Chapter 25

It’s springtime again, and the fiddleheads are uncurling in Millner’s woods. Partner races out ahead of the boys and me. Partner’s only as high as my knees, but he thinks he’s a big dog. He barks at every bird and butterfly he sees, as though he’s the boss of the grove. When we’re out walking, his yapping draws the rest of Millner’s wild pack of family dogs into the woods. The rest but Ranger, of course.

Ranger died before Christmas. Millner picked at the freezing ground until a deep-enough grave was dug and buried him out here near the pond, where the ducks like to flock in fall. Millner thought Ranger would like that.

“Partner!” Alexi says. “Get back here!” He races after Partner, waving his arms and shouting. Millner’s dogs come howling through the trees.

“They’re going to trample the mushrooms,” says Mikko.

I’m scouring the forest floor. “Oh, let them be,” I say. “You were wild like that, too, when you were little.” Mikko shakes his head as though he doesn’t believe it. He’s grown an inch in height but a leap in sense since last fall. He’s been easier to mind. He helps with Alexi, who is still wild.

Tonight, after Toivo gets home from work, we’re having a little party, a cookout, with Gramps, Mark-Richard’s foster family, Alkomso and her family, and Millner. Even Mr. Flores might come if he can get his grading done.

Last fall, after the STEM fair, the Colter Crier ran a big article about fracking, Millner’s woods, and Mr. Flores. Since then the town has put a moratorium on Kloche’s wastewater pond. Moratorium, I learned, means “a pause while we think about it.” Anyway, enough people supported Mr. Flores that he got his job back.

I have Mom’s recipe book. While we can afford to buy more groceries now, there are some ingredients you just can’t get at the store. I need morels. I need fiddleheads. I need ramps, and no grocery store stocks those.

Duck Breasts and Fiddleheads

Get somebody else to grill the duck on the grill to rare. Duck is so fussy. Never been able to do it. In the meanwhile, heat the saucepan with olive oil or butter. Toss in the sliced morels (make sure you’ve rinsed them in a salt bath first to chase out all the slimy and buggy critters) and fiddleheads. Fry for three or four minutes. Toss in the ramps for another minute. Done. Lay aside the grilled duck on a nice white plate. A dinner for those in heaven.

Mom named me for fiddleheads, the tight curls of the early fern plant. They are jade green with a slight silver sheen. They rise up out of the dirt about the same time as the morel mushrooms and ramps do.

I stop and kneel down. Sometimes it’s best if you get as low as possible. You start to see things in a different way. Mikko trudges on ahead. He stops beneath a dead ash tree and turns back to me. He gives me a thumbs-up. That means he’s found the morels. Soon he’s bent over, picking them and tucking them into his sack.

I push aside some of last autumn’s dead leaves. Sticks and dirt underneath. I can smell them. Fiddleheads have a fish odor. I know they’re here. I carefully scrape away more dead leaves. They’re wet and soggy, and I begin to wonder if I’m mistaking that smell for fern babies, until my fingers feel new growth.

Carefully plucking away the old maple, oak, and ash leaves and tossing them aside, I see them: little grayish-green sprouts coiled up like small galaxies. I pinch one off and pop it in my mouth. It’s an explosion of fresh wildness.