IT STARTED INNOCENTLY ENOUGH with just one plant, but that led to another and then another.
When all were packed into the basement one winter, I counted 50-plus brugmansias stowed behind the furnace, in the cold cupboard — even in the washroom.
My wife, Shelley, concerned by my new obsession, suggested I stop taking cuttings and making more plants every time one came out of dormancy and started to grow. I didn’t stop.
The following summer I was glad I hadn’t, because that year the plants burst into a spectacular show of 225 trumpet-shaped flowers — some nearly the size of wine bottles. Their intensely sweet fragrance wafted into the house and floated down the street.