Over the years, I've cooked cattail flowers (Typha spp.) every which way. I've even made cattail flower ice cream. This season, one recipe stood out as my favorite, and I made it nearly every other day for as long as the crop would allow, cattail flower breakfast tacos.

Wild Food Girl jokes that whenever we ponder digging up burdock (Arctium spp.) roots, I hand the shovel to her. This is because I find digging burdock roots from our hard clay soil to be an unpleasant, if not nearly impossible task. Worse, the burdock roots harvested from here are not long and fat. They are gnarled and spindly. For the most part, I've given up burdock roots as a food not worth the effort. I realize I probably get bad forager points for saying that out loud.
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I got inspired to make crème de violette by a friend who aspires to try one classic cocktail per week. While sitting on the bank of a ditch after foraging together, she told me about the Aviation, a cocktail that combines gin, maraschino liqueur, and lemon with crème de violette. At once, I knew that crème de violette would be my big violet recipe for season, and went home and started infusing violet petals in vodka.
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Even though knotweed is a List A invasive species, and clearly has a presence in Colorado, I'd not worked with it before last year. You know how it goes with plants, you read about a particular plant all the time, but it isn't until you see it with your own eyes and learn to recognize its pattern that you start seeing it everywhere.
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As a forager, I never look at food magazines or cookbooks for what they are. Instead, I see how the recipes contained in those publications can be transformed with my favorite wild foods. I don't see straightforward dishes. Rather, I envision ways to tweak almost every recipe so that it can use my beloved local wild foods. For the purpose of this post, I'll walk you through the process of reading recipes with the eyes of a forager using the April 2015 issue of Bon Appétit magazine and one of my favorite cookbooks, Bar Tartine.
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I seem to have developed a pattern for the foraging off-season. Each winter, partly out of a deep love of cooking, and partly to satisfy the urge to interact with wild foods even when few are growing, there is a theme ingredient that I experiment with over and again. Two years ago, without a doubt, my winter cooking experiments consisted of all things porcini. Last year, I got good mileage from prickly pears. This year has been crowned the year of the acorn.
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Here's what I've learned this year. Acorns aren't just good for making bread and sweets. They stand up well in all manner of savory dishes. I've had particularly good luck using acorns in place of some traditional corn recipes like tamales and arepas. The first time I tried to use acorn meal instead of corn for polenta, I wasn't certain it would work. Sure enough, though, it pulled together after a lot of stirring, just like any good polenta.
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Did someone dare you to eat an acorn when you were a kid? Yeah? Me, too. And I'm sure you spat it out in disgust, as well. It might have been your first strong experience of astringency, the quality in food that makes you pucker and your tongue feel fuzzy with near-electric bitterness. Astringency likely has a lot to do with why acorns have fallen out of favor as a food for humans. That hasn't always been the case. Many cultures have utilized acorns throughout the ages, including some of the first people to inhabit California. Even today, circular depressions can be found in the rocks there, evidence of acorn processing.
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I suppose to some, the essential question would be why? Why would I awaken in the middle of the night to slip into the deep-mountain woods at dawn, just for the sake of finding a food I could buy for far less trouble?
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Purslane (Portulaca oleracea) has been my garden staple this year. Last year, my little garden was filled with a lush carpet of lambsquarter. Because I ate it (pinched it back) every few days, it grew thicker every week, and didn't go to seed until well into September. I'd hoped for more lambsquarter this year, but the rabbits nibbled back all the early starts. That left the door open for purslane to overtake my garden. Who am I to complain? I invite any edible plant that can thrive there without water to set up shop.
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