Before The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food brought him to a larger audience, Michael Pollan wrote a book called The Botany of Desire, which looks at the relations between humans and four plant species whose genetic success has been determined by the ways that they suit our needs: the apple, the tulip, marijuana, and the potato. (He discusses similar ideas in his talk on the human relationship with corn in this video.)

Pollan begins with a hypothesis that plants play upon us even as we believe that we are using them for food and beauty: “We have spent the last few thousand years making these species through artificial selection, transforming a tiny, toxic root node into a fat, nourishing potato and a short, unprepossessing wildflower into a fat, nourishing tulip. What is much less obvious, at least to us, is that these plants have, at the same time, been going about the business of remaking us.” There, I thought, is a very intriguing take on our relationship with nature.

Then, there are the off-kilter moments of humor, such as the description from the Marijuana chapter on Pollan’s old cat, Frank, and his little catnip problem: “Every summer evening around five, Frank would lumber into the garden for a happy-hour sniff of Nepeta cataria, or catnip. He would first sniff, then tug at the leaves and proceed to roll around in what seemed to me like paroxysms of sexual ecstasy. Frank would crash-land in the dirt, pick himself up, do a funny little sidestep, then pounce again until, exhausted, he’d go sleep it off in the shade of a tomato plant.” I’ve often thought of this image of poor Frank reacting to the catnip while watching people at parties, and smiled to myself.

I first started to pay attention to where my food was coming from after reading The Botany of Desire. While the author clearly has a certain point of view, Pollan wooed me to the greenmarket not with a populist guilt trip, but with his combination of beautiful language, history, scientific approach, and humor. The book doesn’t beat me over the head with what is wrong, but reminds me of the loveliest of what is right.

When he describes some of the hundreds of apple varieties that used to be available in America, I felt driven to explore the less-familiar apples at the greenmarket. For years I had thought of apples as a boring winter fruit, until I discovered the wonderfully spicy winesap.

This is just one small example of the way this book made me want to commit with my money and time towards a positive vision. Out of all of the books that I’ve thought would change me, this is the one that produced a sustained result.

Pollan isn’t trying to convert you—he doesn’t have to try; he just can’t help himself. When I compare boring red delicious apples to the unusual types I’ve sought out since reading The Botany of Desire, it’s a no-brainer which one I’d rather eat. Ditto for the Monsanto newleaf vs. peculiar blue or red potatoes, as described in the potato chapter. It’s not a question of guilt, but pleasure—I am intrigued enough to search out better, more unique food, which is native to my area and produced as part of the local economy. Everybody wins.

One last anecdote: On Avenue of the Americas, I once saw an unusual tulip that looked very similar to his description of the tulips with color breaks that once incited tulipmania in Holland. These tulips had supposedly disappeared except for freak incidents, so I hurried back the next day to photograph this rare specimen.

Pollan’s fascinating, upside-down way of looking at the relationship between humans and plants charmed and disarmed me, and got me seeing everything around me from a completely new perspective. I can’t think of any other book that would inspire me to seek out strange new fruits, or run around the city photographing flowers.

Which books have altered the way you see the world and inspired you to do slightly crazy things? Let us know in the comments.

(image by jslander via flickr)