The Fruit Forager’s Companion

Their bark is unusual and immensely tactile. Often described as “warty,” hackberry bark is deeply ridged, and if you look very close you’ll notice distinct layers in those ridges—almost like the Grand Canyon. Another dead giveaway are bulbous protrusions from the undersides of the leaves. This is hackberry nipple gall, caused by psyllids, tiny insects that infest the leaves. It’s common enough in the East that you’d be hard up to find a hackberry tree without it. Fortunately, it does not affect the health of tree or berries much.

The pea-sized berries are not at all showy. They dangle from long stems and slowly ripen from green to dull bluish black and finally to brown. In the late summer and fall, you’ll want to keep closer tabs on them, and once they turn the color of milk chocolate, start sampling. Gently bite down on the almost crunchy shell of the berries, which will ideally offer a thin layer of grainy sweetness that calls to mind a less fleshy date, offering notes of honey and raisin. Quickly you’ll realize why some species of hackberry found in the South and Southwest (C. laevigata) are called sugarberry. They are indeed somewhat reminiscent of candy.

Then you’ll hit the seed, and perhaps all you can do is spit it out, because some of them can be rock-hard. The seed of every single hackberry I’ve sampled was too resilient to break into without risking a trip to the dentist, but since there’s a precedent of people using entire crushed berries, I have not given up hope.

High in carbohydrates and essential vitamins and easy to store for long periods without spoiling, hackberries were likely a valued part of a varied diet for hunter-gatherers in North America. Paleo-Indian and Early Archaic archaeological sites in Texas, Mississippi, Alabama, and Pennsylvania show evidence of hackberries accounting for at least some portion of their diet. Pounding the hackberries to a pulp was the first step for preparations such as porridges, seasoning pastes and powders, and dense cakes.

Today, hackberries are common street trees because they grow in a wide range of soils and are resistant to drought. Walking down one block on the main drag of my town, I pass at least three, while along the nearby bike path I spot so many I lose count. They are as comfortable being city slickers as they are country folk.

Picking hackberries is fun if you’re tall, or the tree is short. There are a few time-saving hackberry hacks, though coaxing young children to help is of little use here; likely they won’t be able to reach the branches. Those confident in their abilities can climb the tree and try shaking the berries loose to fall on a tarp underneath. Whether you take the batch approach or do it one by one, waiting until the leaves wither or drop is helpful, because the berries will be much more visible. Thankfully, they’ll cling to their branches for months.

If you don’t want to wait for the seasons to turn and the weather to get crummy, you can do it hackberry by hackberry. Usually all the berries ripen on a tree according to the same schedule, but you might have to be selective. If you don’t like the looks or taste of one tree’s offerings, hit up another. It may take an hour to get just a quart or so. I get on my bike and pedal around from tree to tree, stripping accessible branches and moving on once my attention wanes or the picking gets tricky; mixing up the scene that way helps break up the monotony. Listening to podcasts in your headphones does, too.

So-called hackberry milk is the best entry point for hackberry experimentation. It’s not so much a dairy-free milk alternative as it is a thin but tasty liquid. Make it by pureeing ripe berries with water, though the puree step is not as easy as it sounds. And you gotta get the berries first.

This is all to say hackberry milk is probably not going to be a staple of your diet unless you spend a few weeks every fall doing little but harvesting and storing hackberries. One reason to make it is to connect with a contemporary approximation of aboriginal foodways. Another is that hackberries, on the surface, don’t look like they have much to offer, but now you are in on their secret.

Sturdy and low in moisture, hackberries are terrifically low-maintenance—no need to be gentle with these babies! I harvest them in an empty quart-sized (1 L) plastic yogurt container because it’s easy to hold, lets me know when I have enough hackberries to make hackberry milk, and has a handy lid to prevent spills as I transport them home.

Hackberries will keep for months—no need to freeze. Lay the berries in shallow trays or put them in mesh sacks to allow good airflow, and you’re set. They’ll wrinkle up just a bit, but they won’t dry like other fruits you’re used to seeing.

As fall turns cooler, the berries remaining on the tree will get wrinkly the same way. You can continue harvesting them pre-dried in this manner all winter long. I’ve not noticed if drying this way makes their seeds any softer, but I’d like to think it’s possible. Their pulverized fragments can be unappealingly gritty.

Hackberries are heavy duty, rich and sweet. The fastest and most convenient way to render many seeds edible in our time is to grab a high-powered blender. Pounding hackberries with a mortar and pestle—even a big, burly granite one—will quickly make you appreciate modern conveniences. I’ve seen recipes for hackberry jam, which doesn’t seem to make much sense for a gritty fruit with barely any flesh to speak of. Go for it if you like, but keep in mind it is not written in stone that every foraged berry must be made into jam.

Slightly sweet hackberry milk is better as a beverage or ingredient than a cereal topper. Use it instead of coconut milk in stews and soups, and then consider how foraged fruit can show up in the unlikeliest of end destinations.

HACKBERRY MILK

Makes about 2 cups (480 ml)

Hackberries are incredibly low in moisture, so to render them into liquid, you must add water. What you wind up with is a “milk” that’s somewhat sweet and chalky, with a lovely orange-ish shade, as if you tinted almond milk with turmeric. You can drink it cold or gently warmed. It’s fun to experiment with in cooking applications, too—use it as a base for breakfast grain porridges, or add it to sauces and stews. Hackberry milk does not have the same rich body that canned coconut milk does, but its sweetness makes it well suited to curries or stews that excel with the interplay of tart, sweet, and salty tastes.

1 cup hackberries

2 cups (480 ml) cold water

Sort the hackberries, and pick out any stray bits of foreign material. Rinse them off in a colander, and put them in a high-speed blender with the water. Blend until the seeds are rendered into tiny particles, about 1 minute. The friction of the blender may heat the liquid a bit, but that’s not a big deal.

Strain the liquid through a nut milk bag, jelly bag, or strainer lined with fine-weave cheesecloth. This could take a few hours. Wring the bag to squeeze out as much liquid as possible. Store in a jar, and refrigerate for at least a few days—I’ve never had it around for very long.

The hackberry milk will separate into two layers as it sits; there will be a clear upper layer and a silty tan layer underneath. A quick stir will bring it back together.

NOTE: Don’t attempt this with a regular blender. Or do attempt it, but don’t assume it will work. You can see this is a volume ratio of 1 part hackberries to 2 parts water, so scale up or down as you like—though for the sake of blender capacity I wouldn’t more than double it.

The solids left after straining will be very gritty, with seed fragments that may be as hard as coarse sand. This is bad news for your teeth. After all the work of collecting hackberries and rendering them into a fascinating and unusual liquid, you may want to see if you can make use of this stuff, too. I tried drying it out in a low oven and then running it through an electric coffee grinder to make a flour, but it didn’t alter the size or hardness of the particles.

The Forager’s Palate

Lesser-known fruits can lure foragers to fields and forests because they promise untasted flavors.

They are unusual only because we are not used to experiencing them. The industrial agriculture and food production that feeds our world relies on monoculture—the Cavendish banana, for example, all but dominates the marketplace, so when we imagine a banana, we imagine the Cavendish. Fruit breeders create products that grow quickly, have a long shelf life, and look appealing. Taste is a consideration, but not the consideration. It’s like music that’s been run through an effects pedal, but instead of giving the music more texture, it erases its personality.

I’ve noticed that foraging enthusiasts tend to have sturdier palates than the average person—they relish bitter, pungent, and sour tastes that can alienate others. This does not mean foraging enthusiasts are superior tasters, but I do wonder if some of them are simply born with a more open palate; that is, maybe supertasters (those whose taste buds have the most taste receptors) are put off by the typically more intense flavors of foraged foods.

The other thing at work here is cultural: Familiar flavors and textures are what we crave and return to. If a time machine transported an Adena person from the tenth century BCE to a Burger King, they might find Whoppers and Mountain Dew more otherworldly than a modern-day shunner of fast food does.

I used to love Whoppers when I was a teenager, but the last time I had one I thought it was gross. Either the Whopper changed or I did, but likely both. The more I expand my foraging repertoire, the more adventurous my palate becomes. It happens naturally, bit by bit; there’s nothing forced about it, but as a chef, I’m sort of pre-selected to be that way. Chefs are always looking for ways to expand their vocabulary of flavors. Let’s say you’re not a chef or a nerdy plant person. If the wild taste of wild foods isn’t to your liking, there’s nothing wrong with sticking to some trailside raspberries. Taste is only one part of the foraging experience.