Spicy
“Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor.”
— William Cowper
I barged into the house, bellowing with enthusiasm. Dad, having become a master chef and teacher, was in the kitchen as usual, experimenting with new recipe ideas.
“Hey Dad! Check this out. I found a great big patch of wild leeks in the ravine! Let’s make some old fashioned Soupe Bonne Femme. I’ll start peeling the potatoes.”
“What? Let me see those.”
Dad’s eyes lit up; he was always excited by anything to do with food. Already I could sense he was dreaming of new fame with a wild onion soup recipe. He picked up the wild leeks and gave them a sniff.
“These smell pretty garlicky! Are you sure they’re leeks?”
“Wild leeks, Dad, Allium tricoccum. Here’s a picture of them in this book on edible plants. Obviously, we’ll have to tone down the amount; wild plants are always stronger than the store-bought varieties.”
“Let me see that book. Yeah, they kinda look like the picture. Ok, let’s cook them up. It’s almost suppertime anyway.”
Dad pulled a slab of bacon from the fridge and started dicing it up as I peeled a couple of potatoes at lightning speed — I’m the world champ at that task! While Dad cubed the potatoes, I washed the wild leeks and started chopping them up. Tears were streaming down my face.
We tossed the leeks and bacon into the heavy enamelled cast-iron skillet and the familiar onion-bacon smell wafted over the kitchen, but with more oomph than usual. After adding chicken broth and the potatoes, we waited for them to become tender and Dad finished off the recipe with heavy cream. Just in time, Mom walked in with her bags of purchases, followed by the troops, my six younger siblings, who all jumped out of the pool to greet her.
“Hi there! What the heck are you two up too? The whole house absolutely reeks of garlic!”
“Oh, it’s the wild leeks, Mom. I found a huge patch down in the ravine and we’ve made creamy leek and potato soup.”
“Supper’s ready! Soup’s on the table.”
The kids tossed on their t-shirts and rushed to the table. Dad said grace and wished us bon appétit!
After a taste, Mom and my siblings made faces as they tried to retain their composure. Dad and I, well, we gobbled down the soup to preserve our dignity, but we might as well have been chomping on raw garlic cloves. Dad looked at me.
“André, this is gak. Those leeks of yours are way stronger than garlic. You don’t have to eat the soup kids. André must have made a mistake again.” He was surely referring to the time I made soup with wild Russula mushrooms, only to admit to not having identified the fungi correctly after everyone had eaten it.
Mom was opening all the windows and doors of the house, trying to ventilate my mistake. Thank God for Dad’s wonderful Supreme de Volaille Cordon Bleu that followed, letting us forget the soup somewhat. And the homemade pumpkin pie.
Right after supper, I immediately jumped on my bike and pedalled off to the local library to search for the wild onions, plant in hand, to the disgusted looks of passersby who suffered an unwelcomed whiff. The error was soon revealed. I was in the possession of Crow garlic, Allium vineale, not wild leek, Allium tricoccum. Same genus, different species. Very different species. I rode home and walked back into the house, head low in shame as I admitted my mistake to my best friend in the whole world, dear old Dad. He sympathized.
“Chalk one up for experience!”
Relieved, I headed outside where the basket full of wild garlic lay. Not wanting to waste those plants, I decided to dry them to use sparingly on my next camping trips. With a needle and strong thread, I strung the plants into a five-metre necklace and hung them on the fence to dry. The next day, since the weatherman was predicting showers, I unlocked the garage and hung the semi-dry plants between the rafters.
Four days later, I was totally absorbed by Sir John Franklin’s masterpiece on Arctic exploration when a loud shriek startled me. It was Mom.
“André-François Bourbeau! You come over here, and make it real quick too!”
Poor red-faced Gertrude was hovering just outside the garage door. As I approached I hit the garlicky wall. Double whammy!
That was but the tip of the wild-food-foraging-iceberg that served as a beacon, leading me into the icy but wonderful world of wilderness survival. I was haunted by a compulsion to experiment with all edible wild plants. One day it was the stench of skunk cabbage which fascinated me, the next it was the smashing of a burlap bag filled with hazelnuts onto the sidewalk to rid them of their prickly green covering, and the following it was the mysterious disappearance of the shaggy manes I had put in the refrigerator, finally explained by the fact that mushrooms in the Coprinus genus turn into ink overnight. Those were happy days, sipping staghorn sumac lemonade, savoring deep fried slices of battered giant puffball, and delighting in burdock stalk candy for dessert. I sure enjoyed this trip from Indian cucumber to hawthorn jelly — hiking the trail that would lead me to become the survival engineer I wished to be.
During my Bachelor of Arts and Science degree I enjoyed camping immensely and also pursued an interest in survival techniques by reading popular books on the subject. Then I enrolled in teacher training and completed a Bachelor of Education degree at the University of Toronto. I hoped for a job in physical education, my major, but ended up teaching math, the minor I had chosen because of the job opportunities.
“Anyone here like spicy Mexican food? Any tough guys around?”
I was facing my group of burly teenagers. Those youngsters volunteered to be part of our progressive high school’s outdoor survival club. They responded to the posters I had plastered on the walls, à la Shackleton: “Join the outing club. Wild survival trips. Adventure guaranteed. Chance of no return!”
“Me! I love Mexican food!” replied the one square-shouldered heckler with bushy sideburns, my presumed target.
“Are you sure? This is really spicy, only for tough guys, for really manly men!”
“No problem, give me a huge bite!” said the disbeliever, trying to impress the gallery.
“Nah, just try this little wee piece first, then I’ll give you more.…”
With my razor sharp pocket knife, I sliced a paper-thin piece of the wild Jack-in-the-Pulpit root I had just unearthed and handed it to him. He didn’t suspect that the root contained calcium oxalate crystals, called raphides, that are in fact microscopic needles that penetrate the skin of the tongue and lips. Hurts like hell. It takes fifteen seconds or so before you sense the pain.
“I don’t feel a thing!” boasted the broad shouldered football player. “Wait, now I’m starting to feel it.… Holy shit! Water!” Water didn’t help. He was maimed for at least half an hour.
“Told you it was spicy!”
“Yeah, but this is a hundred times worse than anything I’ve ever tasted!”
“Told you it was spicy! “
Needless to say, I had great listeners for the rest of my edible plants wilderness walk. Except the one sheepish statue with the watery eyes, standing immobile at the back.…
Nasty teacher! Shame on me. I remember oh-so-clearly the first time I myself felt the sting, both to body and ego, of Jack-in-the-Pulpit root. When I initially encountered the plant in the wilderness, I had but a vague recollection of having read about Indian turnip, the other common name for Arisaema triphyllum. So I pulled up the root, which looked delicious to me, having the texture of a potato. After peeling it, I stuffed a substantial piece of the root into my mouth and started chewing with hopeful anticipation. In the span of a few short seconds my taste buds had detected the short-lived pleasant sweetness, immediately followed by the acrid pain. I was convinced I was going to die! My tongue swelled up and the burning sensation was driving me crazy, especially since I had no clue what was happening to me. And I was alone.
After surviving this incident, I hit my books in short order and found out that good old Euell Gibbons, author of Stalking the Wild Asparagus, had suffered a similar fate. Gibbons went on to specify that once perfectly dry, the calcium oxalate crystals break down and the plant becomes palatable. Following his advice, I tried drying Arisaema roots in the attic, for months. But there always seemed to be just enough leftover moisture in the Indian turnip chips for the poison to kick in. Ouch again and again, at every optimistic taste.
These spicy failures encouraged me to pursue with further passion my study of edible wild plants. At one point, I had delved into the subject with such intensity that I could rattle off by heart the scientific name of just about every Ontario plant, without having made the slightest effort at memorization. The awe-inspiring variety of flavours cannot leave one indifferent. Wild ginger! Wild carrot! May apples! Violet leaf salad! These finds quickly erased the turnip incident. That’s when I truly fell in love with nature and its intricacies.