March, Third Week

By early March, spring appeared delirious in its excitement to clothe itself in the richest of colors, but it also has brought lots of weeds. Each week a new variety suddenly appears around the meadow, especially along the fences. They grow prolifically—must be one defining quality of weeks. However, some of them may be edible.

One afternoon as I am flipping through the pictures in my guide to wild edible plants, I happen to notice the heading, Cleavers. I recognize the name because it is the herb that I am continually recommending as the best one to dissolve kidney stones. Of course, I’m surprised to see that it is the weed that I have been aggressively pulling up around the house. The leaves are so sticky that they attach to my pants legs to follow me wherever I go. In addition to its medicinal qualities, the guide informs me that this weed is a tasty edible green.

That evening I steam a pot of mixed weeds, but the presence of cleavers is unmistakable. I suspect that it is the texture, rather than the taste, that is so off-putting. Anyway, I personally verify the logic of its alternative name: “straw” grass. Later cleavers will produce little fuzzy burrs that grab and stick to everything. As it turns out these can be roasted for a good coffee substitute—I think I’ll skip that one.

Then I discover that the terrible vine with all the thorns that continually blocks my progress when I am reconnoitering off the beaten path is greenbriar. It is also an edible green—either raw or cooked. If I can eat greenbriar shoots, I will never starve because it grows like an octopus reaching out its long green tentacles to shroud every fence and bush throughout this area.

The early chanterelles are gone, but one evening I find a shaggy mane mushroom on my walk in the meadow. Just one, but for me that one is a signal. The abundance of spring wild food is reaching its peak. Eliminating cleavers, there are other spring greens around the house. Plantain is plentiful; violet leaves and flowers can supplement a salad. When I taste-test the young shoots of greenbriar, I find them quite tasty—both fresh and cooked.

An old idea comes drifting back to me. I would be keen on spending some time living off the land. My first encounters with eating wild foods were weekend trips with the wildman when I lived in New York City. He was a self-styled character whose claim to fame was that he made it to the Dan Rather show when he was arrested for picking and eating a dandelion green in Central Park (Official spies of city hall had video taped the travesty—no picking of plants in the park. But wildman scored a victory when the Court ruled that the law meant ornamental plants, not weeds.)

The wildman was dedicated; no root, pod or seed was too small, tough or bitter for his palate. I was a bit more discriminating, but I did get a solid background in edible plant lore. Surprisingly, stinging nettle was definitely the most delicious green, while the giant puffball steaks were the most memorable mushroom find. At that time, I had planned to go on a backpacking jaunt relying on wild foods. But I never got organized to make it never happen.

With the abundant lush greens, hopefully some mushrooms, and fish from the pond, I realize that the plan may be feasible now. In the meanwhile, I need to find a couple of good mushroom sites, pick out a couple of thick greenbriar patches to prune back to force fresh shoots and check my plant guide for more possibilities.

I have discovered big batches of May apple plants with their white waxy flowers. In their pristine simplicity, flowers don’t come any lovelier. Each green parasol of leaves produces only one fragrant flower. The green fruits have started to form and will probably be ready by April here. The many briar patches promise lots of blackberries. So in ten days or so, I should be ready for the experiment.

However, my trial run does not go so well. One evening, after sitting at the computer all day, I take off quite late to the pond to catch a fish for dinner. I fished here for the first time about a month ago when Lattie and Michael were visiting. To get me started, Michael tied a lure on a rod and reel for me. I had not fished in years—I don’t care to admit how many—but I wanted to give it a try as it seemed an appropriate part of living with this land. That day I immediately caught three fish—more than anyone else. A week later, I returned to try my luck. Again, I caught three fish. The first two were only about 8 to 9 inches, so I threw them back to grow a bit more.

Catching fish sure had seemed easy, but it turns out it was good ole beginner’s luck. This evening to test my survive-off-the-land diet, I pick a lot of greens to have ready to steam. I just need one fish to complete my dinner, so I’m at the pond at twilight time. Interestingly, for a very long time, I don’t even get a nibble. At first, I’m not particularly concerned because I love to observe the wildlife. From the dam I can get a vista of the whole pond. A heron may fly overhead, or a couple of ducks wing in—until they see me, then they circle back to the creek. The trees that line the banks throw their shimming reflections across the fluid surface. Most of the trees are oaks, all decked out in their new spring green costumes.

As dusk starts to settle, several frogs start bellowing their strange kerrump. A little later the spring peepers add an alto melody to the bass beat. Before long the crickets join in, determined to drown out everyone else. As for the fishing, remember that 8-inch fish I threw back last week because it was too small, it ends up being my dinner tonight. Well, when you have been fishing forty-five minutes and it’s practically dark, you just aren’t so choosy.

From there things go downhill. The next time I fish without catching anything at all, even though I hold out for over an hour. I never get concerned about the best time to fish or having the right lure. I figure that there must be a fish who is hungry when I am, and who has no idea whether I am not using the right bait or not. But tonight that one does not show up. While I’m reeling in for the last time, one bass has the nerve to flop practically at my feet. I chuckle that at least the fish are not unhappy with me for wanting to catch them for my dinner. Walking home empty-handed, I console myself that it doesn’t matter because there’s plenty food in the fridge.

However, it does give me cause to reconsider my wild-food diet and think up a contingency plan. With the kind of day I put in at the computer and in the garden, I need both physical and mental energy. I will not be able to make it on green shoots. Further, I have no interest in starving for the sake of an experiment. I seem to recall that Thoreau ate a groundhog in a fit of hunger. I guess I better stock the freezer with some “emergency” rations before I begin this project.