I love foraging for food. Almost eighteen years ago, when my husband and I moved into our newly built home with slopes of open space, no landscape and only a variety of pesky growing weeds greening our yard, I learned of a new perspective.
Our new neighbors, whose parents are from Greece, looked at my slope a different way, as food…tasty greens. My friend’s mom asked me if she could forage in my front yard. With wide eyes, I knew in that moment, she would become a mentor of mine. I was fascinated and asked questions while paying close attention. We got on our knees and used our bare hands to sort through the edibles. I was eager to learn from her and the beautiful culture of a distant land.
Years later, on a visit to Oregon, while hiking through narrow tree-canopied trails, our family entered an area that opened up to wild blackberry vines. I left there with hands stained, taste buds delighted, and a soul filled.
Now, years later, my landscape is complete, and weeds, mostly under control, but I still forage. As the years go by, seeds of the past germinate, and edibles grow in spaces of their choosing; telling a story of days past. Currently, I have volunteer fennel, borage, chamomile, and tomatoes. In the morning, I love to harvest from my garden, both in my planned garden space and in the hidden spots where volunteer edibles have sprouted. I grab eggs from the coop and head to the kitchen reminding myself that each day is new and distinct, waiting to be heard, seen and tasted.