Miner's Lettuce

You thought you knew her. For well over a decade you munched on her juicy green leaves while strolling in the woods. On spindly 3-12" stalks she holds her succulent leaves like a waitress. Clusters of delicate, white-flowers centered artfully upon the thick green platters. Her leaves seem to grow around the flowers in varying stages of circle, with possible points, like a square merging with a circle. You thought you knew her.

With an unimaginative name like Miner's Lettuce, she couldn't have been very complex, very interesting. You hear her name and the history is obvious: miner's ate it, probably 49'ers as those are the miners our imaginations stock. Why did those 49er's name this lettuce?

Whether you’re a miner, a sailor or some other unwashed, hairy, single male back in the day, you either got Vitamin C or scurvy, take your pick. In this purported favorite of miners, the Vitamin C is plentiful, whether fresh in a salad or boiled for a spinach "substitute". And that's it, end of story. "My darling Clementine, Miner's Lettuce is as simple as that," you say.

And then one March day, East of the Cascades where annuals actually die and are born again (rather than in the moist West where everything seems to live forever), someone points to some new weed in the alley and says, "Look! the Miner's Lettuce is finally out!" And because you are absolutely sure that you Know Miner's Lettuce and this is Not it, an argument ensues that ruins the sunny, muddy spring stroll, and leaves you angry and humiliated.

You wonder of the Miner's Lettuce, "How could she have deceived me for so long?" But the truth is that you never bothered to know the whole story, the whole plant. You made your assumptions early on and you were happy with them.

What you saw in the shady, wet alley was this: it was a flat plant, hugging the earth. The stem and leaves were brown, not the Kelly green of the Miner's Lettuce you know (but perhaps sometimes it Is green when it's new, you just don't know anymore). The stems were laid out like bike spokes, each individual one tipped with a spade shaped leaf. It looked like an ancient call to the four directions and all parts in between. It looked like a compass to find true bearings. It looked like a fancy clock saying it's time, all the time. It looked not anything like the slender late spring Miner's Lettuce, slouching beneath the Pines and Cedars, with thick square-round leaves along the stem. That's why you held your ground. That's why you refused to believe your eyes and your mentor, and everything else you take with you to make sure that you have the right plant before you eat it.

Eventually, maybe over the course of a year or a lifetime, you pry your mind open. Perhaps this is Miner's Lettuce, too. Perhaps it Is possible that a plant can look so completely different in early spring than it does in late spring. You didn't know it's secret name, Claytonia (or Montia) perfoliata, so perhaps there are other things you don't know about her. And perhaps, you don't know everything.

Indeed, this flat brown March weed is Miner's Lettuce. Once the pride is swallowed and the mind accepts this new information, the delightful surprise of learning brings a thrill to your spirit. You long to know more; you want the whole story.

You want to know if maybe spinach is the real substitute. Or if there are other miners involved from years other than 1849. But the trail's gone cold now. Everyone assumed the obvious about Miner's Lettuce; you haven't been alone. Information is lost. You will never know who else ate this lettuce, how they ate it, and what ancient names it was called by. "Indian" lettuce is the only clue left. The simplicity of the story lulled everyone into complacency.

Miner's lettuce is now more mysterious than you ever dreamed and it thrills you. The alley looks fresh and carpeted with adventure. The world is new and expansive. The earth holds secrets for you to uncover. Open up and come outside, again. Spring is here.