Pictures from "Northern Bushcraft"
http://northernbushcraft.com/guide.php?ctgy=edible_berries®ion=bc
Summer 1964
In every home we lived on the West Coast of BC we were surrounded by food. Not that we were great hunters or fishers, we definitely were not. But in the art of foraging we were without par.
Grandma had taken us on more than a few strolls through the woods to point out what berries were edible and which ones were to be avoided. A simple rule was bumpy berries with outside seeds were generally good,(think of salmon berries, thimble berries, black berries) red berries were generally bad (deadly nightshade, twisted stalk). There were exceptions to the rule of thumb, most notably the red huckleberry. It was by far my favourite. There were seven main berries I would forage for, listed in order from least favoured to favourite.
7 - Oregon Grape too sour, eat too many and your tummy pays a price
6 - Salal - readily available, not terribly flavourful, lots of bugs and the frequent woody berry
5 - Salmon Berry - delicious and plentiful, no thorns, eaten red or orange, short few weeks of good picking
4 - Wild Strawberry - amazing flavour but harder to come by. Very tiny where we lived.
3 - Thimble berry - like a concentrated raspberry, easy to pick, sweet and delicious short season but often overlapped with salmon berries
2 - Black berry - plentiful, satisfying, the thorns were a problem that we overcame (most of the time) and filling. I would actually walk away sated with berries unpicked.
And all time Favourite -
1 - Red Huckleberry - most delicious, easy to pick from a small shrub, often an entire bush ripened at the same time. And in a pinch you could use a berry for fish bait.
Summer had begun, the woods were cool, school was a memory, and Bill and I were gorging on red huckleberries.
We each had an entire bush to ourselves and I was picking each berry and popping it into my mouth as fast as I could. I glanced over at Bill; he was using a different technique. He was picking but not popping. Instead he was picking and deftly collecting a handful of berries to enjoy all at once. "Way better," he explained. I tried it and he was right. The delayed gratification of waiting for a handful of red hucks was well worth the wait.
When I was nine I had a friend who lived around the corner on South Morgan Crescent - we lived on North Morgan. His mother had a voice that could shatter glass, drown out overhead jets, and echo off the nearby Beaufort Mountain Range.
"Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!" she would holler in a piercing two note sing-song from her door step. Ted would drop everything and go see what she had for him - dinner, snacks, a new toy. I often followed him home out of curiosity, secretly hoping she was announcing to Ted her new batch of cookies was baked, or a cake had just come out of the oven. She was generous with Teddie's friends, and I was one of his best friends.
On this day he didn't drop everything right away. We were eating huckleberries in a vacant lot a block or two to the south of his house. She wanted to know what took him so long.
"Huckleberries, mom," he told her between mouthfuls of chocolate chip cookies.
"What are they?" she wanted to know.
"Red berries on a bush," he told her.
"Red berries? Don't eat them, they're probably poisonous."
"Uh-uh," I interjected (yes, I would very much like another warm cookie), "My Grandma showed me which berries to eat and which ones to avoid. You might be thinking of nightshade." (Nightshade was what I incorrectly called the berries of the twisted stalk. You could see where a concerned mom like her could be forgiven for being cautious.)
"I eat them all the time." I assured her.
"Me, too," said her one and only son.
"Here." She handed us each a bowl. "Bring me enough berries and I will bake you boys a pie."
I heard that! I was on a mission! Bill had already shown me the merits of delayed gratification. This was the next level - pick, don't eat, wait, eat pie!
We got to work - well, one of us did.
While I was doggedly filling my bowl, Ted was happily gulping down berry after berry. As my bowl slowly began to fill with the tiny berries I became filled with dichotomous urges; confront Ted on his lack of contribution to the task versus shut up, pick, and let his mom make pie. The idea of all this work with no pie was too much to consider. I picked - and I picked hard. I kept my tongue under control.
On the way back to his house my bowl was well over half full, Ted's less than a quarter. "Put your berries in my bowl," he suggested. I didn't trust him not to eat them so I refused.
"C'mon, dump 'em in here'" he said as we approached his door. I did.
"Here, Mom," said Ted as he presented her with his nearly full bowl.
She hugged him and said, "Good boy. I have the crust all ready to go."
She mixed the berries with sugar - a
lot of sugar - and poured them into the bottom crust. She placed the upper crust on top, sprinkled more sugar on top, and slid the pie into the oven. "Go out and play, Teddie, I will call you when the pie is ready."
The intensity of that wait period was one of the strongest emotions in this boy's life. Even a mighty forager such as myself knew the added value of cooking our gatherings. It didn't take a village to raise my expectations, it only took Mrs. F who lived around the corner.
And at last came the glorious sound I had been waiting for, the sound that would transport me to heights of new excitement and anticipation ....
"Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!"
We ran back to his house this time.
There it was. Glorious.
Ted got the first piece. My slice was - in my estimation - slightly smaller. I let it go. I was going to polish mine off and ask for seconds, furiously chewing and gulping my way through the sweetest (sugar), tangiest (berries), fluffiest (crust) creation ever. That second slice was going to be amazing.
"That's enough for now," declared Mrs F. "We can save the rest for when Daddie gets home.
I looked longingly at that pie.
I knew Ted's "Daddie" was going to make short work of the rest.
Why didn't I linger over its deliciousness?
Why didn't I savour its flavour?
Carpe diem, carpe pie.
As I left Ted's house In knew I would never get a second slice.
6 - Salal - readily available, not terribly flavourful, lots of bugs and the frequent woody berry
5 - Salmon Berry - delicious and plentiful, no thorns, eaten red or orange, short few weeks of good picking
4 - Wild Strawberry - amazing flavour but harder to come by. Very tiny where we lived.
3 - Thimble berry - like a concentrated raspberry, easy to pick, sweet and delicious short season but often overlapped with salmon berries
2 - Black berry - plentiful, satisfying, the thorns were a problem that we overcame (most of the time) and filling. I would actually walk away sated with berries unpicked.
And all time Favourite -
1 - Red Huckleberry - most delicious, easy to pick from a small shrub, often an entire bush ripened at the same time. And in a pinch you could use a berry for fish bait.
Summer had begun, the woods were cool, school was a memory, and Bill and I were gorging on red huckleberries.
We each had an entire bush to ourselves and I was picking each berry and popping it into my mouth as fast as I could. I glanced over at Bill; he was using a different technique. He was picking but not popping. Instead he was picking and deftly collecting a handful of berries to enjoy all at once. "Way better," he explained. I tried it and he was right. The delayed gratification of waiting for a handful of red hucks was well worth the wait.
When I was nine I had a friend who lived around the corner on South Morgan Crescent - we lived on North Morgan. His mother had a voice that could shatter glass, drown out overhead jets, and echo off the nearby Beaufort Mountain Range.
"Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!" she would holler in a piercing two note sing-song from her door step. Ted would drop everything and go see what she had for him - dinner, snacks, a new toy. I often followed him home out of curiosity, secretly hoping she was announcing to Ted her new batch of cookies was baked, or a cake had just come out of the oven. She was generous with Teddie's friends, and I was one of his best friends.
On this day he didn't drop everything right away. We were eating huckleberries in a vacant lot a block or two to the south of his house. She wanted to know what took him so long.
"Huckleberries, mom," he told her between mouthfuls of chocolate chip cookies.
"What are they?" she wanted to know.
"Red berries on a bush," he told her.
"Red berries? Don't eat them, they're probably poisonous."
"Uh-uh," I interjected (yes, I would very much like another warm cookie), "My Grandma showed me which berries to eat and which ones to avoid. You might be thinking of nightshade." (Nightshade was what I incorrectly called the berries of the twisted stalk. You could see where a concerned mom like her could be forgiven for being cautious.)
"I eat them all the time." I assured her.
"Me, too," said her one and only son.
"Here." She handed us each a bowl. "Bring me enough berries and I will bake you boys a pie."
I heard that! I was on a mission! Bill had already shown me the merits of delayed gratification. This was the next level - pick, don't eat, wait, eat pie!
We got to work - well, one of us did.
While I was doggedly filling my bowl, Ted was happily gulping down berry after berry. As my bowl slowly began to fill with the tiny berries I became filled with dichotomous urges; confront Ted on his lack of contribution to the task versus shut up, pick, and let his mom make pie. The idea of all this work with no pie was too much to consider. I picked - and I picked hard. I kept my tongue under control.
On the way back to his house my bowl was well over half full, Ted's less than a quarter. "Put your berries in my bowl," he suggested. I didn't trust him not to eat them so I refused.
"C'mon, dump 'em in here'" he said as we approached his door. I did.
"Here, Mom," said Ted as he presented her with his nearly full bowl.
She hugged him and said, "Good boy. I have the crust all ready to go."
She mixed the berries with sugar - a lot of sugar - and poured them into the bottom crust. She placed the upper crust on top, sprinkled more sugar on top, and slid the pie into the oven. "Go out and play, Teddie, I will call you when the pie is ready."
The intensity of that wait period was one of the strongest emotions in this boy's life. Even a mighty forager such as myself knew the added value of cooking our gatherings. It didn't take a village to raise my expectations, it only took Mrs. F who lived around the corner.
And at last came the glorious sound I had been waiting for, the sound that would transport me to heights of new excitement and anticipation ....
"Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!"
We ran back to his house this time.
There it was. Glorious.
Ted got the first piece. My slice was - in my estimation - slightly smaller. I let it go. I was going to polish mine off and ask for seconds, furiously chewing and gulping my way through the sweetest (sugar), tangiest (berries), fluffiest (crust) creation ever. That second slice was going to be amazing.
"That's enough for now," declared Mrs F. "We can save the rest for when Daddie gets home.
I looked longingly at that pie.
I knew Ted's "Daddie" was going to make short work of the rest.
Why didn't I linger over its deliciousness?
Why didn't I savour its flavour?
Carpe diem, carpe pie.
As I left Ted's house In knew I would never get a second slice.
No comments:
Post a Comment