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Leda's Wild Measures
I recently visited a store in Manhattan which delighted me when I first arrived in the city 21 years ago. All those bins of herbs I'd only read about, all those tiny bottles of essential oils and shelves of reference books marked "display copy only".
But now I look at the dried mugwort and notice how little fragrance it has compared to my homedried version. I eye the South American herbs and wonder why anyone needs to put them at overharvesting risk when there are so many prolific local herbs that fufill the same functions.
Coming home, I greet fellow gardeners out in the community gardens. They look a bit discouraged that there is nothing happening in their recently seeded plot. I point out that the alien looking japanese knotweed shoots they are weeding out are good eating in rhubarb recipes this time of year. They snap off a gallon-bag's worth and look pleased. I share seeds I have extras of, which came from Wild Forager seed swaps. While they are estimating how many weeks till their (still ungerminated) lettuce will be ready, I point out the violet greens and chickweed and send them home with a bagful. Loaded down with evidence of The Green's generosity, they are eager to plan their next visit to the gardens.
Inside my kitchen tonight, the next batch of beer is brewing. I'm getting fancy with this one, adding dandelion greens for bittering as I have in the past, but also gill o' the ground ivy, which I've read is good for clarifying, and a touch of dried sweet woodruff someone from the U.K. sent me--the hint of vanilla from it in May Wine already promises to be so delicious that I'm curious to try it in other brews. Ela has just sent me a couple of woodruff plants (which the squirrels tried to dig up last night, but never mind). Perhaps next year we'll be able to harvest our own. My husbands birthday is near May Day. May wine flavored with sweet woodruff could be a grand tradition to encourage.
The violets are going bonkers. One of my gardening clients mentions that she misses the violets that grew alongside her Southern childhood home. No problem, I say, and weed them out of the strawberry bed to transplant into her city garden. You can eat them, you know, I mention. Violet jelly! she smiles. I haven't thought of that in years. We trade recipes.
Leda Meredith