Dreams

Though the foreshadowing was thick, it seems sudden: the ground is frozen, the trees are bare and the berries are shriveled. The earth withholds now. And I consider the things I lack: my Christmas wish list.

From February to March, my calendar of Wild Offerings is full, but in this quiet, dead place, where we hope rejuvenation is churning beneath us, I think of all the things I will not write about, even in seasons of opulence, because they are not "mine".

I want you to know about them, though. If the opportunity arises for you to try them, I want you to seize it. And learn and eat until you are full, and brag to me about it later.

Among these, is the now reclusive, yet still famous Camas.

From the University of Idaho hails one Joy Mastroguiseppe, an encyclopedia of local, ancient Native American meals. Speaking at Neill Public Library in March 2006, at the invitation of the Palouse Prairie Foundation, she informed attendees that the stretch between Moscow and Pullman (now an enormous blacktop fit for a fleet of Jumbo Jets) was once prime and coveted Camas land. Highway 270 has since supplanted Camas's purple star blossoms and humongous bulbs. Although there still seems to be a humble vestigial bloom tucked between two hills, visible at bicycle speeds, in April.

Ms. Mastroguiseppe's slides illuminated the extensive preparations of Camas which involved a three-day lasagna-like layering of bulbs, leaves and coals. The rumored result is a sweet, digestible starch, the backbone of Native American cuisine used for cakes and gravies.

Camas preparation appears to have been a mega-project requiring a tribe, which has also been superseded by the social equivalent of Highway 270. Women dug up the Daffodil-looking roots with sticks, sometimes competing for poundage to show off wifely prowess. It was a task to which the men would have brought bad luck according to Edible and Medicinal Plants of the Rockies by Linda Kershaw. The men apparently tended the large fire pits, smoldering the bulbs. Women would cause death in the family if they touched them. Common stereotypes would suggest that these pre-urban myths kept barbecue projects in the jurisdiction of men, and gathering a ladies-only affair. Which was probably a little sad for the men that wanted to dig and the women that wanted to smolder. But that's what this Wild and Free is about: unfulfilled dreams.

If the preparations alone weren't discouraging enough, there's also the pesky identification problem posed by its evil twin, Death Camas.

Lichens also are a Wild Edible draped across the branches of my dreams. The hairy locks dangling overhead are allegedly edible. Although the gag-texture of Big Foot sheddings may be too much for some, I simmer with curiosity about this ancient staple. When born of a tasty habitat, these hirsute plants were pit-steamed into cakes, added to soup and pulverized into bread flour (Kershaw). It could be gathered year round, dried for any occasion (perhaps Christmas or a birthday?), and was considered a survival necessity (Food Plants of Interior First Peoples by Nancy J. Turner). Whereas, expert Turner refers to only Black Tree Lichen, expert Kershaw notes imaginatively dubbed Speckled horsehair, Old-Man's beard, and Witches hair.

This wild, hairy food, remains locked in mystery to me, in part because Kershaw warns that lichens can be poisonous from area to area. She notes that the experienced taste small amounts before gathering. I suspect that my Westernized palate would be unable to discern a poisonous taste in something that is already incomprehensibly foreign to my tongue.

Although not dissatisfied, I dream of the earth's more esoteric provisions finding their way to my reverent mouth. Perhaps these foods, like tribal-living, make a better fantasy than a reality. But what are these long dark nights in cold, barren lands made for other than such dreams? Looking closely at each bare tree branch, I notice that even before winter sets in, the buds have found their places and are snuggled in for winter, dreaming of spring and opportunities for the adventures which will some day, surely, be theirs.

Why, A communion morsel

With most plants denuded, resting and not so edible right now (rotting brown "green" salad, anyone?), I approach my Wild Edible habit philosophically: Why?    After all, the stores are filled with food, both local and well-traveled, that is ready for buying and eating.  So why go through all the work to learn, identify, collect and prepare marginally tasty wild foods?  

Consider survival.  Knowing how to survive in raw nature, without all of this civilized gadgetry, is elemental.  Ironically, independence is prized in our culture, a culture highly dependant on things like oil and globally transported food, and global communication systems.  What if all that we depend upon collapses?  What if major governments and/or corporations collapse? Is Monsanto too big to fail?  As I navigate the never ending phone tree trying to understand why my cell phone isn't working, this idea thrills me.  Collapse?  Yes! And take that damn phone tree with you!  

Knowing something about the Real world, the world that was here before us and will be here after we are gone, is security in a way that Prudential just doesn't understand and cant' provide.  Granted, I have no illusions that I could actually survive long term on eating a few plants that happened to grow between the sidewalk cracks.  Real survival would probably involve killing animals which is beyond the scope of this girl's knowledge, ability, and stomach. 

But wait!  Wild Edibles are so much more than mere survival supplement.  They are connection, imagination, and that most essential element, surprise.

Wild Edibles connect us to the source.  I go out into the elements and I find something to eat.  That generous gifts as blackberries and dandelions are snubbed by so many saddens me and the Earth too, I imagine.  But we find that even after all the abuse and neglect, our Mother is still offering.    After all the hours and days my back is turned on her as I tend to a computer, job, bill or book, she is still there, offering her goodies. 

Looking for Wild Edibles, I get down on my knees and I sift through the dirt and the weeds like a supplicant in prayer: seek and ye shall find.  And I do.  It's there, beneath my feet.  When I seek and find Wild Edibles, I find my connection to the sacred, to the ancient, to my origins, to my ancestors.  I'm on the line with the earth: This is a phone tree, people!  And, in an act of communion ancient and powerful, I take this leaf or that berry, and I put it into my mouth, and I eat it.  This is communion with the earth.  This is connection to all.  This is connection with the place that birthed me, birthed my kind, sustains me, sustains my kind, and takes us back into her when our lives are done: the beginning and the end. 

One might get this same thrill from apple juice at preschool or wine in church.  But on farms of apples, grapes and everything else, plants grow where the farmer intended: in convenient, straight rows.  The thing about Wild Edibles is that they are Wild.  They grow wherever they want, untouched by Euclidian geometry and the needs of machines and human minds.  In my love of mystery, I hope that by imbibing these wilds, I too might be a little less tame, a little less in line, a little less likely to lay down in a neat row like the dead.  I'm hoping I am what I eat and that I am a little more wild and a little more free because of it.

Wild Edibles are food for my imagination too.  When I gather Wild Edibles, I think about ancient people for whom every edible was Wild.  I love to imagine what their lives and minds were like, knowing the Real World more intimately than I.  How many hours a day were they collecting food?  When could they trust their kids with Wild Edibles?  Who would I have been if I had lived with them? 

I'll conclude on a practical note:  I'm broke and not so good at gardening so I take what what's freely offered.

Evergreen Tea

Cup your hands around a warm, steaming mug. With slow, clear breaths you smell ever-green: a long life for you and for the trees. It smells like The Holidays. You feel so good, so kind, so open to the gifts this world has for you and generous with the gifts that you bring to this world. With a sip, you welcome the ever-green world into your world. The warmth flows down your throat and into your blood.

That is a little Yogi Tea-esc meditation for a tea made from any sort of Pine, Fir, Spruce, Douglas fir, Western or Mountain Hemlock (never to be confused with the completely different, ultra-poisonous Water Hemlocks!). These needles could even be harvested from your Christmas tree, wreath or swag. With respect to my Jewish friends, I do not recommend menorah tea. And even the most atheist among us can honor the scientific fact of the shortest day of the year with a little greenery and light.

My favorite Tannenbaum tea is of the Douglas Fir. It is aromatic, almost spicy, and tastes like your favorite Christmas memories. It will be like marinating your soul in Holiday good will. You will become one with the scent of Yuletide. It will ooze from your pores and you will sweat Holiday cheer.

Not quite so festive, but lovely just the same is the tea of the Blue Colorado Spruce.

I was sure Pine tea would taste like Pinesol, so I was surprised to find the Western White Pine tastes like dirt. The Sentinal Eastern White Pine tastes like spinach, the Mugo Pine of miso, and the Bristlecone Pine of butter (at least to Huckleberry). It seems that only the Scotch pine tastes like Pinesol. But the Australian Black Pine tastes pleasantly piney. I have heard that our native Ponderosa Pine makes the Best pine tea, however all of the Ponderosa's I've seen recently keep their needles 20 feet or more above my head.

For identification, I recommend The Manual of Oregon Trees and Shrubs published by Oregon State University.

According to Eat the Weeds, by Ben Charles Harris, scientists have found that the needles of pinus strobes (White Pine) contain high amounts of Vitamin A and five times the Vitamin C of lemons!

By now, you are no doubt asking yourself, "How do I make this Ultra Holiday Tea?" Carefully noting the species of plant, pick a handful of the youngest needles, clear of dirt, soot from cars, animal fur, etc. The best are the tender new needles of spring, but winter needles will do almost as well. Put them in your pot or mug and pour boiling water over them. Cover and let steep for 10 minutes. I drink mine straight. The needles are usually so large, there's no threat of swallowing them. I've never bothered to strain them out.

Of course not all ever-green needle-leafs should be used as tea. Again I trot out the specter of the dreadfully poisonous Yew tree, of dark green, flat needles which sometimes sport red berries. The Yew, among others, is not edible or potable as tea.

Additionally, I have read that the sap from Western White Pines is edible, tastes like sugar and should be added to teas, possibly even our Holiday Swag Tea. But, alas, I read this in a book from the East Coast, and I believe there may have been some identification mistake, because the pitch from the Western White Pines that I tried was putrid. It coated my teeth with a grainy concentration of Pinesol and made my tongue turn dry. Huck found the taste distantly pleasant, but then it made him sick to his stomach. This Cautionary Tale illustrates three Wild Edible points: 1) it’s a very good idea to learn the Latin names of things, which I have yet to do; 2) it's a very good idea to take everything you hear from East Coast Edible Experts with a grain of Pacific salt and 3) always make your husband try it first.

Merry Darkest Days of the Year!

Wild Micro-organisms

"There are beautiful wild forces within us."
-St. Francis of Assisi

I am recovering from the handiwork of a microorganism quite gifted at turning me completely inside out within a matter of hours. I keep telling myself that this guy was in the minority. The majority of microorganisms wildly roaming the planet both inside and outside of my skin are good guys, right? Then a mean one hits, and you think: Eradicate! Get the Anti-bacterial Soap and scour! It's you or them, baby.

But what would be left? You Are them! We are 10x more bacteria cells than human cells (wikipedia with cites). Between that and being 90% water, I think I must be only .5% human… which is nice, considering the reputation.

These things we cannot see but are told exist all around, like fairies, spirits and angels of life and death, scientifically called microorganisms, roam freely through us with every breath, every sip, every munch. These invisible agents transform decay into life. They metamorphose our food and drink into something more nutritious, digestible, and enjoyable than before.

The king of wild fermentation (if wild microorganisms could be said to have a king) is Sandor Ellix Katz, author of Wild Fermentation. His playful and edifying book recently lead me through several lively experiments with the invisible wild that apparently (obviously) roams my kitchen. Katz describes wild fermentation methods for meads, beer, sauerkraut, miso, gruels, and more. Wild Fermentation asserts that food gone bad is actually good. Just the sort of iconoclastic thinking that can turn us wild again, the .5% part that isn't already.

Despite the power of prior disasters and a proven incompetence at both wine and jam making, my untamed will-power overwhelmed my higher faculties and proceeded to try my hands at Hard Cider. I used un-pasteurized cider, made by our own family at Bishop's Orchard in Garfield (despite their stern orders to pasteurize). Katz doesn’t specify "un-pasteurized", but simply fresh without preservatives. In a sterilized and de-sterilized plastic milk jug, we set the cider on the counter, with 1-2 layers of cheese clothe rubber-banded over the lid to keep out the flies. Within 4 days, bubbles effervesced from the bottom. In five days, the cider was sweet, bubbly and only very mildly intoxicating. One woman, we'll call "Kathrine," liked it very much and sources say she was seen downing several large mugs of the stuff. The next day it was a little harder, but still pleasant, though blue mold needed to be fished from the cups as an aesthetic matter. I will transfer it to an wide-mouth jar and place it on the counter with a couple buddies for a few more weeks to make vinegar, thanks to the direction of one wild and free, Mr. Katz.

Several imbibers found the blue mold disconcerting. I recall that the worlds first antibiotic, penicillin, was derived from moldy bread. Katz suggests removing the funky top layer to get to the good ferment below. He assures readers that he has never heard of food poisoning from improperly fermented foods, although that does not exclude the possibility. He elucidates that the process of fermentation, alcoholic and acidic in nature, creates a hostile work place for the food-poisoning types. However, he warns that if it doesn't taste good or right, don't eat it.

Wild Oatmeal (subsequent post) is allegedly more nutritious and digestible than sober oats. Additionally, we thrilled at the creamy sauce, chewy texture and rich flavor. I ate oatmeal three times that day! I hate oatmeal!

I anticipate adventures with Katz's sauerkraut, Ginger bug soda, Ethiopian honey-wine, and anything not referencing complex ideas such as carboys, siphoning, and several years.

Like all wild and free foods, microorganisms come with an embedded philosophy. Katz attributes Pasteur's microbiology as spawning "a sort of colonial outlook toward microorganisms…they must be dominated and exploited." In a treatise to local cultures (pun intended) he bemoans the "homogenization of culture," and large, corporate, sterile brewing schemes.

Let us join Mr. Katz and resist enculturation with enculturation of the wild kind. With our .5% human selves, freer still, perhaps we will then be the organisms who ferment the culture around us with salubrious insobriety and sparkling verve.

And I am absolutely sure that my state of dyspepsia was Not caused by any hooch. Promise.

Wild Oatmeal Recipe

Wild Oatmeal (a.k.a. Oat Porridge) paraphrased from Wild Fermentation

1 cup coarsely ground, steel cut, or rolled oats
5 cups water
Salt

1)Soak oats in 2 cups of water, in a bowl, covered loosely to keep out flies, for 24 hours or more.

2)When ready to cook, bring 3 cups (or less) of water and a pinch of salt to a boil. Lower heat, add oats and their bubbly water. Stir until oats are hot and water absorbed, 10? Minutes. Don't let them stick or burn. I would try not to boil it, as that would kill the microbes, probably.

3)Here's the tricky part: eat it. We put maple syrup on ours first and let it cool a little.

Kinnikinnick

There once was a plant from Kennewick
Who longed to be part of a limerick
He thought real hard
He thought like a bard
And named himself Kinnikinnick
-myself (or shouldn't I admit that?)

I was Kinnikinnick to Native Americans. You can call me bearberry. Scientifically I'm Arctostaphylos (Greek for bear grapes) uva-ursi (Latin for grape bear). It bares repeating. I'm a bear-plant with double powers: spiritual and medicinal.

In memories I've nearly lost, Native Americans smoked me. Before tobacco came charging in, I was their go-to guy. They dried me and smoked me and my swift, sweet spirit delivered their prayers to gods (Food Plants of the Interior First Peoples by Nancy J. Turner). These days, I could over-power modern weaklings with dizziness or fainting. I relish the idea of being an outlaw, but the DEA hasn't honored me with that yet. You can buy me in the Pow-wow Blend, roll-yer-owns. But I can also be had for free. On every corner, in every town, I lay like a bum in landscaped parking lots, between the shrubs. I don't need no namby-pamby humus and loam. Just give me some gritty ground and don't pamper me with prissy baths and showers!

I keep my thick, leathery, oval leaves green and strong year round. My spring flowers are white and pink, shaped like jugs. I do my best work in fall and it stays all winter; my little red round berries look and taste like miniature old apples. Meriwether Lewis called me "tasteless and insipid." Coming from a guy named Meriwether, I'll take that as a compliment. One little girl says my berries are sweet and dusty. I'd blush if I could. Some people mistake me for a low cotoneaster, the ornamental creep. We are both a foot tall with red berries. Check my ID twice so you don't mistake me for the dangerous imitations.

I have a sentimental side and like to do the Christmas thing. November is apparently the new December, according to retail outlets. I appreciate all holidays: old, new, renamed, reclaimed, loud, quiet, forgotten, lost, and imaginary. Use me in your Christmas decorations next summer! Except you have to wait for fall when my little red berries make me festive and cutesy.

"Experts" say that I am survival food best left for winter birds. I like birds, I like feeding them, and "Survival" sounds tough. Maybe the most recent crop of people don't like my dusty berries, however they've been eaten by folks since before my memory. My berries have been boiled, fried, popped and eaten raw all fall and winter. The Lakes people mixed them with Salmon roe for ceremonies (Food Plants). I like that. Makes me feel powerful.

Frost erodes the mightiness of my medicinal leaves, so leave my leaves alone for a while. I make strong iron and Vitamin A, but I hate hot water. Don't boil me or I'll kick your butt with my tannins. I like a nice long, 8 hour soak in cold or lukewarm water: builds character. When you drink me, my potent and magical arbutim mixes with your urine to make a green germicide that is rumored to destroy infection (Wild Berries of the West by Derig and Fuller). All over the world, my muscle is employed by herbalist to kill urinary tract infections, zap kidney stones, thrill the spleen and liver, and wrestle syphilis and gonorrhea to the ground. I'm powerful. I'm like a god you don't want to piss off (so to speak). I'm so amazing, that with me, too much of a good thing isn't much at all. I'm a loner. I like our visits short and too the point. There are simply some people that I can’t stand like some pregnant women and people with high blood pressure. Nothing personal. And keep that acidic Vitamic C and cheery Cranberry juice out of my way; I hate those guys too (Encylcopedia of Alternative Medicine, on-line).

Do what you dare with me, just don't laugh at my name. I repeat, don't laugh at my name.

Junipers

"No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!" (Thomas Hood).

Don't get lost in the woods right now. It's cold and there's nothing much to eat. No matter the weather, we can rely upon the exuberant and generous Juniper to gift us with at least a spicy condiment.

Common and Rocky Mountain Junipers are native to the Inland Northwest. As their habitat is now wheat fields, we look to the unwitting, ornamental landscape for our forage. Junipers are an evergreen shrub (or tree) varying in size, shape, and color, yet somehow retaining a quintessential "juniper-ness." Around our towns I have spotted both tall and short, blue-grey, lacey Junipers (Blue Pfitzers or Juniperus Chinensis Pfitzeriana 'Glauca' as Huckleberry calls them) as well as deep urgent green, short 'Tam' Junipers. These plants are on almost every corner. Most Junipers have edible "berries" with one exception: the unpalatable One Seed Juniper. This tree-like, bluish landscape Juniper looks a little like an arborvitae. If you are at all unfamiliar with spotting and identifying Junipers, please consult your expert: person or book. If the berries on an evergreen, needle-leafed shrub are red, it is a Yew and could cause a gruesome death.

Having indubitably identified your Juniper, you will want to identify it's "sex". Juniper "berries" grow, of course, only on female plants. The males have pathetic little brown/green cones. The females have round reproductive organs called "berries" which are actually fleshy cones with a grey bloom. You will notice small, purple, second-year berries and larger, green, first-year berries. Reassuringly, both are fine for culinary use.

I look for a good, weedy base around the plant, or spider mite webs, hoping they are evidence that pesti/herbi-cides have not been applied recently. I avoid the creeping Junipers as they look like great targets for territorial dogs.

Once found, what is it that we do with Juniper berries? In my house, I dry them in the oven on less than low for several hours, until they look like peppercorns. Then I put them in my spice grinder and use it just like pepper, just for the thrill.

"Why would you want a pepper substitute?" you ask.

Answer: It's local. It has no colonial history. It has more complex flavors than pepper. As I gather and prepare it, I feel connected to tens of thousands of years of human foraging and food preparation history. I get to meet some wonderful plants. And I'm madly in love with it. That's why.

I recommend using a little bit at first, until you get used to it. I adore it in mustard-tamari salad dressing, vinaigrette coleslaw, cheesy noodles, homey lentil soup, borscht (with dandelion roots), and in an apple, carmelized onion, and cabbage soup.

You can use them fresh, crushed or whole. Put fresh, whole berries in while cooking and removing them later, as with a bay leaf.

Junipers are included in Wild Berries of the West (Mountain Press Publishing Company, 2001) despite the fact that Junipers produce fleshy cones, not berries. The authors, Betty R. Derig and Margaret C. Fuller, remind us that Junipers flavor jin. Oil of Juniper is toxic and the berries are not to be eaten in large quantities.

Without giving us any specific preparation advice, Derig and Fuller inform us that the Nez Perce, among others, treated colds, coughs, headaches and the flu with Juniper tea. Some tribes treated sinus congestion by inserting a juniper twig in a pierced septum. The aromatic smoke of burning Juniper was used by many tribes to cleanse and purify a home. The Hopi would hold a child over the smoke of burning Juniper until it was cured of naughtiness, supposedly. Either we're doing it wrong here, or it's just a myth.

Junipers were also used as a green dye, a writing tool, diapers (ouch!), rope, necklaces, a talisman against evil, love-charm flutes, contraception, abortion, to start labor, and to ward off bad baby dreams.

In addition, I found a Twister Juniper to be an extremely useful focal point during labor with my daughter, who was then named after it: Blue Juniper.

In this month of Thanksgiving, I will be giving thanks for the spicy beauty of the Juniper, a generous shrub, bestowing upon us berries and greenery in a time when both are scarce. Also, I am thankful to not be lost in the woods.