Sunday, September 30, 2012

Happy Birthday Andre: September 28


Despite being back in the forest, our haven and sanctuary, this week has been pretty tough.  We’ve both been a little edgy and cranky with one another.  Maybe it’s all the driving we’ve had to do, living in tight quarters, readjusting from city life… whatever the reason, it hasn’t felt good.  Thankfully, we ended a terrific and healing talk last night just in time to start celebrating Andre’s birthday, and I woke up this morning feeling full of love and joy.  After a long and luxurious morning laughing and playing like children, I made his favorite Swiss recipe for carrot cake, fashioned into pancakes, which are mush easier to cook out here in the wilderness than baking an actual cake.  Mix together equal parts carrot, flour, and nuts (hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, plus, pumpkin and sunflower seeds), with a little baking powder, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, an egg, oil, milk, and don’t forget the splash of grand marnier (that part isn’t in his recipe book).  We topped them with the maple syrup my mom tapped from her friend's tree, wild grapes, and sliced pears from a neighborhood tree.  All but the spices were foraged or gifted.  Happy birthday, beautiful!  Thank you for sharing this journey with me, for being a part of my life and for letting me be a part of yours!

Thursday, September 27, 2012

wolves and ham, not in that order: September 24


I have always wanted to make it up to the Great Lakes region, which dotted the green area denoting National Forest land on our map with little blue misshapen circles.  Andre says water is magical. It’s the only thing that expands both when it heats and when it cools.  So, we pointed Butter northwards and started driving towards the Northwoods of Minnesota.  Stopping for a hike to scope out the wild rice paddies, we learned about the logging industry and how beneficial it was for Minnesota through a series of animated cartoon informational markers that lined the loop trail.  Sadly, we also learned that we missed the wild rice by a couple of weeks, but we did manage to forage a farm raised smoked ham from Ben Cliff, a hunter who I caught Andre chatting up in the parking area.  Here's Andre devouring some of that ham. Yum.


Later that afternoon, we landed in a town called Ely and stopped to work at a coffeeshop.  Despite the impending cold, harsh winter, I adored this place, so much that I contemplated the idea of living here.  It felt like my kind of place, filled with my kind of people—people who ride bikes, wear dreadlocks and sandals—and the streets were lined with small shops and galleries.  Maybe that was just the impression I got from the few people we met, including one couple (fellow Westy owner) who gave us directions on a place to camp and hike outside of town.  They parked their bikes to visit with us, telling us of their dream to drive around the country in their bus, and even had a plan worked out involving a “for sale” sign that they believed would allow them to stealth camp in any neighborhood.

Unfortunately, the lake they sent us to was beautiful but not suitable for camping, so we continued down the road until we stumbled upon Hanson Lake. We’d have this entire lake to ourselves, for sure, which meant we could toss in the fishing rod, although fishing turned out to be poor.  Instead, we had plenty of fun making videos of us pretending to forage for a television producer who wants to do a show about our journey.  Andre built a fire and I put together a nice plate of appetizers.  We cooked ham and black bean tacos on the fire and listened to the wolves howl at the moon. Unlike the pack we heard a couple of nights ago, though, this pack sounded quite large, maybe as many as 20. They were also much closer than they were other night, close enough to deter us from sleeping outside.  I fell asleep listening to their songs, cuddling next to Andre, warm and totally blissed out.

acorns in MT: September 23


This morning we threw together a quick breakfast of foraged pears with rescued yogurt and roasted dandelion root powder, eager to see if we could find more lobsters. After just a few minutes of hiking together, I told Andre that I wanted to go off on my own. Hiking alone is something I feel perfectly comfortable doing, and I haven’t made enough efforts to get my fair share of EW time since we started the trip.  Plus, I wanted to gather acorns since we found a stash of rather large ones for the first time since starting this trip. All the acorns we’ve been eating were gathered around our old stomping grounds back in California. I walked down the path lined with colorful trees, filling my foraging bag with beautiful leaves that I used later to decorate Butter.  The forest was quiet, all but my singing, when from out of nowhere came a medium-sized black bear just 10 or 15 feet in front of me.  It looked my way as it crossed my path (its path, I suppose), moving slowly but steadily, but clearly afraid.  That made two of us.  I wanted to keep hiking but felt torn, after all, I just scared a bear and was able to walk away without any problems.  If I continued, would it think I was following it, would I be tormenting it like the crocodile hunter who taunted those poor sleepy crocs?  I decided to continue, but first I grabbed a stick.  It crumbled in my hand.  I took a few steps and heard rustling in the trees nearby, so I turned around with the small chunk of wood that used to be a stick still gripped tightly in my hand and chose another route.  First, though, I stopped by Butter to grab a bell.

This was my fourth bear sighting on the trip, not counting the two grizzlies we spotted from the safety of Butter back in Yellowstone.  Camila said I’m like a deer, maybe that’s why they like me.  Andre didn’t come home with any lobsters, but we both had heaps of acorns.  Time to get cracking.

forest lobsters: September 22


A long afternoon in the car ended in time for a hike before sunset.  We were somewhere near Hazelhurst, which is just south of Woodruf, Wisconsin.  The leaves were much more colorful than they’d been down south, displaying all of the shades of fall… red, orange, yellow, green, and everything in between.  Is it the death of summer, or alternatively, the birth of winter?  In either event, I was hoping for an Indian summer as I dug for my warmer jacket.

Out on our hike, I spotted some little blue mushrooms, lavender really, and wanted Andre to take a peek.  When we see something especially interesting in the forest, we usually call the other over.  Otherwise, we often separate staying just within earshot of the call we’ve developed. On his way over, he found our first lobster mushroom.  Lobster mushrooms aren’t really a type of mushroom, but rather lobsters refer to a host mushroom of some sort that gets taken over by another fungus.  In the case of this edible lobsters, which is often the case, this fungus was the color of a lobster (orange like a pumpkin).  I found several others nearby, giving us plenty for a full meal, although I was hesitant to eat them because there is no guarantee that the host mushrooms is edible. After reading and rereading our ID book to be sure, I sautéed them in a spoonful of coconut oil and a pinch of salt.  With a bit of leftover vegetables from the soup I made yesterday, they made delicious lobster tacos.  After dinner, we listened to the wolves howling nearby, calls that are very different from the coyotes I am accustomed to hearing down south. During my evening meditation, I felt grateful to be back in the forest.

adventures in Madison: September 20


I can’t wait to get back into the forest, but visiting with friends and family has been a nice respite from the work of foraging and processing food.  This was going to be our last city stop for a while, and you know what they say about saving the best for last.  Andre and I made our way to Madison, Fitchburg actually, to visit a woman he has known since his days in San Francisco, Theresa, and arrived just in time for happy hour (but every hour is happy hour on the forage voyage). Theresa had opened a bottle of wine to go with the beautiful selection of Wisconsin cheeses spread out on the table.  We spent the evening chatting and playing with her daughter, Miranda, who is simple and innocent and full of love in its most pure form.  She also had her beautiful thick brown hair tied up in pigtails, which reminded me of how much I like to wear pigtails myself.

Butter needed new shoes again, so in the morning we took care of her, then drove to the Madison MOCA where Theresa was giving a tour of a new exhibit by Leo—a show of computer programmed LED lights inspired by the Playa. I took in a set of works by an female artist from Ireland, who used both photography and video to depict her experience in a deforested area of close to her home. She was running across a nearly colorless landscape wearing a red dress and black tights, sometimes tossing stones that rolled from one screen to another.  The sound was mesmerizing and the beauty of the bare landscape really captivated me. I could have watched these films for hours, but mostly they made me want to skip rocks across a pond.  Clearly, it was time for me to get back outdoors.

We decided to stay a second night at Theresa’s because the forecast called for “ice pellets and possible snow.” After piddling around for a bit, she and Andre went for a hike and I stayed back to do some yoga and catch up on my work.  My only request was that he bring back some oyster mushrooms. Naturally, he delivered.  I cooked a simple pasta (dumpster) dish with sautéed oyster mushrooms, onion (rescued) garlic (gifted), and greens (foraged from Theresa’s fridge) in a bit of cream. 

In the morning, Theresa, Miranda, and I baked Sorghum molasses cookies after breakfast of buckwheat pancakes topped with the maple syrup my mom tapped from her friend’s tree with a side of mixed fruit from the bus.  We picked a few pears from the neighbor’s tree, exchanged gifts of food – my peach and ginger preserves and some dried porcini for all the leftover local cheese, local hot chocolate mix, and a friend’s homemade cherry jam, then headed back into the forest… where we were going, we didn’t really know, but as nice as our stint of city visits was, we were both so happy to be back on the road.

Pewaukee friends: September 19


Neither of us were ready to leave Britt’s.  I could live there forever, literally forever, but it was time to move on.  So often we find ourselves wanting to stay with the people we go to visit. It’s never easy to leave new family and dear old friends, but the adventure must go on.  Today we were making our way towards Pewaukee where we planned to surprise our friends from Venice, CA, Sara and Whaka, with a visit.  They thought we were coming tomorrow – so did we.  Sara and Whaka were staying with her family, who live over the bait shop they own, on the lake for the summer, where they were building a business teaching various forms of somewhat alternative yoga--acro, arial, and even paddle board yoga! I’ve flown (acro) before, but got to experience arial yoga for the first time in a class Sara taught for free on the night of our arrival.  What fun!

In the morning, as I promised last night, I whipped up a batch of acorn meal pancakes for the whole family before we went out to the lake for our first paddle board session with Whaka.  The route: 5.5 miles from one side of the lake to the other, which seemed like a lot to Andre and I what were we to know. Sara dropped us off and we hopped on our boards after a 5-minute lesson.  I was fully prepared to fall in.  It couldn’t be nearly as bad as the “wash machine” waves I’m used to surfing in Santa Monica.  And the water wasn’t nearly as cold as the Pacific.

Things started out great.  We had a nice strong tailwind, the sun was out, I wasn’t cold at all. Then, we decided to make a little stopover at the sandbar (an actual bar with a coffee shop upstairs that looked more like a bar than a coffee shop except for the pastries) for a shot of tequila and a beer.  Whaka flew the staff – the look on the male bartender’s face when he saw the female bartender doing acroyoga with him was priceless.  Not long after, Whaka flew him, too.  Everyone was having a great time. We ordered another round of beers and some snacks before saying goodbye to our new friends. I advertised for Sara’s yoga classes just before walking outside.  The wind seemed to have picked up, but that was probably because the tailwinds that helped ease the long paddle home had turned into headwinds.  I got on my board and paddled with all my might, but was going no where, fast.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I was moving backwards!  The guys were out of sight, I was tipsy, tired, and struggling.  I got down onto my knees and cried (whimpered is probably more accurate, but there might have been some real tears when I squinted hard enough).  After a few minutes, I laughed at myself, then started paddling again.  Eventually, I caught up with the guys who had pulled over to wait for me and we all took a break.  Whaka said the hard part was over; we’d have a tailwind again for the remainder of our ride home, which would take about 30 minutes (that meant 45 for me, at least).  As I made my way back to the bait shop, I watched the trees bending in the wind and the leaves trembling like little cymbals on a tambourine.  All was right in the universe again.

When we arrived home, Whaka already had a big pot of chili cooking on the stove, and it was almost ready.  As usual, we didn’t want to leave.  We had so much fun visiting with Sherrie and Greg, John and Loui, new friends who we hope to see again, and Sara, Whaka, and Tahi who we know we’ll see again in Venice when we get back.  Something (just another something) to look forward to!

I heart mushroom men: September 18


What a lovely morning visiting with Andre’s old roommate, Mark, in Wicker Park.  We strolled the streets, and I pointed out all the greens I saw along the way—purselane (apparently Gandhi’s favorite food), dandelion, plantain, lambsquarter.  I realized I’m constantly on the hunt for food, not necessarily to pick, but merely to take in the cornucopia that exists around me.  When we pull over for a break from driving, I look around the grass.  When walking through the neighborhood, I look in sidewalk cracks and front yards.  When you take the time to notice, you see so much! 

We arrived at Britt’s house (an expert mushroom enthusiast, more to come about him in the book) just before sunset and spent the evening talking mushrooms over a gourmet meal of curried turkey salad, delicious meat stew, and green bean casserole.  This wasn’t the sort of green bean casserole typically served at holidays in the Midwest (canned beans, cream of mushroom soup, and those fried onion bits that come in a can).  Instead, it was a wonderful casserole made from fresh beans just harvested from his garden, topped with foraged white chanterelles that were simmered in cream, then the whole thing was baked until it was lightly golden.  I had seconds of everything, and maybe thirds of the casserole.

The following morning, after a coffee, breakfast, and then lunch (we ate like kings at his place), he offered to let us forage in his garden. We harvested 3 pumpkins, two were for the kids we were planning to visit in the coming days, a handful of chard and kale, a tomato, and a few onion greens.  We still had so much fresh produce from our dive, but I couldn’t resist picking a few things.  I was most excited about the amaranth seeds, which I’ll winnow and try mixing into the blend of other seeds that I have recently harvested to whip up a batch of wild seed and acorn flour crackers.  I’ll keep you posted on how they turn out, and if they’re good, a recipe will follow!

Chicago style: September 17


On the way to Wisconsin, I realized we would pass right by Chicago where my friends Leigh and Danny now live with their 3-year old son Tyler.  We used to be roommates in the house that Rich owned, along with Seth and whoever else came to sleep over at our little commune on Martin Drive in Boulder, CO.  I phoned her up to see if she minded a last minute visit from the hippies.  She didn’t.  In fact, in our back and forth text messages that preceded our arrival (we were both very excited), she said “I knew you were going to get me to eat trash on this trip.” 

We arrived just in time to prepare a cocktail before dinner.  Danny’s sister makes the most delicious limoncello—the most delicious primarily because she uses Meyer lemons, which adds a wonderfully sweet flavor to the usually tart liquor, but also because she makes her booze strong.  I poured a sake glass full and decided it should be shared with Andre.  Following that came a taste of her homemade coffee liquor.  OMG seems the most appropriate way to describe the way my mouth felt when the sweet dark liquid hit my tongue and nearly made it break out into song.  If it were socially acceptable, I’d drink a small cup of this stuff every morning, heated slightly, with a piece of seeded toast we rescued from Whole Foods.

I offered to cook. I started with TJs spinach hummus and crackers, which her 3-year old devoured gleefully, followed by a mixture of sweet and rather colorful potatoes sautéed in oil with rosemary from their garden.  Along with the potatoes, I made a huge pot of random vegetables harvested from various gardens and dumpsters.  Leigh loved it, which surprised me given that until recently she refused to drink milk even a day past the sell by date.  The rest of the night was spent catching up.  When we pulled off, Josh sent a text that said he’d just caught Leigh eating dumpster salad for lunch.  Leftovers.  I don’t think she’ll start diving, but I still count this as a success.  I already miss you, Leigh and Danny.  Kisses to Tyler and a rub to your belly for the one who is on his way!

diving with my sister: September 16


My family is far from rich, but they’re very happy.  My sisters and I grew up poor, but never knew it.  We always had everything we needed, and spent a lot of time playing outdoors.  My sister, Donna Michelle, or just plain Michelle as she likes to be referred to these days, has four beautiful children, is finishing school to become a special education teacher, works as an intern, and takes care of her lovely partner and household.  She works harder than most anyone I know, and is truly happy.  What better to bless her with than knowledge of diving, and thankfully, she’s interested!  Just as we were finishing dinner at my parent’s house she asked if she could join us on our trip to TJs tonight.  I was so excited to take her, especially after having already taken my brother a couple of days earlier.  We went to three stores, and barely had room for her in the bus on the ride home. 

We made trip after trip from the bus to her kitchen, carrying boxes and bags full of food—packs of still frozen tilapia and mahi mahi, fresh chicken, heaps of yogurt, eggs, vegetables, fruit, crackers, nuts, breads, chips, and even some chocolate covered pomegranate seeds and bouquets of fresh flowers.  I decided I couldn’t even be bothered to log it all as carefully as I usually do, just because of sheer quantity.  What am I going to do about food waste, teach everyone how to rescue it with the requirement that they share with at least one other person (and they must tell the person where the food came from).  I used to write letters to the CEO of TJs asking them to instantiate a zero-waste food policy.  No response.  So, if they’re going to throw it away, I’m going to spread the word.  Know this – dumpster diving is illegal, trespassing, and violators can be prosecuted.  I wonder what it would feel like to be that cop who arrests a woman taking food from the trash.

foraging St. Louis style: September 10


I worked at Schnuck’s Market, the St. Louis grocery chain, for 2 or 3 years as a teenager. In all that time, I never questioned what they did with the spoiling produce, the day-old breads and pastries, or any of the other food that we typically find in grocery dumpsters.  Back then, I was completely naïve to the fact that perfectly good food went to waste, and even though I was a poor college student, I might have reacted like my sister did when I offered her a bagel that Andre and I rescued from the dumpster at the Schnuck’s up the street from my dad’s house—with a look of disgust and the comment “I will happily buy my groceries, thank you.”  When we landed in St. Louis, I knew we’d be visiting the Trader Joe’s dumpster I’d scoped out during my trip home last Christmas, which was unlocked and full of bags.  Diving at the local grocery chain, however, never occurred to me.  I thought somehow they’d be better about donating their spoils.  After all these years, I’m still naïve.  Roger Moss called it “close to nature.”

I’ve been questioning how we became so afraid of food.  For example, why is it that we feel the need to refrigerate eggs in this country?  What have we done to our eggs, sterile little balls of goodness, that they now require refrigeration? 

Many of us are truly afraid, I suspect because we have lost, or more likely distrust, our ability to determine what is good and what is bad.  We have come to rely on other people, experts, authority, to tell us what is safe to eat and what must be trashed (round-filed as my dad used to say).  We expect unripe fruit, flawless avocados, salads that expire 4 days from now even though we plan to eat it today or tomorrow.  That’s what fresh means.

Thankfully, my parents eat the “trash” that I bring home.  In fact, they’re happy to eat it, but I think showing them the documentary “Dive” helped to convince them of the quality and safety of dumpster food. Dad immediately slathered cream cheese on a sesame seed bagel, his favorite kind, that we brought home on Saturday, but many people would turn their noses up to our offerings—something fellow divers are probably happy about, but food in the trash is bitter sweet for me.  I’ll have a cheese bagel and figure out what to do about this mess.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

foraging in a hotel parking lot: September 3


This morning I met Bec on the porch outside of our hotel room.  I was eating purselane growing in the crack between the sidewalk and the parkway.  She was curious.  We took a walk to look for other edibles, and spotted an apple tree.  We have apples, but many of them have brown spots inside, blemishes most people would be bothered by.  I gave the nice ones away to a family who was sitting on the side of a road with a cardboard sign that read, “anything helps.”  We picked a few, not the tastiest but certainly prettier than the ones from Boulder.  The gardener spotted us, and stopped what he was doing to tell us about a cherry tree on the other side of the property.  Turns out, they were plums, small red plums, but tasty.  I went to get Andre and dad so they could join in on the fun of harvesting.  We probably picked 7 pounds, using this method: dad  would shake the tree gently, then we’d pick up all the plums from the ground.  Sometimes he’d shake the tree while we were still picking, so plums would come raining down on us.  Some passersby noticed we were having too much fun and asked what we were doing.  I told them about our favorite method of preservation—soaking them in a glass jar filled with vodka and a hint of sugar for about a month.  They grabbed a bag and started filling it.  I can always find something that inspires people to forage… booze is usually a good one.

foraging in Taos - garden style: September 2


After a lovely visit to the artisan market in downtown Santa Fe, we headed back towards Taos.  I wanted to show my parents around town, and we had been invited to forage in Phyllis’s garden but hadn’t found time on our last visit.  First things first, Cid’s.  Despite the fact that we didn’t need anything, far from it, it’s always interesting to see what gets thrown out and who we’ll find at the dumpster.  Smelly bins, loaded with flies, were what we found… probably full of perfectly good food.  Saved for someone else, it is a very popular place to dive after all.

We drove up towards the ski area and parked Butter.  I cooked some of the elk meat we’d been gifted, lots of vegetables, and we made burritos with the tortillas we got from TJs.  After washing up, we drove to Phyllis and Mark’s house.  She started with a tour of their house, which they built themselves.  Much of the wood came from a burn, they harvested and debarked it all themselves.  I think she said the main room downstairs cost about $13.  The space was inspiring, curvy and organic, simple and breathtaking.  The garden, full of goodies, was equally lovely, clearly cared for and loved.  Nearing sunset, we picked raspberries, chard, lettuce, arugula, beets, carrots, green white and purple string beans, snap peas, green onions, and a giant squash.  We talked for what felt like hours inside, reminding me that the book I’m working on is not just about connecting with food, but equally (and perhaps more importantly) about connecting with people.  We’re all in this together--left, right, white, black, rich, poor.  When we open our eyes to that fact, only then will we speak with and live the love that we are.  I would do anything, literally give my life, to witness the generosity I’ve experienced on this trip, the kindness and love that we’ve been blessed with, embodied in all members of society.  What would that take? 

I was sad to leave their house, arms full of garden produce, fresh bread, homemade carrot marmalade, and heart full of love and gratitude.  Taos, another place I’ll call home.

foraging with the folks - September 1


We woke up in the national forest outside of Los Alamos on our way to Santa Fe.  It’s a strange place, Los Alamos, where everything from radiation travel to planetary formations are researched at the National Lab.  I had no interest in the goings on there.  I was excited about today for two reasons. First, I get to pick up my parents this evening, who flew in from St. Louis to join our adventures for a week.  Second, Santa Fe has a Trader Joe’s with unlocked dumpsters.  Yes, diving is a highlight.  The forest has no junk food, and all the long days of hiking and working for my food makes me want to pull a cookie out of the trash with ease, unwrap it from it’s plastic coffin, and give it a new, albeit temporary, home where the mushrooms and nettle I find are laid to rest… in my belly.

We had a bit of time to kill before heading to the airport in Albuquerque, so we walked to the farmers market at the Railyard in hopes of swapping some chanterelles for some fresh eggs.  The chicken farmer had no idea what chanterelles were, and wasn’t at all interested in trading for mushrooms.  I told him about our trip, how we’re trying to forage or trade for all of our food, and he handed me a dozen of his eggs.  I wondered whether he thought we were bums.  We are a little dirty after all, and I was in desperate need of a shower before hugging my dad.  I hate to use the “I’m a professor on a research trip” too often, but it has come in handy.  People warm up to professors, we’re trustworthy, scientists, educators.  We have “real” jobs (despite the fact that I often say I get paid for what I used get in trouble for—talking in class), as opposed to ???  Anyway, it works, but using it makes me feel a little guilty and sad.  Rather than pulling all strings, we tried pushing the mushrooms a bit harder.  I told him all the fancy chefs love them and pay a fortune for them.  Wrong answer.  This farmer wasn’t fancy.  Andre told him they were really good for you, and many of them have medicinal properties.  He bought it, and asked how he should cook them. 

That started a chain of fortunate trades—fingerling potatoes, onions, Serrano peppers, raspberries (gifted like the eggs by a shopper, Lucy, who overheard us talking to one of the farmers).  With too much produce in the bus already, and an impending dive, we left the market, thrilled with our success.

Freshly showered, we greeted my folks with excitement.  They were now part of the forage voyage, although my dad insists on staying in hotels, comforts for a 6’4” man who pretends to be old when it works in his favor.  Hmm… will I shift from “the professor” to “the old lady” one day?  Anyway, a celebratory dinner out and several celebratory margaritas stopped us from diving the night of their arrival, but not the next day.  Bec, my stepmother, a woman who’s been in my life since just after the childhood amnesiac stage of my life, is intensely curious, and has been waiting to dive with me since she and dad’s visit to LA, where we watched Dive and ate dumpster food all week.  We took what we needed – some whole wheat tortillas, several pounds of organic sweet potatoes, coconut milk, organic eggs (we didn’t really need these but why not, they were organic), and those cookies I was dreaming out – a 6 pack of chocolate macaroons that sandwiched a creamy fudge filling.  There was plenty we left behind, including bags of organic salad, breads, other sweets, and heaps of other “trash” we didn’t even bother to look through.  Bitter sweet for me given the economic division we witnessed between many of the native Americans living in Santa Fe and the tourists who fill the streets of downtown.  My parents were happy.  Dad enjoyed serving as the look-out.  Bec enjoyed grocery shopping with us.  We all enjoyed the cookies.  There’s still one left and I know where it is.

berries in Taos - August 31


I learned a new berry today, rosy twisted stalk, which we’ve been seeing in the mountains around Taos.  Andre bravely ate our only sample taken to ID the plant with one of my books.  Based on his reaction to the taste, moderately sweet, not particularly flavorful but fine when other tastier fruits are unavailable (sort of how I feel about the Utah honeysuckle), I was correct in my identification.  Actually, I learned two new berries today.  We’ve been seeing a plant that I intuitively felt was toxic all over the forest, but didn’t know its name until today.  Turned out to be baneberry, highly toxic, even deadly.  Because the forest floor is blanketed in plants and berries, my strategy for learning who’s who has been to, first, learn what is edible, medicinal, and deadly.  What can I eat, what can kill me?  Two very important questions.  Everything else is a mere inconvenience… well, I suppose severe diarrhea and painful gastrointestinal cramping might go beyond “mere,” particularly for a forest dweller, but thankfully I haven’t experienced any “poisonings” in my nearly 10 years of hunting wild mushrooms and a lifetime of eating random plants.  Sometimes I also learn the names of pretty flowers, but everything else gets lost, if learned at all. 

workday in Taos - August 30


Coffee out is always a treat, especially on this trip.  It’s something reserved for days when I must get serious about work, writing, and communicating.  I can sit for hours in a café on my computer, but we don’t always stop in towns.  This morning, the idea of coffee in downtown Taos was enough to get Andre into the bus and on the road without breakfast—a rarity for him.  I suppose the hot air balloon that crept past our bedroom window just as the sun was starting to rise helped get us going, too.  They seemed to be struggling in the canyon, not quite able to get the lift we (clearly experts) thought they needed.  The thrill and fear of a potential crash right next to us almost made coffee unnecessary… almost.

Coffee Cats is a nice little café, has wireless internet, outdoor seating, and the employee didn’t mind at all when Andre asked if he could order something savory from the deli next door and bring it over (they only sell sweets).  She also played excellent music!  I wrote while waiting to arrange a time to stop by Sally’s.  Not only did she gift us with the promised elk meat, but we were also pleasantly surprised with a package of antelope meat!  How exciting, something neither of us had tried!  We stayed much longer than expected, enjoying great conversation on her garden patio, checking out the irrigation canals and her yard, and eating apples from her trees.  On the ride back to downtown, we picked a few apples and peaches from trees along the sidewalk.

We decided to head into the mountains north of Taos, which turned out to be pretty dry. Given that we still had so many mushrooms from previous finds, we spent the evening processing acorns and dock seeds out by the campfire while enjoying a little of my elderflower liquor mixed with my latest herbal beer, which seemed a bit more like champagne than beer.  Anyway, the combination made for a delicious cocktail—very luxurious, and all homemade with foraged ingredients.

I tried my hand at acorn bread tonight, too.  Acorn firebread, which involved mixing together about a cup of moist acorn meal and a cup of whole wheat flour with a little yeast and salt, then baking it over the coals in the oven Andre built.  Given that the acorn meal was fairly bitter when Andre’s attempt to make polenta (aka “acorn mush”) the other night failed, we were both shocked when the bread came out so well.  It was nutty, dense, and absolutely delicious, especially with a bit of Sambudha’s butter and honey.  Acorns are my new favorite food.