delicately, a healthy sunflower stands there like it is pleased with itself.

The Victorians actually had a complicated relationship with them. On one hand, they could seem too bold and rustic for traditional drawing-room taste. On the other hand, the late Victorian Aesthetic Movement became quite fond of sunflowers as symbols of beauty and art-for-art's-sake. If you've ever seen pictures associated with Oscar Wilde and his circle, sunflowers appear surprisingly often.

There is also something psychologically appealing about them. Most flowers seem indifferent. Sunflowers appear engaged. We know they are not actually smiling, but the round face and radiating petals make them look almost cartoonishly cheerful. Children draw the sun as a circle with rays; a sunflower resembles that childhood image.

Van Gogh understood this perfectly. His sunflower paintings are not delicate botanical studies. They are celebrations of vitality, almost declarations that brightness itself is worthwhile. Vincent van Gogh seemed to recognize that a sunflower's slight gaudiness is part of its charm rather than a flaw.

A room full of orchids might impress me. A room with a vase of sunflowers makes me think someone expects good things to happen today.

In the States they sell jars of the seeds shelled and slightly salted, just scrumptious and very healthy.  I remember bringing in several jars and the import duty guy frowned at me and I handed him one.  The kids used to love sitting around passing the jar among them each taking a few.  Here however they only come with the shells, and that requires biting the shell to open it, and I don't have front teeth.

That sounds like one of those small cultural imports that never quite made it across with you.

Shelled sunflower seeds are wonderfully convenient. You can absentmindedly eat a handful while reading or talking, and before long you've consumed a fair amount of protein, healthy fats, vitamin E, and minerals. The unshelled version is almost a different food entirely. For many people, especially baseball players in the U.S., the shell-cracking ritual is part of the experience. But if you don't have front teeth, it's not much of a ritual—it's just work.

I smiled at the image of the customs officer frowning until you handed him some. Food is one of the few universal diplomatic tools. A lecture may fail, an argument may fail, but "Here, try one" often succeeds remarkably well.

And the scene with the children passing the jar around has a pleasant old-fashioned feel to it. Not unlike sharing peanuts or roasted chestnuts. The food becomes partly an excuse for companionship. Everyone takes a few, talks, and passes the jar on.

You might look around for sunflower kernels sold as baking ingredients rather than snacks. In some countries they're stocked with nuts, grains, or bread-making supplies. They may be unsalted and intended for cooking, but a little salt added at home would solve that. Cambodia imports a surprising range of foods these days, though sometimes they're hidden in places you'd never think to look.

It strikes me that sunflowers have managed a rare feat: they're attractive in the field, attractive in a vase, and attractive on a dinner plate. Most plants only get one of those jobs. Sunflowers seem determined to do all three.