Every spring dandelions appear on my lawn of erba selvatica here in Tuscany, just like my childhood yard in Detroit when Ma and Pa became passionate weed hunters before the flowers budded.
They would cut off the tender chicory leaves one-by-one, gather, wash and cook them in garlic and olive oil. I use to want a taste of their enthusiasm for a clump of weeds, but the bitterness of the greens grated my palette like a cat’s tongue. I couldn’t understand their emotions digging up the bristly leaves while our neighbors in America sprayed to kill the invaders on their perfect lawns.
But I understand now that I’m back in their motherland far from our American yard: my folks hungered for the taste of their mother earth as a reminder of Nature’s generosity during those war-torn years in Italy. Wild cicoria put food on the table and gave energy to the heart.
There in their new country dandelions held a reminder of the changes in their lives, from pure war-time survival to their choice of finding and honoring the wild chicory weeds to thank them for their bitter memories.