How Much Do You Want those Unbuyable Flavors?

That’s me on the left, digging for lotus tubers with my feet in the Mississippi River. (photo by Mike Krebill)

How badly do I want those linden flowers?
How delicious is that cattail pollen?
Will that branch hold my weight while I reach for those oyster mushrooms?
Am I going to run into mama bear and her cubs in the blueberry patch?
Do I really need those elderberries?

Maybe you don’t ask yourself these questions on a regular basis, but I do. And the answers are almost always: a lot, very, I don’t know but I’m going to try it anyway, I hope not, and yes.

I am not a brave person. There may have been a college escapade walking across the almost frozen Charles River, but that was stupidity, not bravery. I run away from bees (I tell people I’m allergic but I’m really just afraid), I cringe every time I pull a tick off me (I get a lot of ticks), and I fear the blisters of poison ivy as much as the next person.

But certain things are worth a risk, a stretch, a reach. Certain things that taste wonderful, those unbuyable flavors that can only be enjoyed when achieved by your own commitment and dedication.

Foraging has made me a braver person, and I believe risk makes the harvest more delicious. It’s impossible to separate the experience of gathering from the wild flavors we pick. I can’t let the wineberry sorbet melt on my tongue without remembering the park ranger who told me I couldn’t pick them in the National Forest. (Even though I can; he just didn’t know the rules.) What could make a food more precious, more delicious, than risking something, be it Lyme Disease or your dignity, to claim it?

When I see heavy, perfect clusters of elderberries, then notice they’re surrounded by poison ivy, I step carefully and wash my poison ivy pants as soon as I get home. When the cattails with the best pollen are in the middle of a pond that’s deeper than my boots, I shrug and wade in anyway. And when the linden flowers I plan to soak in gin are being probed by more species of bee than I knew existed, I gently reach in among the bees to collect what I need.

Yes. Need. I’ve realized in the past two years that I need to forage. Not just because I crave the unbuyable flavors, but because It’s part of who I am. When I can’t forage I feel aimless, non-productive, depressed. When I do forage, I feel creative, energetic, and connected. So I try to do a little every day. And if I can’t, then I try to work (or play) with something I have foraged. Because that’s who I am. I am a forager.