Leaning over the inflorescence, the first thing you get is a vague cloud of damp leather or the inside of a cow's stomach- a khaki, slightly rank, but certainly endurable scent. There is even the faintest suggestion of indolic sweetness. You get a bit closer, emboldened, and maybe lean over the spathe. YOLO, and all that shit. And then it hits you like something fired out of the arse end of an abattoir sluice; cask strength stench like you have possibly never known.
There are three discernable threads to this olfactory armageddon- trois horreurs. Firstly, the moisture dripping from the roof of a sealed plastic bag containing a wedge of blue cheese rotting into a pile of gymnast's undergarments after eight days in summer; this rises in an almost visible cloud of initial fug. Then you're struck by that very specific stink of a maggot
flowering at the
I love Aroids.
Curious to know how it smelled at peak ripeness?
So was I.
Let me slap some lipstick on that pig and advise you not to put your face anywhere near members of this admittedly awesome family while they're at peak stank, which is a pretty short window. They're blowfly pollinated- that's all you need to know.