The winter is not letting go, except for brief intervals. Snow falls but is ephemeral. Couldn't we just stop driving for one day when we get that kind of snow or freezing rain, that makes the roads so dangerous? The snow melts in a day or two, and lo! the grass is still green; the ground is mushy underfoot. Birds are (we can only imagine) delighted chasing each other. We dig for Jerusalem artichokes. With such a cold winter, the ground was frozen, and we could only dig down and get them recently.
Everyone, from the eldest to the little children, is familiar with the ubiquitous dandelion, at least in the bright flower stage, and the blowy seedy stage that follows. But in April dandelion greens are there for the taking for those with a sharp eye and a good hand shovel. High in calcium, potassium and Vitamin A, the botanical name says it all: Taraxacum officinale: the official remedy for disorders. The distinctive long, sharply-toothed leaves inspired the Old French name of dentdelion, from which we borrow. The more you look for them, the more you find. If you can get to them in early April, before they flower, they are less bitter. When the soil is not too wet, stick the hand shovel straight down along the side of the plant. Then grasp the base of the plant and pull firmly and gently, feeling the earth give way. A nice pair of garden gloves are helpful in the cool damp weather. Knock off what soil you can from the roots, and throw the plant into a container. Inside, cut the plants just above the root. Dirty roots get thrown into the compost bucket on the floor; leafy tops, along with the swollen white base, are tossed into a basin and swished around in cool water. Pull them out and drain in a colander, it's good to have them still wet for cooking.
Some days there's time to pick them in the morning, while they are freshest - isn't that the best time to pick anything? But there is often not time then to clean and certainly I'm not ready to cook them. So after shaking out each plant, and throwing it into the wire basket, and giving that one last shake at the end, I throw them all into a bowl or bucket of water. So they stay fresh all day until I get time to deal with them. It also provides a first rinsing. When it comes time to chop off the roots, I throw the leaves into clean water for a second rinsing, and the bowl of muddy water gets thrown directly outside under the crabapple tree so as not to clog the drain.
Your neighbors will probably be delighted to let you yank theirs out too, until they recognize their virtues too. You can bake the roots for a coffee-like beverage, but I can't say I've tried that.
Winter cress leaves, too, are still to be found, just starting to send up flower shoots. These little buds look and taste like broccoli, and the leaves spark with earthy flavor.
Garlic mustard is taking over many spots on the edges of disturbed woodlands as well as yards. April is the perfect time to pull it out by its roots, before it flowers. (See May.) Chopped finely it can be sneaked into many cooked dishes, or sprinkled raw on salads. Have an abundance? Try garlic mustard pesto! Chop the leaves and remove the stems and put in the food processor along with some extra virgin olive oil, chopped garlic, and pinenuts or walnuts. Puree!
The first chives are available. Might as well put them liberally on almost everything, as they spread promiscously int the garden.
Violets are appearing--soon to bloom. The humble violet is only humble in the sense of its affinity for humus. No humility in its tremendous Vitamin C content or its lovely flowers that serve as edible adornments to salads. The leaves are rather bland so they're good mixed with dandelions and other greens. Where I saw a clump of violets growing wild near a tree in my backyard, I cleared away the other little plants so as to encourage them to grow and spread.
The intense flavors of greens cooked or raw wake up the tastebuds. They can be mellowed by adding the leftovers the next day to eggs, burritos, casseroles, stir-fries and soups.
In these days of convenience, gathering plants in the wild may seem strange. You can go to the supermarket and get your veggies pre-cut and scrubbed. They even sell dandelion greens. But the experience of roaming the extravagant aisles in Wegmans produce section does not match the total experience of being outside and in tune, aware of the air dense with birdsong and, of digging the plant from the ground carefully and easily, remembering with a smile all the enemies of dandelions, while watching the work of the earthworm, whose presence is a good sign. A time for the no-rush attitude... of movement flowing with mind, purpose with play.
In a previous existence, it was a matter of survival to gather food when available and to process it immediately. Now it feels a like a deep luxury to take the time to act on the produce the day it is at its freshest. No longer a physical survival need, it has become an inner necessity, a spiritual need, an act of resistance to a culture which has stripped us from our connection to nature. To some, it is drudgery to pull weeds and sort them according to what goes to compost and what will be saved to eat, and then to separate out the best leaves from yellowed and rotted ones and from the grass blades mixed in and tear off the dark roots, and then to plunge them into a cold water bath, swish them around and lift them gently out into a colander. To others, there is fascination in seeing the marvelous construction of this sturdy plant, and the dirt fall from the bunched plants as you tear them apart. They're all ready to cut up. The water clinging will be just enough. To me that's life.
The weeds that have been following humans around for millennia need not be our enemies. The penchant we have for clearing land only invites them. By making use of them and appreciating their beauty we make our peace. By pulling most of them up before they flower, we leave more room for the less agressive natives.
Picking baby spinach leaves from an overwintered bed that was covered with leaves last fall, and then covered with snow for much of the winter of 2003-2004. Little plants of corn salad (French mache) have scattered themselves throughout a lot of the garden when left to flower last summer. I had sowed them originally but have not needed to sow more in the past few years. Together the spinach and corn salad make the first salad greens of this year.
In the planted garden, as opposed to the semi-wild world, tiny sprouts of lettuce, spinach , and arugula have appeared. Stalks of garlic, planted last fall, are now eight inches tall.
The venerable old cherry tree that anchors the neighbor's yard is opening its first white blossoms, and even the pink flowers on the frail peach trees in my own yard are waking up for yet another year. Old for peach trees, they will never achieve the girth of the cherry tree. The trunk is splitting and oozing sap; they have lost so many dying limbs to pruning over the years that the branches remaining are twisting and reaching out like dancers suspended -- The robin likes to sit in its branches late in the day facing the setting sun; its breast burning red seemingly from within.
Someone told me once that this neighborhood was originally populated by Italian workers after the swampy land was filled in back in the twenties. It is to them we have to thank for the many fruit and nut trees still growing and spreading their seed. The mother of my daughter's friend remembers coming to my house when she was a child, and seeing her friend's father planting sticks in the ground. They were doubtful when he talked of the fat peaches to come. Now those peaches in jars in the basement bear witness to the miracle.
Last update: 4/22/07