"I can't believe," my physician complained "that those darned dandelions are up so early! They’re all over the roadside!"

This was his well-intentioned effort at making me feel at ease as he shamelessly poked and prodded me with dispassionate determination. Although expressed with uncommon feeling, the words were simply idle chat on his part and he was taken aback long enough to stop palpating my lymph nodes when I gurgled, "They're not dandelions."

"What? Yes, they are. I thought that you said you were a gardener." More strangulation ensued.

My gardener's hand closed over his wrist. "They're not dandelions. They're coltsfoot. Do I ever contradict you when you identify anatomical features?"

The mistake is as common as the plant. Yet, the differences between the two, both in habit and habitat, are so pronounced that one is amazed that they are ever confused.

Earliest harbinger of spring, bright yellow coltsfoot flowers seem to appear from nowhere in late March and early April, calling to mind Frost's lovely line, "Nature's first green is gold." Dandelions follow less than a few short weeks later.

Dandelions (Taraxacum officianale), from the French for "lion's tooth," proliferate across lawns and sink their prodigious taproots into asphalt cracks and crevices, seeking sunny well-drained situations. The white underground stems of the thirsty coltsfoot welcome a little dappled afternoon shade and a steady supply of moisture, at least in spring. Hence its abundance in roadside run-offs, stream banks, pond edges, drainage ditches and the like, especially in areas with lots of calcium in the soil. It's one of the few plants to actually prefer heavy clay. Habitat aside, the difference in appearance is easily observed, although both belong to the Aster family. Sure, both are blonde, yet the shaggy "bed head" coif of the dandelion is in distinct contrast to the starry aster shape of the coltsfoot, with its central golden disk and matching rays. Smooth flowering stems of our favorite lawn ornament contrast with the scaly ones of the shadier species. The "dent de lion" is evident in the sharp serrations of the leaves, while spying an equine foot requires a lot more imagination. The leaf resembles that of a cucumber plant more than anything else. Yet, despite these differences, the two species have much in common. In both, sunny yellow blossoms quickly give way to hoary heads, which seeds waft through windows and drift through doors. And there's more. Both hail from "across the pond," having arrived with the colonists to American shores. Prized as medicinal and culinary plants, they were cultivated and put to use in the New World.

The Latin name for coltsfoot is Tussilago farfara. The species name farfara must be because it comes from far far away (groan....). Truthfully, the word's origins are Arabic and Turkish with meanings that include "feather brain," "to become agitated" and "to flutter." Honestly, I'm not sure why this applies, unless it's the fact that small birds have been observed to use the easily dislodged fuzzy hairs on the leaves as nest lining. Then again, it could as easily refer to the appearance of the seed heads, like the crests of Polish chickens.

The genus name Tussilago (tus-si-lay'-go) should have a familiar ring to it. Think pertussis and Robitussin… It's been found to contain concentrations of a pyrrolizidine alkaloid, known to be highly toxic to the liver. Based on evidence of such toxicity, in 1992 Germany restricted the use of coltsfoot and other herbs with similar properties to be consumed for no more than 6 weeks, and never by children or pregnant women. To be sure, pyrrolizidine alkaloids are also found in other herbs, such as borage and comfrey, as well as in honey. The key factor is quantity.

Whatever effect it may have had on the livers of the hackers and whoopers, there is no doubt that it was used historically, and with success, to treat coughs and lung conditions.

Dandelions have a much more benign history, being popular not only as spring greens (high in vitamins A and C), but as a foundation for cheering wine. I have it on good authority that the winemaker certainly needs several glasses, as the plucking of sufficient blossoms for steeping (half a gallon of newly opened flowers per gallon of wine) is particularly arduous.

Ecologically, dandelions are of interest because of their mixed approach to reproduction. Many dandelion individuals produce seeds in that most familiar way, i.e., pollination. However, some have three sets of chromosomes, instead of the usual two. This results in apomixis (otherwise known as reproduction sans sex), in which plants produce seeds that are genetically identical to the parent. The benefits of this form of cloning are mixed. On one hand, a successful plant can pass along its rugged good looks and vigorous traits to another generation. On the other hand, the dream of all parents is for successful children, impossible if said scions can't adapt to new circumstances.

Despite their fascinating history and uses, I'm compelled to admit that the most useful aspect of both of these species, at least for me, was the effect of this information on my tender lymph nodes. Too well trained to throttle me, at least while I was speaking, my physician removed his hands from my neck and practically ran from the room. He'll never again look at a coltsfoot without recalling me and shuddering. But, at least he'll know what it is.

Questions, comments, or other feedback to Judy Sullivan.

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