I’ve always liked the idea of living off the land. And, no, I don’t mean living on a houseboat, though that has its own appeal.
I’m talking about surviving by using what nature provides in one’s immediate surroundings. Mostly this interests me while indoors, comfortably watching television shows like Survivorman and Man Vs. Wild. Note that I said I liked the idea of living off the land, making no commitment to actual execution.
Still, over the years, I’ve made a few attempts at growing my own food, which usually ended up as gifts to squirrel nutrition, as they plucked and ate tomatoes, peppers or whatever the rabbits couldn’t reach. Most of the time, all that was left were a few diseased, pathetic microexamples of home-grown produce that even the squirrels and rabbits rebuffed as not worth the effort.
But now, in 2013, I’ve found a crop that grows right in my own backyard (and probably yours), in quantities enough for everyone, rabbits and squirrels included: dandelions.
I’ve been intrigued by dandelion wine ever since I first saw the words in print, many years ago, as the title of a Ray Bradbury novel. But even as friends took up microbrewing beer and creating their own vintages at winemaking classes, I had no desire to investigate further. This year, though, like many home lawn maintainers, I noticed the grass getting longer, saw a fresh crop of dandelions springing up in the yard, and was inspired … to drink.
The fact that there was no beer in the house may have subconsciously prodded me, but also helping was the reality that I had done exactly nothing to make these dandelions grow. Their appearance was a gift, and their reputation as an unwanted weed never seemed so misapplied. I searched the internet for dandelion wine recipes.
There are many. Lots of them are chi-chi, frou-frou or otherwise uppity, calling for additions of cinnamon, honey, raisins, ginger and pectic enzyme (yum!), among other things. I stuck with the basics—a little yeast, some lemon and orange juice, sugar, water and lots of dandelions. I picked most of the required dandelions in my backyard, to avoid awkward questions from the neighbors.
Separating the yellow petals from the rest of the flower is probably the hardest part of the process, but you get the hang of it pretty quickly. The best suggestion I found recommended attaching balloons to the tops of the bottles of fermenting dandelion brew, creating an airtight seal and a more pleasant kitchen, as the multicolored balloons quickly inflated with the gases emitted by the process. The balloons also help you see when the fermentation process is complete; you release gas every so often (no joke required there), and when the balloons don’t reinflate anymore, you’re done. Balloons, cheap wine, releasing gas—that’s right folks. There was a party going on.
A few weeks later, it was ready. Reactions ranged from “Mmm!” (me) to “EECCHHH!” (my wife), but one thing all the tasters agreed on: it was alcohol. Some passing non-tasters also confirmed that it was alcohol, as evidenced by the potent fumes emanating from a poured glass of the stuff. I quickly marked off a no-open flame perimeter, for safety.
For best results, most sources advise waiting 3 to 6 months before drinking the dandelion wine, but where’s the fun in that? In fact, I’m enjoying some dandelion wine as I write this. (If my sentences seem a little shlurred—I mean, slurred—you’ll know why.)
Lit up by my dandelion wine success (and the dandelion wine itself), I considered other “live off the land” options. That’s where the cicadas came in.
As of this writing, I still haven’t seen any cicadas myself, but I know they’re out there. One of the factoids frequently mentioned in all the hubbub about the reemergence of Brood II is that cicadas are not only edible, but nutritious. There are recipes for cicada stew, cicada tacos, cicadas with butter, in pie, covered with chocolate, and many more.
It was after envisioning cicada stew that I realized I’m just not a “live off the land” type of guy, at least as far as cicadas go. I’ve made my peace with that fact. For now, I’ll just sit here drinking my dandelion wine, and keeping an eye out for cicadas.
You know, like bird-watching or something. Not to eat.
Peter Dabbene lives and writes in Hamilton. His website is peterdabbene.com. His science-fiction graphic novel ARK is available digitally at comixology.com and his book Spamming the Spammers (with Dieter P. Bieny) is available through amazon.com and other online retailers.
