Scraping by on stinging nettles
As a child, I avoided these prickly greens like the plague -- now I'm foraging for them to feed my family
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Stinging nettles have been the enemy for as long as I can remember. Nettles grow lush and huge here in Deadwood, Ore. When I was a child they were an impediment, tall sentinels blocking the path to the creek. A sting raises a cluster of pink welts like spider bites, which linger for hours.
Nettles lose their sting when exposed to concentrated heat, and they are edible and extremely nutritious, being rich in vitamins A and C, as well as potassium, iron, magnesium and calcium. Supposedly you can use the plants to treat a huge variety of ailments including hay fever and arthritis. My friend Kamari tries to convince me that nettles are God’s gift to hippies, but I’ve always been dubious about cooking them, for obvious reasons. However, our return to Deadwood has been marked by hard times, and scrounging is the name of the game. I started foraging for wild mushrooms, but as our resources dwindle, I’m getting more creative. Stinging nettles it is.
My plan for dinner tonight is spaghetti with beef meatballs. Our neighbors very kindly gave us six or seven packages of ground beef when they slaughtered their bull, and the meat is delicious — flavorful and tender. For our vegetable course we will have the dubious stinging nettles, sautéed in white wine. In the interest of making this sound less obnoxiously twee, I should mention that I found the meatball recipe in “Playboy.” Go figure.
I start down the driveway at dusk, wearing work gloves and carrying kitchen scissors and a colander. My neighbor Alan pulls up in his red Dodge truck and dumps a load of hay for his cows.
“Looking for nettles?” he asks, noting my scissors and gloves. Evidently this activity is normal to the average Deadwoodian.
After some poking about, I find clusters of baby nettles growing at the edges of the pasture. At this time of year, early March, the plants are small and purple-green — the color is reminiscent of a reptile. I snip, grasp the felled plant with my scissors and transport it to the colander without contact. Even though I’m wearing gloves, my childish fear lingers and I can’t bring myself to touch the leaves; with these gingerly methods it takes me five or 10 minutes to fill the colander. I don’t mind. It’s beautiful and still at this hour of evening, as the sky fades pink above the saw-toothed hills.
Felisa Rogers studied history and nonfiction writing at the Evergreen State College and went on to teach writing to kids for five years. She lives in Oregon’s coast range, where she works as a freelance writer and editor. More Felisa Rogers.






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