Hermitcraft: Hawthorn

(Some of this information originally appeared in my book, The Neighborhood Forager, Chelsea Green, 2000)

The neck of the woods where I've been staying has the most fabulous hawthorns (Crataegus) I've ever seen. In this harvest season they're as red as they are green, their branches clustered with fat crimson haws the size of small grapes. One is sorely tempted to put up a batch of jelly. (The fact that the same district is full of beautiful crabapples – the other ingredient, along with sugar, for perfect preserves – only makes it worse.)

Overlooked today, haws have a long history of culinary use. Most are fairly insipid when eaten raw, but their vibrant colour – red usually; sometimes yellow, orange, or purple – makes for visually stunning jams, jellies, and wines. Traditionally you run them with something else, such as crabapples, blackberries, sorbs (rowan berries), or sumac, that has better flavour. In a pinch you can simply add a teaspoon of lemon juice.

In times past, haws were pitched into a run of cider to give it body and a crimson sheen. Their association with apples, to which they are closely related, and with which they come ripe each year, also extends to use in apple pies and pastries, again largely for colour. (I suspect the reason the haws here-around are so big and beautiful is because they've cross-pollinated with the many apple trees in the area.)

Hawthorn itself is hard and strong, sands and oils well, and makes a fine walking stick, if a bit heavy. When I lived in Québec, where I did a lot of snowshoeing, I carried a long hawthorn walking stick that I could easily drive through snow and ice to probe for ground level, and which handily bore my entire weight when necessary, as it frequently was when climbing over obstacles or getting out of a tight spot. A hawthorn stick also tends to writhe and twist right and left, which gives it a poetical look and affords multiple varied handholds. (Again, I'm thinking of the hard winter service mine did.)

The same wood is useful for tool handles and mallet heads, and in fact any application requiring durable, inflexible service.

I've also pruned off the thorns of long-spined varieties, dried them steel-hard, and used them in cork and cardboard for thumbtacks and map pins. Dimensions vary tremendously from strain to strain, from short and fairly blunt through long and hypodermic. This is something to be aware of when scouting a hawthorn, both for the potential practicality and self-preservation.

If you've got hawthorns around (and thanks to the birds, you almost certainly have hawthorns around), and the fruit looks serviceable, try putting up a few jars of haw jelly. Its appearance alone is worth the effort.

Hermitcraft: Knotweed Shoots

Japanese knotweed (Polygonum cuspidatum syn. Fallopia japonica) and giant knotweed (P. sachalinense syn. F. sachalinensis) are sending up their fat shoots now in the Northern Hemisphere, and thanks to their ubiquity, promiscuity, and flavour, they're well worth knowing about. The sprouts resemble fat asparagus, but have a tangy, earthy, rhubarb-like quality that's equally at home in sweet or savoury dishes.

Japanese knotweed reaches about six feet, with six- to eight-inch leaves; giant knotweed is noticeably bigger. They prefer moist, rich soil, where they form a dense monoculture; the bamboo-like dead canes persist through winter, making patches easy to locate and identify. Widely introduced outside their native Asia, both species are fiercely invasive and have become pests throughout the temperate world, prompting eradication campaigns.

In spring, brick red, fingertip-sized nubs appear at the base of the dead canes; they soon grow an inch or two and turn white, at which point they are mildly toxic. A day or two later they will spurt up to their six-inch asparagus-looking stage, doubling in diameter and turning green with red highlights, with sticky, papery collars at the joints. Then they can be simmered in water, stock, or wine with garlic and onion and run through a blender to make an outstanding vélouté (creamy soup).

When those left behind reach one to two feet, with a few small leaves, well-developed joints, and a stringy, fibrous sheath, they become too tough to be cooked as a vegetable. On the other hand they gain a lot of tartness, so the tough skin can be peeled away and the stem sliced into translucent bright green rings for use in rhubarb-like sauces, jams, and pies. Finally, when the remaining shoots turn bitter, generally at about two feet, they're toxic again; the season is closed for another year.

Knotweed is high in vitamin C and other nutrients that creatures coming out of hibernation crave. Given that its flavour is pleasantly intriguing, it would seem the only thing standing between knotweed and the mainstream is the name. I just tell fussy guests it’s “Japanese asparagus” ("Japanese rhubarb" in the case of pie or jam) and everyone’s happy.

Including the local ecosystem.

(Adapted from my book The Neighborhood Forager, Copyright 1999 Chelsea Green Publishers, White River VT.)

A Suggestion of Madness: Euell Gibbons

New Mexico, 1926. The Dust Bowl has held the state in its grip for over a year now, and where there is no water, there is no work. The head of the Gibbons household is riding the rails, looking for employment. Weeks pass; no word. Back in New Mexico, his family are down to one egg. No-one will touch it.

So fifteen-year-old Euell throws a gunny sack over his shoulder and heads for the hills. Forty years later, he would muse, "Wild food has meant different things to me at different times. Right then it was... a way to keep from dying."

Euell Gibbons packed a lot of living into his sixty-four years. By turns a carpenter, cowboy, trapper, prospector, hobo, labour organiser, vaudevillian, soldier, boatbuilder, mental ward orderly, beachcomber, teacher, student, and novelist, he was also, at various times, a Southern Baptist, a Communist, an alcoholic, and a Quaker. Along the way he married twice, and lived in every region and many states of the US. But the thread that wound through all of his adventures was foraging. Sometimes he hunted wild foods for the challenge, sometimes for variety. In Hawai'i, flat broke and living in a mat-walled shack, he threw sumptuous parties with food collected from the beach and jungle. And sometimes, Gibbons foraged just to stay alive. That bleak day in New Mexico, young Euell fed himself, his mother, and three siblings on rabbit, wild garlic, wild potatoes, and puffballs. With prickly pears for dessert.

Ultimately, more by accident than design, Gibbons became the world's leading authority on wild foods. Bulrushes, wintercress, coltsfoot, mulberries -- it was all money in the bank to him. Thanks to his peregrinations, he could find a meal in any field, forest, or vacant lot in North America. In his first book, Stalking the Wild Asparagus, Gibbons advanced the startling suggestion that wild edibles are not merely survival rations, but gourmet fare. "On the whole," he explained, "people might be better off if they threw away the crops they so tenderly raise and ate the weeds they spend so much time exterminating." Asparagus, published in 1962, and the short shelf of volumes that followed, kinked a final twist into a lifetime of bumps and grinds: the skills Gibbons acquired to weather poverty and rejection, made him rich and famous.

Gibbons' philosophy dovetailed nicely with the "back to the land" movement of the 1960s, and his exploits made good copy. He speared carp with a pitchfork from horseback. He pit-roasted a Georgia pig, Polynesian style, with a side of palm hearts. He produced haute cuisine from Central Park weeds. He foraged on the White House lawn.

By November 1967, his name had become a household word. In that month, writer John McPhee accompanied Gibbons on a six-day trek through the Pennsylvania hills, fuelled by foraged food alone. In spite of the inhospitable season, they gained weight. In a memorable New Yorker article, McPhee reverently proclaimed that Gibbons' passion for found food held "a suggestion of madness".

Euell Gibbons' celebrity, barely conceivable in our time, rested on the incredible breadth of his experience and his skill at sharing it with others. His writing, still fresh half a century later, blends technical precision with anecdotes about his successes and failures, and the fine points of practice that come only of first-hand experience. Of his first knotweed pie, he confides, "the less said, the better". He ponders whether the strength-building reputation of burdock isn't due to the effort required to dig it up. His many wine recipes are attributed to a "drinking uncle"; he himself, he says pointedly, doesn't drink.

Even in stardom, Gibbons remained remarkably grounded. He continued to forage, though he told McPhee he'd learned not to admit it to onlookers, because they'd insist on feeding him. He attended his Quaker meeting and taught Outward Bound. Most of all, he made foraging acceptable to the mainstream. If books on wild edibles (including my own) continue to sell, it's because Euell taught us that weeds are good.


(A version of this article originally appeared in The Herb Companion. Signed and dedicated copies of The Neighborhood Forager, my guide to wild edibles, can be had by contacting me directly. Unsigned copies can be purchased from Amazon.)

Hermitcraft: Busting Dysentery

Oxalis

While on ango last summer, I got a visit from the Dysentery Fairy. I still haven't determined precisely what sort it was; we have a lot of Giardia around here, but it would be a true hail-mary for that to get into a rain barrel. On the other hand, if it was a bacterial infection, the symptoms were pretty giardesque. I'm not even certain it came from my drinking water; hygiene is a constant battle in the outback, where you're surrounded by faeces and wild water.

Anyway, I suffered an anxious week or two, dodging into the dark forest at 0300 and fearing the thing would drive me off the mountain. In the end I kicked its butt, thanks to the support of friends and family and, I believe, the tea I'm passing on in this post.

It's terrifying to find yourself sick and alone; once it's happened (and this wasn't the first time for me), you'll never trivialise someone else's misfortune. In this case, I spent about a day trying to hide from it.

Then I got mad. Fact is, a lifetime of relevant experience prepared me to confront this problem. Hell, I wrote a freakin' book on wild herbs, for Christ's sake!

I decided that if I was going to be forced off the mountain, I was really going to be forced. Surrender would only become an option when every last gun had been fired.

And I had several. To begin with, the Acres, where I lived, was busting with herbs in their best season. And my cache contained other possibles. So I got off my backside and raked together a tea calculated to firm things up and rain displeasure on my uninvited guests.

I put myself on a regimen of 3 rice bowls (twice the size of tea bowls) of this per day; most days I drank more. I gulped down each, then sucked, chewed, and spit out the leaves.

The tea itself actually tasted OK, but the cud-chewing was abominable. Still, I got better. Quickly.

Hemlock

The Recipe

Put a double measure of strong green tea leaves in the bottom of a rice bowl.

Add:

oxalis and/or sheep sorrel
New Douglas fir tips (see note below)
Blackberry rhizome
Blackberry leaf

Chop all ingredients well; I used a pair of scissors.

Fill the bowl with boiling water, cover, and steep for fifteen minutes, minimum.

Drink and enjoy.

The green tea provides tannins, which tighten up your bowels, and is acidic, which gut-bugs hate. Blackberry leaves bring more tannin, are scientifically proven to fight dysentery, and taste alright; the rhizomes bring nuclear amounts of tannin and taste unspeakably awful when chewed, but as an ingredient in a diverse tea mix like this one, are palatable. Tart components (oxalis or sorrel; cider vinegar or lemon if you've got it) contribute more acid while tasting good, which encourages you to drink more. Young Douglas fir needles are pleasant too, though the older ones are quite strong, and are effective against diarrhœa. Other conifers will also work if you don't have Pseudotsuga; I've used spruce and hemlock to good effect. Finally, I also just plain ate oxalis and Douglas fir, often, during those days.

Later, a friend and fellow hermit came out to check on me, and he suggested I add Prunella to my dose. Did it help? It didn't hurt. It's dreadful stuff all the same, but once again the oxalis and Douglas fir got it past my tongue. Similarly, I held willow in reserve, should tougher measures be necessary. Willow bark is the origin of aspirin and an excellent medicinal, as well as highly acidic. It's also the most God-awful revolting bile on the planet; like chewing an aspirin tablet. (Bit of a toss-up between this and blackberry rhizome.)

Fortunately, I never needed it that summer.

This concoction put a decisive end to the pyrotechnic dumps and secured me those all-important restful nights. Of course, it wasn't the only measure I took; I also went in for draconian hygiene, fastidious handling of water, mindful hydration habits, and careful monitoring of the quality and quantity of everything that came out of me. I also imposed a few dietary adjustments: chiefly, a well-curried bowl, boiled up with bullion (for the salt), and served with a sadistic squirt of sriracha. Intestinal microbes trend to Caucasian tastes, so I made sure things got nice and "ethnic" on the old beaver fever.

Whatever the reason, and whatever it was in the first place, the disease eventually pulled up stakes and left. (You might say, it just didn't have the guts.) Whether I beat it, or it just wasn't that scary to begin with, I'll never know. But the tea worked. One day I had dramatic digestion; then I drank the tea, and it was significantly gone the next. Then about a week later I stopped drinking it (thinking I was "cured"; yes, I knew well better than to do this) and the trouble came right back. So I drank the tea again, and it went away again.

Therefore I offer the recipe, in loving support of anyone else who might also fall into that pit. Brother, sister: drop this on your trouble.

And smile while you drink it.

For if you listen closely, you can hear the little bastards scream.



(Adapted from 100 Days on the Mountain,copyright RK Henderson.)

Hermitcraft: Nettles

Stinging nettle, Urtica dioica.

(Adapted from The Neighborhood Forager, by Robert K. Henderson. Copyright 1999 Chelsea Green Publishers, White River VT. Available in bookstores; signed copies available from the author [me] for $24.95 plus shipping.)

The Eatin' O' The Greens is hard upon us, so to kick off the bacchanalia, I propose a pæan to that prince of the pot: Urtica (stinging nettle).

Mediæval monastics, greatest scholars of their time, lived on nettle broth, tea, beer, and greens. Nettle root soup was virtually the only dish served in the severest orders. They also wore habits of nettle fibres, sowed it in fallow ground as green manure, boiled the whole plant for fertiliser and organic pesticide, and whipped their backs with bundles of fresh nettles to strengthen their spiritual discipline. Today, banks of nettle veil monastery ruins all over Europe, an ever-faithful servant shielding the bones of the once-great monastic system from the mocking view of the profane.

On the other side of the planet, the North Pacific tribes slurped steamed nettle shoots and nettle root soup while building their own highly-advanced culture. They used fibres from pounded nettle stems to spin cordage that made industrial-scale salmon fishery a reality, which in turn formed the basis of the entire coastal economy. The Harpooneer, central figure of the whale hunt and an important religious figure, plunged his hand into a bag of nettles to prevent his thoughts wandering as he searched the misty ocean.

But it's nettle’s food value that makes it central to my own practice. Few vegetables, wild or domestic, approach it. Protein-wise, nettle outperforms beans. It also packs a significant wallop of iron, fibre, vitamins A and C, calcium, magnesium and a long list of others. And it seems the monk-physicians of old were right to put their patients on nettle broth, since in addition to being sustaining and easily-digested, it's also hypoallergenic.

When in doubt, simply pet the plant you're looking at. If the experience is unremarkable, it ain't this.

Nettle shoots start coming on about this time of year in the northern hemisphere, generally in moist, rich soil with partial shade. A single square stem bears heart-shaped, deeply toothed leaves, so that the plant closely resembles a big, hairy mint, to which it is a close relative. The "hair" is actually a million tiny, needle sharp spines that sting like the dickens when touched. (They lose this power with thorough steaming.)

Food also has to taste good to get on my menu, and nettle brings plenty of that kind of "food value" to the table as well. The greens have a complex bouquet, mingling faint mint overtones with a hint of the seashore. Boiled shoots are a good bed for steamed or baked salmon, and fresh ones can form a bed for steaming clams, then be eaten as a side dish. I call the blue-green water left over from steaming “nettle nectar,” because it tastes something like clam nectar. It can be mixed with tomato juice, eggs can be poached in it, or you can just drink it hot. To make delicious, nutritious broth, boil shoots until soft with onions and garlic, run through a blender, and strain. In its day, this concoction enjoyed as much prestige as chicken soup for healing the sick.

Wild greens generally excel supermarket produce in savour and sustenance, and nettles are among the best of the already best. And they're only available now, for a few weeks. So go eat some.

But don't make a salad from them.

Bad idea.

Cereal box prize: An uplifting teisho from one of the great Zen masters of our time. "Anything is possible when you smell like a monster and know the word 'on.'" Grover-roshi