WILD THINGS: The teeth of a lion

Dandelions and insects collaborate to produce lovely windblown snowflake-like seeds in astonishing profusion. ED KANZE PHOTO

By ED KANZE

These days, “invasive” tends to be a dangerous word. Apply it to a plant or animal, and before long, in come the herbicides or the goats or the machetes or the trappers or the sharpshooters. Invasive plants and animals are non-natives that make life miserable or impossible for the wild things that were already here at some specified point in time. As a mixed breed European-American, half German and half English, Irish and Scottish, I try to maintain a philosophical detachment in this matter. I lament the challenges posed for natives by invasives, but as a member of the most notorious invasive species of them all, I am mindful that the pot might want to exercise restraint in calling the kettle black.

There is a particular invasive plant whose presence I’ve always enjoyed. It is the dandelion. Native to Europe and Asia, this humble wildflower with tenacious taproot was named in France for the jagged teeth that run along the edges of its leaves. “Dents de lion” evolved, no surprise given the aversion of English speakers to pronounce French words properly, dandelion.

Most people I know can identify few wild plants. But one plant just about everyone, child or adult nearly the world over, can point to is the dandelion. It’s pretty. It’s edible. Pollinators prize it. Wild foods experts (I am not one of them, so do your homework) say we can make wine out of the flowers and bitter coffee out of the roots, and the leaves can be eaten fresh, if they’re young, and consumed boiled and drained if they’re not.

I have only tried dandelion wine once. During my Middlebury College years, I played summers for the Port Chester, New York American Legion Band. The Bedford Fire Department hired us mostly, but occasionally we ventured off on our own, such as the day late every summer when we played an event called the St. Roch’s Feast. It was held in an old Italian neighborhood in Greenwich, Connecticut, near the state line. The whole thing seemed crazy. The band wandered aimlessly from street to street, playing informally, and the people who lived along the streets invited us into their beautiful backyards and tried to fill us with food and drink. Often, dandelion wine was served. I was grateful yet not interested, but once after kind encouragement I decided to try the stuff. It smelled awful and tasted like what I imagine cleaning fluid would taste like. That’s the only dandelion wine I’ve ever tried.

My experience with dandelion root coffee was similar. I dug up some roots, ground them, and brewed them in a coffee pot. At the time, I loved tea but hated coffee, so it was no surprise that when I tasted the stuff, it appalled. My dad was my guinea pig. I poured him a full cup. He took a sip and made a face. 

I’ve picked and washed the young leaves and found them good in salads. Big leaves tend to be bitter, but I’ve read that the bitterness can be leached away by boiling and draining. When I was growing up in North White Plains, we used to travel a good deal on the Bronx River Parkway. On weekends, you could often see elderly Italian neighbors, some of whom my dad knew from his childhood, sprawled on the grassy areas along both sides of the road, cutting dandelion greens. They’d fill bushel baskets with them. Why not? Free nutritious food (the greens are said to be rich in Vitamin C) are not to be sneezed at.

Practical considerations aside, the best thing about dandelions may well be the beauty of the flowers. Such brilliant yellow! Such quantity! 

Dandelion is a member of a group of flowering plants known as the composites. What looks like one flower is actually a multitude. Each “petal” is a flower in itself. This allows for a kind of one-stop shopping for pollinators. Dandelions and insects collaborate to produce lovely windblown snowflake-like seeds in astonishing profusion.