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The passionflower has a long history and goes by a variety of names.

The passionflower has a long history and goes by a variety of names.

I could feel the earth breathe a great sigh of relief and every leaf and blade of grass quiver, spread-eagled wide and high to receive every precious drop of rain that finally, gently fell. It slowly soaked parched soil, though barely a scant half-inch met its mark in the rain gauge. On cue, surprise lily spears, tips already split with pink, popped out of the ground to flaunt rosy, showgirl headdresses in conga lines through the garden.

A couple of coolish days drew me out of my self-imposed summer hibernation, scurrying around with wheelbarrow and pruners to spread mulch and gravel, chop down over-it tiger lilies and small trees, pull weeds and yank out exuberant vines that took advantage of my heat-induced neglect to clamber over everything in reach

Then it is back to my indoor sanctuary until I hear the welcome roll of a foretold August thunderstorm, only emerging in early hours to turn on sprinklers once more and evenings for stargazing. The rest of the weeds, had-it-with-summer day lilies and those cursed vines will have to wait.

Not that I don’t like vines — I do. At least some of them, in moderation, when they aren’t an impossible tangle sending runners everywhere, slithering in a tight, tripping grip around my ankles and ripping out my hair clip with grabbing tendrils if I don’t duck smartly. Most need severe discipline to keep Chaos from becoming a jungle only Tarzan would love.

Many don’t bloom until late summer and early fall, filling the pause in summer perennials, like swags of trumpet vine keeping hummingbirds occupied, and sweet, foamy flowers of nonnative, invasive (but beautiful) autumn clematis in late August.

Often lost in the tangle, and my summer favorite, is native passion vine, Passiflora incarnata. The beautiful purple and white inflorescence is like something straight out of the bizarre imaginings of Dr. Seuss. Otherworldly, eccentric, quirky, exotic and not at all looking as if it belongs in the Ozarks, much less on Earth, it reminds of a many-layered, colorful wind-spinner, or perhaps more romantically, a Victorian ruff layered with a fringed ballerina tutu and topped with a crown.

Discovered in Peru in 1569 by a Spanish doctor (before it got its romantic name), a species of passiflora (one among some 600 worldwide) called maracuja was known as an herbal remedy throughout South America. The moniker “passionflower,” with its religious connotation, came about 40 years later upon introduction to Europe as an ornamental. It caught the imagination of Jesuits, who saw it as symbolizing the crucifixion and Christ’s suffering on the cross.

Its parts were further studied, interpreted from drawings and dried plants by Giacomo Bosio, a church historian in Rome, and presented to the pope (1608). Later it was recorded in the book “De Dlorum Cultura” by Jesuit Father Ferrari (1633), dubbed with the Latin “passio” (suffering), “flos” (flower) and “incarnata” (to make flesh, or reincarnation). The religious Latin binomial stuck, classified by Linnaeus in 1745, becoming the universal name of the entire family as well as individual species.

Passionflower has collected a slew of other names through its long history: apricot vine, Holy Trinity flower, molly-pop, popapple, granadilla and maypop. In Japan, where Jesuit symbolism is not recognized as universal, Passiflora incarnata is known as tokeisō, “the clock-faced plant,” for its resemblance to a clock face.

Early Native Americans had their own names for it. Ocoee is the Cherokee Indian name (with Ocoee River in Tennessee). Powhatan people of Virginia called it mahcawq, which may have evolved into the English maycock or maypop. The latter refers to its pulpy, air-filled fruit that explodes with a satisfyingly loud, gooey pop when stepped on (or thrown, not that I would have personal experience with such antics).

Passiflora incarnata, our native species, grows to about 6 to 8 feet, clambering over fences and into trees or weaving its way across the garden through perennials, blooming June through September.

Mingling with black-eyed Susans, coneflowers and bidens and scrambling up ironweed and goldenrod, the slightly fragrant flowers are magnets for imbibing carpenter bees (passionflower nectar gets carpenter bees quite drunk) and many other pollinators. The plants host several species of butterflies: fritillaries, long zebras, clouded sulphurs and hairstreaks, among others. Passiflora does need a male and female vine for cross pollination to produce fruit.

Dried passionflower is often made into tea. Long used medicinally by Indigenous peoples, it is a well known sedative, mood enhancer and stress reliever in low doses. Its mild, grassy flavor may be combined to make it more palatable with chamomile, lemon balm and sugar.

But as with all other traditional medicinal herbs, the cautionary note is to be careful, as it may have side effects and should not under any circumstances be taken by pregnant women, or with antidepressants or sedatives. The active chemical component of passiflora is not well studied. Leaves may or may not be toxic, but no sense in taking a chance — caterpillars can have them.

Maypops, the common name for passiflora’s 2-inch, fleshy, ovoid-shaped fruits, are edible and choice. The thin-skinned fruit, related to the papaya, will ripen from green to yellow/orange and become wrinkly, dropping to the ground when fully ripe. Refrigerating for a week or so allows its mild, apricot flavor to fully develop before being peeled and eaten, or made into jelly.

Maypops, low in calories, have plenty of heart-healthy fiber and a good dose of vitamin C. Deer reputedly have no taste for them, but the nearest opossum may be waiting as they fall, so one has to be quick to get there first. Birds like the dried seeds.

Maypop pulp, scooped from the ripe fruit, can be made into jelly, or added to pineapple or orange juice for a refreshing drink or to a tomato relish. Dozens of recipes can be found on the internet.

I even found a recipe for maypop mimosas from Sweden’s Edible Country:

• 1 part citrus juice (mix of fresh orange and Meyer lemon).

• 1 part sparkling white wine, chilled.

• Juice and seeds from 1 passionfruit, about 1 tablespoon (or strain out pulp and seeds if a smooth drink is preferred).

Mix together juices and pour into champagne flutes, a little less than halfway. Top off with sparkling wine and stir gently. Garnish with a thin slice of citrus, if desired, and serve immediately.

Now that might be tasty.

Visit our Facebook page for a recipe for maypop jelly.

Sandy and Jim Parrill garden at Chaos, their acre of the Ozarks in Joplin. Sandy is a lifelong gardener and a Missouri master gardener. Jim is a former garden center owner and landscaper; both are past members of the Missouri Landscape and Nursery Association. Email them at sandraparrilll@sbcglobal.net and follow their Facebook page, A Parrillel Universe of Wonderful Things.

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