It’s spring, and
after a long, cold, dreary winter in New Mexico, I’m ready
for it. And even though we’ve had a couple of late snowstorms
and the trees are only just now beginning to get leaves, dandelions
are already growing in the cracks of the rock wall next to my
sidewalk. I call them a welcome sight.
I love dandelions;
I confess that they’re my favorite flowers. I love to see
their golden heads popping up all over the politically incorrect
expanses of Kentucky bluegrass. I love their dark green
tooth-shaped leaves, which are reputed to have a higher vitamin A
content than any other garden vegetable. I love that they have the
audacity to grow anywhere, even in the face of intense hatred and
repeated attempts to poison them.
What do dandelions have
to do to get respect? They are beautiful, delicious, nutritious,
and grow easily everywhere. Maybe that’s their problem:
They’re too easy. Like my other favorites — daisies,
bachelor’s buttons, sunflowers — they don’t require
nurturing. Dandelions volunteer and flourish in the dry desert
heat, making the most of what little water is available. They grow
in parking lots, along the highway, in abandoned vacant lots —
places where other flowers would be ashamed to be seen.
Of course, my love for dandelions has created some problems.
They’ve made me disdain flowers I’m supposed to admire.
I find cut flowers depressing since they are doomed and know it.
All you can possibly do is replace their water, add a little sugar
and an aspirin, and watch them die. But a yard full of dandelions
is a joy to behold at every stage: growing, budding, blossoming,
and then turning into the most ethereal seed heads. When I was a
child I picked them, but they didn’t last very long in a
glass of water. I soon learned that they could only be enjoyed in
their natural setting.
I came home from work one day
years ago to find that a well-meaning neighbor had
“weeded” my yard, digging up or weed-whacking all my
beloved dandelions. I reluctantly thanked the neighbor; after all,
his heart was in the right place even if his weed-whacker
wasn’t. And I was, at the time, new to the community and
didn’t want to appear any more eccentric than absolutely
necessary.
Why are some plants considered
“weeds” and not “native plants that
volunteer?” Why do gardeners seem to love the plants that
have to be coaxed, prodded, and begged into growing and despise the
ones that pop up everywhere with no encouragement at all?
This may be hard to believe, but I once ordered dandelion seeds
from a catalog. They were described as a variety with large leaves
perfect for salads. Ironically, the seeds didn’t grow. Is it
possible that dandelions are just too independent to let someone
else decide when, how, and where they will grow? Perhaps that’s
what I find so admirable about them: They thrive best when free to
choose their own environment.
I would love to make some
dandelion wine, but I’ve never had enough dandelions to
harvest them for that purpose. Nor have I managed to catch them at
the right stage to eat the leaves. I think it’s my reluctance
to harvest them that has prevented me from making salad or wine. I
just can’t bring myself to tear the petals apart and cook
them. How could the pleasure of eating them possibly exceed the
pleasure of seeing them grow in my yard?
Yet every part
of the dandelion plant is edible. The leaves are delicious in
salads or steamed like spinach. The unopened buds can be steamed
and served with butter. The blossoms make delicious, sweet wine.
The roots can be roasted and used as a coffee substitute.
Dandelions are also cultivated for their medicinal properties.
Maybe I can persuade some people to take a new look at
the lowly dandelion. Instead of trying so desperately to eradicate
them, we might rediscover the many medicinal uses that the
herbalists have known about for centuries. And if we viewed them as
a dietary option, we might find a readily available and inexpensive
alternative to some of the vegetables we pay such high prices for
at the supermarket. There are so many dandelions to love — if only
we are willing to succumb to their easy charm.
Jeannie Pomeroy is a contributor to Writers on the Range,
a service of High Country News (hcn.org). She
writes in Raton, New Mexico.
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