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Stalking the Wild Banana
(New England's Wild Edibles)
By Theresa Ludwick
Euell Gibbons my father is not, nor is he Henry David Thoreau, but he is a
self-made man with the accompanying – let’s call them traits – of a typical
New England native: self-reliance, creative resourcefulness and curiosity. He
seems to have always had an interest in natural lore, enough to pique my
own curiosity and appreciation of what I believe is a quintessential element
of New England.
The woods of New Hampshire were my playground and my school. In these
un-walled classrooms, I discovered fiddleheads and “wild bananas,” spruce
tree gum and mica. In teaching me about these things, my father casually
established in me a sense of connection to nature and a hunger for
exploration and discovery.
When I was little, I unreservedly believed everything Dad told me. For
example, he told me once, “If you put pussy willows in the oven, they’ll
come out as kittens.” I tried it and it didn’t work, but Dad told me other
things that turned out to be true and encouraged my appetite for natural
knowledge. Even so, I learned to take what he taught me with a grain of salt
or more, depending on what it was.
Such as edible wild plants: the dandelion, the fiddlehead fern (or as we
called them, “hog breaks”). The latter has become a springtime delicacy to
some, and sells expensively in stores, but for me, steamed fiddleheads with
butter was a free and whimsical treat. Found in moist, shady areas,
fiddlehead ferns are in their coiled state for about 2 weeks before they unfurl
into delicate, lace-like foliage and are no longer edible.
Then there was the wild banana. On one outing, I watched as Dad firmly
grasped a cluster of ferns close to the ground and gave a vigorous pull. He
took out his ever-handy jackknife and extracted the little cream-colored,
oblong root at the base of the plant. “Wild Banana,” he announced. “Good
with salt.” I tasted it and almost believed him. Through research, I have
found little information to substantiate the edibility of this root. However,
older members of my family and community insist on its factuality.
The same applies to spruce tree gum (no salt added, but a sweetener would
sure help). With his jackknife, Dad would mine a sticky ball of accumulated
pitch from the bark of the tree and pop one into his mouth (or mine). Rubbery
and bitter at first, the gum transformed into a chewable, unique taste
experience.
Always ready to move on to the next venture, Dad would seek out another
tree – the poplar – to find the perfect twig from which to make a whistle.
Spotting one, he would cut a round, fat, 6 inch length of twig and perforate
the bark on the circumference of one end. After tapping on the cut end to
loosen the bark membranes, he twisted it off and whittled an angled section
of bare wood for the mouthpiece and a notch for the air to travel through.
With the notched bark replaced on the end, the whistle produced a great
sound that was perfectly suited to my Pied Piper ambitions.
While living in the country, in a house that Dad had converted from a hay
barn, we once boiled sap from a few nearby maple trees and produced
enough syrup to cover several batches of pancakes. This is a keen and pivotal
memory for me because it was during this time that I began, in earnest, to
forge a deeper connection with my natural surroundings and to appreciate
both nature’s gifts and its frailties.
Among these “frailties” was the Pink Lady’s Slipper, New Hampshire’s state
wildflower. When in the proximity of this delicate beauty, Dad would
remind me that picking it was illegal. I carried this grave knowledge
throughout my youth, right next to the fear of the dragonfly that was surely
hovering around the corner, like a Huey, ready to perform surgery on my
lips if I swore. I have since discovered the inaccuracy of the commonly
accepted Lady’s Slipper legend. The long-held, erroneous belief that it was
illegal to pick the Pink Lady’s Slipper was likely promulgated by its name-
association with the Ram’s Head and Small Yellow Lady’s Slippers of
Massachusetts, both of which are endangered and protected under
Massachusetts law. This notion has kept many a desiring hand from plucking
the pink one into oblivion, though, and that’s certainly not a bad thing.
The Pink Lady Slipper does have a fragile,
symbiotic relationship with a certain fungus
and, therefore, attempts to transplant one
usually fail. On a country outing recently,
a stranger handed me a bouquet of three.
Though they are ethereally lovely, I was
appalled and saddened that they were not
left alone to propagate a new generation
of beauty. Photographs and memories suffice
for me.
A place called Old Hill Village, on the other hand, was not able to escape
endangerment and oblivion. The small municipality was built near the
Pemigewasset River in south central New Hampshire in the 19th century.
When Franklin Falls Dam was built for flood control in 1943, Hill Village
became susceptible to repeated flooding and was eventually abandoned and
rebuilt on higher ground.
The ghost-village became pastureland for cattle. Our family of nine often
trekked there for picnics, fishing, exploring, and the challenge of acquiring
butternuts from a giant butternut tree that stood alongside the path. With
pebbles, sticks and other debris hurled at the overhead branches, we knocked
down the nut casings (and sometimes each other). We then hammered (the
butternuts) with fist-sized rocks. The nutmeat is similar to walnuts in
appearance and has an appealing, delicate flavor.
I don’t know that my outdoor education was an uncommon one, at least not
in the days of my own youth. Today, however, with the alternative of
spending hours and days in front of the television or X-Box, I wonder how
many families miss the opportunity to explore and experience the rewards
and surprises of “wildness,” as Thoreau called it.
For my part, I’m glad mine didn’t.
About the author:
Theresa Ludwick is a freelance writer whose work appears in several
magazines and newspapers. Though she currently lives in Colorado, she was
born and raised in New Hampshire, and enjoys writing about New England
and its unique people, places, and ideas.
(New England's Wild Edibles)
By Theresa Ludwick
Euell Gibbons my father is not, nor is he Henry David Thoreau, but he is a
self-made man with the accompanying – let’s call them traits – of a typical
New England native: self-reliance, creative resourcefulness and curiosity. He
seems to have always had an interest in natural lore, enough to pique my
own curiosity and appreciation of what I believe is a quintessential element
of New England.
The woods of New Hampshire were my playground and my school. In these
un-walled classrooms, I discovered fiddleheads and “wild bananas,” spruce
tree gum and mica. In teaching me about these things, my father casually
established in me a sense of connection to nature and a hunger for
exploration and discovery.
When I was little, I unreservedly believed everything Dad told me. For
example, he told me once, “If you put pussy willows in the oven, they’ll
come out as kittens.” I tried it and it didn’t work, but Dad told me other
things that turned out to be true and encouraged my appetite for natural
knowledge. Even so, I learned to take what he taught me with a grain of salt
or more, depending on what it was.
Such as edible wild plants: the dandelion, the fiddlehead fern (or as we
called them, “hog breaks”). The latter has become a springtime delicacy to
some, and sells expensively in stores, but for me, steamed fiddleheads with
butter was a free and whimsical treat. Found in moist, shady areas,
fiddlehead ferns are in their coiled state for about 2 weeks before they unfurl
into delicate, lace-like foliage and are no longer edible.
Then there was the wild banana. On one outing, I watched as Dad firmly
grasped a cluster of ferns close to the ground and gave a vigorous pull. He
took out his ever-handy jackknife and extracted the little cream-colored,
oblong root at the base of the plant. “Wild Banana,” he announced. “Good
with salt.” I tasted it and almost believed him. Through research, I have
found little information to substantiate the edibility of this root. However,
older members of my family and community insist on its factuality.
The same applies to spruce tree gum (no salt added, but a sweetener would
sure help). With his jackknife, Dad would mine a sticky ball of accumulated
pitch from the bark of the tree and pop one into his mouth (or mine). Rubbery
and bitter at first, the gum transformed into a chewable, unique taste
experience.
Always ready to move on to the next venture, Dad would seek out another
tree – the poplar – to find the perfect twig from which to make a whistle.
Spotting one, he would cut a round, fat, 6 inch length of twig and perforate
the bark on the circumference of one end. After tapping on the cut end to
loosen the bark membranes, he twisted it off and whittled an angled section
of bare wood for the mouthpiece and a notch for the air to travel through.
With the notched bark replaced on the end, the whistle produced a great
sound that was perfectly suited to my Pied Piper ambitions.
While living in the country, in a house that Dad had converted from a hay
barn, we once boiled sap from a few nearby maple trees and produced
enough syrup to cover several batches of pancakes. This is a keen and pivotal
memory for me because it was during this time that I began, in earnest, to
forge a deeper connection with my natural surroundings and to appreciate
both nature’s gifts and its frailties.
Among these “frailties” was the Pink Lady’s Slipper, New Hampshire’s state
wildflower. When in the proximity of this delicate beauty, Dad would
remind me that picking it was illegal. I carried this grave knowledge
throughout my youth, right next to the fear of the dragonfly that was surely
hovering around the corner, like a Huey, ready to perform surgery on my
lips if I swore. I have since discovered the inaccuracy of the commonly
accepted Lady’s Slipper legend. The long-held, erroneous belief that it was
illegal to pick the Pink Lady’s Slipper was likely promulgated by its name-
association with the Ram’s Head and Small Yellow Lady’s Slippers of
Massachusetts, both of which are endangered and protected under
Massachusetts law. This notion has kept many a desiring hand from plucking
the pink one into oblivion, though, and that’s certainly not a bad thing.
The Pink Lady Slipper does have a fragile,
symbiotic relationship with a certain fungus
and, therefore, attempts to transplant one
usually fail. On a country outing recently,
a stranger handed me a bouquet of three.
Though they are ethereally lovely, I was
appalled and saddened that they were not
left alone to propagate a new generation
of beauty. Photographs and memories suffice
for me.
A place called Old Hill Village, on the other hand, was not able to escape
endangerment and oblivion. The small municipality was built near the
Pemigewasset River in south central New Hampshire in the 19th century.
When Franklin Falls Dam was built for flood control in 1943, Hill Village
became susceptible to repeated flooding and was eventually abandoned and
rebuilt on higher ground.
The ghost-village became pastureland for cattle. Our family of nine often
trekked there for picnics, fishing, exploring, and the challenge of acquiring
butternuts from a giant butternut tree that stood alongside the path. With
pebbles, sticks and other debris hurled at the overhead branches, we knocked
down the nut casings (and sometimes each other). We then hammered (the
butternuts) with fist-sized rocks. The nutmeat is similar to walnuts in
appearance and has an appealing, delicate flavor.
I don’t know that my outdoor education was an uncommon one, at least not
in the days of my own youth. Today, however, with the alternative of
spending hours and days in front of the television or X-Box, I wonder how
many families miss the opportunity to explore and experience the rewards
and surprises of “wildness,” as Thoreau called it.
For my part, I’m glad mine didn’t.
About the author:
Theresa Ludwick is a freelance writer whose work appears in several
magazines and newspapers. Though she currently lives in Colorado, she was
born and raised in New Hampshire, and enjoys writing about New England
and its unique people, places, and ideas.
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