Clover heads? Ok. Locust seeds? Better not...

Last weekend, Mike and I decided to go on another foraging adventure. We decided to try another spot in the area, so we set out for Port Washington. Bike trails are great for urban foraging because usually it's like cutting a path straight through the woods, but it's paved. The Interurban trail is one of the most extensive paved trails in the state, stretching from Mequon to Belgium. Along this path I have observed wild asparagus, wild grapes, wood sorrel, high-bush cranberry, raspberries, rose hips,and many other great edibles. And in the morning, further north on the trail, not too many people are out, giving you the impression that you are all alone, a welcome feeling when you live smack in the middle of the densest neighborhood in the city.

When we arrived in Port (as the natives say), we parked right next to the start of the trail, adjacent to the old light tower. We were once again armed with plastic bags and scissors. AS we started off along the trail, we began to look for plants to harvest. It being close to autumn, most of the fruits were gone, except for the cranberry, which aren't ready yet, and the wild grape, of which we had had our fill. about 15 minutes in, single berries dotted the raspberry bushes, and we nibbled on the them, so long as a bird hadn't stolen half of the berry before us. We walked and walked. This had once been our favorite biking spot; somehow our memories of the distance from point A to point B were coming up in bike miles. Walking took much longer than we would have thought. At a certain point, I started to feel hungry. Hunger then gave way to desperation as the coffee I had had that morning turned into low blood sugar. I was about ready to pass out. I needed to eat something.




All around me were light purple clover flowers. I realized that I should probably eat some, since I felt light-headed; at this point we had crossed the over pass of the highway, and were about 2 miles from where we started. I grabbed about 6 plump, spiky purple clover flowers and started eating. They can be quite good, with a texture that is not my favorite, sort of grainy and grassy and the same time. The flavor though is worth it. A kind of perfumy, honey flavor, with a hint of sweetness. In about 3 minutes, I felt much better, and we decided to head back to the car. We had not really found anything to harvest.

About 1/2 mile before the car, I looked to my left and saw white and purple pods hanging down from a tree with pinnate leaves. I thought it looked like a black locust tree. I had never really noticed these before, so I got out my field guides. These were definitely black locust pods. In Sam Thayer's book The Forager's Harvest he explains that many people say these are poisonous to humans. He goes on to say, however that Euell Gibbons claimed that he and his family used to harvest the green seeds and cook and eat them without any consequences. He also says that he has eaten them and that he never had a problem. So Mike and I did something that we should never have done. We opened up a couple and ate some seeds. They were delicious! They were a cross between raw sugar snap peas and green beans. Upon further inspection, I realized that the book made a difference between raw and cooked. The cooking process took care of the toxins.



Now we had really done it! As we walked back to the car, Mike told me he felt strange. I asked him what he felt like. He told me that he was spacy and sweaty and that he felt shaky and was extremely hungry. Of course these were the very symptoms I had experienced a half hour before. He had the coffee jitters, but of course our mental state was all about being poisoned by the seeds.

He began to eat wood sorrel and started to feel much better. We then headed into town to eat at some family restaurant. I was pretty worried, especially since I had only eaten three seeds and Mike had eaten like three pods. I was afraid I had killed my friend!

That night, I called him to see if he was still alive. Then, for good measure, the next morning, I sent this text: still alive? He never answered back. Luckily he called me later that day. We had survived, but we will never again eat anything where there are conflicting stories. I looked up black locust seeds, and apparently if we had been horses, it might have been a different ending...

Wild grapes, cont'd.

The last time I posted something on wild grapes, I had found some growing along the chain-link fence that separates the bike path from Miller parkway, just near the stadium. I tasted one, but did not attempt to harvest any, since they were most likely covered with car exhaust and other noxious substances coming from the the road. This year, however, I found that there were many other vines growing within a mile from the place where I first laid eyes on this plant I remember from my childhood.

I finally decided that I would actually challenge myself to do the thing I didn't believe I could do: make grape jelly. For some reason, I hd always been intimidated by the thought of the effort it took to make jelly. Perhaps it was the mysterious pectin, or perhaps the thought that I would have to learn canning methods that prevented any bacteria from killing me. In any case, it was kismet that I read the chapter on wild grapes in Euell Gibbons' Stalking the Wild Asparagus; there, he gives a recipe that just seems manageable. I also discovered that the only reason to can something is if it won't be put in the fridge and consumed within a month. These two bits of information allowed me to conquer my fear of jellies and jams.




In order to stalk some great vines and fruit, I biked almost every day near the place I had first seen the many vines growing over a 3 mile stretch on a bike trail near my house. When I had finally figured out which stretch had the nicest and ripest fruit, I called my foraging partner, Mike, and we made a date to harvest that next weekend.


Starbucks, 8 am. We caffeinated ourselves with admittedly very un-local beans, and set out to the harvesting spot. Each of us armed with plastic bags and a pair of scissors, we walked about a one and a half-mile stretch. From vine to vine we filled our bags with mostly ripened, but a some green, grapes. (Most recipes say to use a mixture since the unripe ones have more pectin in them.) When finished, we each had about 1.5 to 2 quarts of bunches of mostly dark purple, pea-sized, surprisingly insect-free grapes. We could not of course stop ourselves from eating a few, although eating is not really the right word. You mostly suck the juice and spit out the relatively large seeds and tough skin.


When I got home, I put the grapes in a big pot of water to wash them, then I drained the water and put them back in the pot. The question now was whether to boil or not to boil...Gibbons says yes and Sam Thayer, a more recent foraging expert says no. I went with Euell (No offense Sam, but Euell has been a hero of mine for a long time.)
I put enough water in the pot to almost cover the grapes but not quite. I then used a plastic potato masher, being careful not to crush the seeds, and mashed the fruit until it seemed as though all of the juice that could be crushed out, was crushed out. I then put the fruit on a medium high flame for about 15 minutes, after which I drained it in a jelly bag. I read somewhere not to squeeze the bag, but I did anyway, since there was so much more juice in the fruit left over after I drained it. I threw away the pulp and the bowl of juice was covered and placed in the refrigerator for two days, in order to let the tartrates in the grapes sink to the bottom of the bowl. This substance is not wanted and will make the jelly gritty.





After two days in the fridge, I carefully poured the juice into a pot, making sure not to get any of the silt that had settled on the bottom in the juice. I then followed Euell's recipe, which calls for a cup of sugar per cup of juice. I dissolved the sugar in the juice and cooked it until it boiled, then I dissolved some pectin (Euell's recipe does not call for pectin, but I was afraid that this grape variety did not have enough in it to really make a jelly) in a little water and put that into the juice. Once it was boiling hard for about three minutes, I took it off the stove and poured it into a sterilized pickle jar and put the lid on. As soon as it was cool enough to touch, into the refrigerator it went. The next day, it had set; the flavor is much more intense than the stuff you buy. It has a tartness reminiscent of currants. Imagine a fruit growing everywhere, but no one but the birds enjoying it! It's well worth the time to notice these little purple berries. If you're into local food, what could be more local?

Life is ephemeral

Whenever I go to an antique store, I look for the postcard section. It has always fascinated me that when people die, often their memory is erased from the general consciousness. When my grandfather passed on, my father handed me some WWII-era dogtags. On the tarnished, flat, metallic labels was engraved my grandfather's mother's name, as well as their address in Philadelphia. I had never asked him where he lived; of course I had to do a google search. The streetview app showed a vacant lot, and listed the address as approximate. A heavy sadness filled me, as I thought about all of the times, good and bad, that happened in that house. Of course, no one will ever know about those because the house has long been torn down and anyone who lived there has passed. My great aunt is still alive, and at 92 years old, is still fairly active. I should probably interview her, so I can capture the history of my family.

On a recent trip to yet another antique store, I purchased some postcards sent from or to people in my area of the city (the South Side, between National and Lincoln Aves.). Why would I spend money on a relic that sort of chronicles someone else's family history? It is obvious that no other person wanted them, since I found them at an antique store. Probably bought cheap from some estate sale. There is something almost magical about touching an object as personal as a postcard. They are the "thought that counts". No monetary value but priceless, coming almost certainly from loved ones. Especially in a year like 1909, when it was probably easier and cheaper to send a card than to make a phone call.


As I read the cards, I thought about the fact that these people are long gone and wondered why someone would sell or give away proof of their existence. Not only do these prove that they lived, but they are like recorded snapshots of personal relationships. There is a certain melancholy that takes over when one realizes how fleeting life can be. Gladys and Mildred, Miss Kurtz and F. & R., Gini Krawczyk and Dorothy and Bill Gruel... All of these people are gone, and all of the things they said and did in their lives all but forgotten, except for these postcards.

I have set out to find the houses that received these documents. The only one so far that still exists is 1747 S. 32nd St. A bungalow not unlike the one in which I live. Still well maintained. It's absolutely mind-blowing to think that in 1935-1940, Bill and Dorothy ate dinner every night and talked to their friends Gini and Aug. Maybe they had children. Their house is right behind the public par and pool. What a great location for kids!




We can imagine that they went to church every Sunday. Maybe they drove, maybe they took the street car. Did they play cards every Friday? Did they go dancing to the sounds of the local big bands? Did they know someone who was killed in the war?





What about Miss M. Kurtz? What was her first name? How old was she when she received the card? Who were F. and R.? Why were they "going to Stevens Point this afternoon"? These are questions that will never be answered, yet beg to be.

Reunión anual

The Layton Boulevard West Neighbors annual meeting took place on Thursday, November 4 at the St. Joseph center on the corner of Greenfield and Layton Blvd. It's pretty interesting to go to these events, since you never really know who lives in your neighborhood. We arrived a bit late, but just in time to take part in the ice breaker activity that Ricky Castillo and I had made. Typical activity: people bingo. I'm sure you've all played it at some point. You get a sheet with a grid on it, and you have to find people who have done the things in the various squares. These people then sign their names. The first person to fill up the whole sheet wins. There were some nice prizes, too.


In my humble opinion, it is extremely important to participate in events such as this, since it's one way of showing a sense of community, a concept we see often lately, but in small doses. The goal should be overwhelming participation by the whole neighborhood. This encourages social interaction, which can be a catalyst toward stable and safe areas in which we can spend our time.


Milwaukee was just in the paper again as one of the most segregated cities in the nation- although two researchers took issue with the way the word segregation is defined and counted. It seems to me that true desegregation, that is the absolute mixing of people of all colors and economic and social backgrounds is nearly impossible. It also seems that we are trying to force the issue. People naturally gravitate toward people who are like them. They take comfort in this, and feel safe. Of course, this does not mean that they are right in continuing this sort of behavior, but how can we force people to integrate when we are dealing with intense linguistic and socio-cultural barriers? An even bigger question is: how can we do this when most of the families that we may think about as not integrating are so busy trying to eke out a living that they do not have the luxury to think about such things?


What needs to happen is a serious educational campaign. One that awakens everyone's intellectual curiosity, so that we are all compelled to seek out what others do and how others think. so that we cannot resist looking at each other as receptacles of knowledge that we cannot help wanting to learn. I am not suggesting a solution, but I am creating more critical questions.


The fact that I speak some Spanish has really helped me in my communications with my neighbors, as has their English, no matter what the level. there is a real reticence, at least in my immediate vicinity, to speak to neighbors. Since I took the initiative to go and meet some of them, though, the tension has been going away.
How does this relate to Silver City? Just like the Bingo game, which was conceived to force people (in a gentle way) to interact, we need to create more situations, mini situations, block by block, where we incite communication that, otherwise, would never take place. Once all of the blocks are solidly connected, then the neighborhood as a whole will be on the path to becoming more of a community. We need one or two block captains per block that are willing to take the initiative to connect their neighbors. Then, we need block captain meetings, so that the information can be disseminated. So back to the question of desegregation: how DO we erase these barriers? Maybe you have some ideas...

Return to productivity

After a rather long hiatus, ethni-city, Milwaukee is back with a vengeance! The mission of this blog, so to speak, is to inform people and further incite them to experience things in their own city that they may not necessarily think would be interesting, but finally, are. The next few posts will be on businesses in the Silver City neighborhood, namely the area on National Ave. between 31st and 39th streets in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.



The neighborhood is under the jurisdiction of the Layton Boulevard West Neighbors Association, who is doing some really great work. To read about their projects, please go to http://www.lbwn.org.

Enjoy the next few posts and please feel free to comment on things you find interesting, odd, normal, intelligent, dumb, insulting, complimentary or any other adjective you should think of whilst perusing these pages.

Happy reading!

-Brett

Wild foods in urbania? Wild Grapes and Chicory

Just adjacent to my current neighborhood, Silver City, I have come upon small portions of vine, which I know to be wild grapes. The leaves cannot be mistaken, with their three separate points, the middle one higher than the two flanking it on either side. The deep purple, almost black berries grow in small bunches, and like the domesticated larger concords, often hide under a layer of leaves, so that, in order to find them, one must poke and prod. It’s really a shame, however, that I am extremely loath to eat these, since the part of the city in which I live has been an industrial wasteland for so long. Many are the chemicals that have probably leached into the groundwater and thus polluted any of the plants that have come to depend on this water. One has to wonder how many families could be fed just by wild plants alone, were the city not so polluted.


The very fact that so many dandelions and plantain plants have been poisoned by weed killer and that so much car exhaust settles on the leaves seems to make this a moot point. Too, bad, though, because these greens are extremely rich in vitamin A and protein, much like spinach. The grapes are rich in vitamin C.

There are two herbs known to dwell in urban areas that make wonderful tea: gill-over-the-ground and yarrow. In addition to these is the ubiquitous chicory. With its pale-blue flower, there is so much of it that this could constitute an industry in itself in the Menomonee Valley.

One day this summer, on my way back from biking, as I rode along the almost abandoned industrial throughway from 6th St. to the Pick and Save on 19th and National, I decided to stop and pick some of this root, well-known especially in Louisiana. The road workers may have thought I looked pretty strange, but I didn't mind.

It took some work, but I finally pulled up enough of the stubborn taproots to make one tiny cup of chicory. Home I went with the roots peeking out of my tan shoulder bag. I washed them and cut off the endings. I roasted them in the oven at 350° until they were a rich dark brown. I cooled them off and then ground them in a standard hand-held coffee grinder. I decided to make the chicory in my one-cup Italian stove-top espresso maker. I mixed it with some soy milk. It was delicious! It has a smoky flavor that does bare some resemblance to coffee. Of course, it is the roasting that creates the taste. Dandelion roots can be put through the same process.

The fact that this drink seems to bring to the mind and palate the flavor of Americas’ favorite upper has to do with the fact that we are extremely overzealous with the roasting of our beans. Anything liquid burnt tastes like coffee. In fact, the coffee known as Ethiopian Sidamo contains a very brazen blueberry note, when the bean is not roasted for so long and at so high a temperature that the subtleties of the bean are lost. Many coffee beans from Central America are known for their citrus notes and an espresso I drink regularly (The National Café on 9th and National) is supposed to evoke not only Merlot, but chocolate and fruit. Now, not everyone will smell these with their “pif”- the French word for a nose that knows-, but we can all appreciate taste and smell if we concentrate on these senses that, along with listening, are very often lacking nuanced distinctions in our society. We’re all too quick to assume that we should just wolf down our food and drink to achieve the result (satiety and quenched thirst). Unfortunately, but for a growing minority, we are all product and no process.

Wild foods

At one time, we lived in a government-subsidized townhouse on the edge of the city of East Moline, Illinois. Because it was a new development, there were woods directly behind almost every outer row of homes. This was a boon for children who spent much time outdoors, as we all did for lack of anything else to do. I was one of these.

I spent many hours in the summertime traipsing through fallen tree trunks and small streams, giving way to yet another outlet for my culinary curiosity. At the tender age of ten, I clearly and distinctly remember the moment when my mother brought me to the bookstore to buy a copy of the Audubon Guide to Wild Edible Plants. The rich photos in the middle of the book had grabbed my attention, and I had to have it. Anyway, I had already seen some of the plants in the book, and wanted to know more.

From an adult perspective, it really seems unsafe at the very least that my mother allowed me to cavort in the woods alone, knowing fully that I was in search of edibles, and that some could be poison. I survived, very obviously, since this is not being written posthumously. I soon after acquired a copy of Stalking the Wild Asparagus, by the famous and much revered wild foods expert Ewell Gibbons. (I just recently read a short biography of this man, and it appears that part of his fascination with wild edible plants came from his own stint under the same watchful eye of poverty that kept watch over me when I was young.)

In the winter time there was a sledding hill that every child had descended at one time or another (against the warnings of all adults). At the bottom of this hill was a chain-link fence, and beyond was a stream. In the summer, the stream was full of cattails. I had read in the books that cattails were the wild equivalent to corn on the cob. Since I adored this vegetable, how could I not taste this plant growing so abundantly in such close proximity to our home?

I slowly climbed down the steep incline, slipping and sliding on the bare patches of dirt between what I had thought were groundnut plants, but in actuality were rue. Finally arrived at the bottom, straining to reach over the chain-link, I snipped a good ten cattails, still green and tender. I climbed back up the hill and crossed the street to our abode. I do not remember my mother objecting, so she may have been upstairs. I carefully followed the directions in the book, and snipping off the extra stem, I washed and boiled the spikes. When they were tender, I lifted them out of the pot, and dowsing them with salt and slathering them butter, bit into one. It was delicious. Everything in my mind wants me to remember a nutty overtone, with a texture quite unlike anything I had eaten previous. I cannot be certain of the accuracy of my souvenir. I should like to try them again some time.