I’ve been on a bit of a hiatus, mostly due to a little bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I suspect. The late winter to early spring period can be challenging here in the valley, it’s mostly grey, lots of rain, still fairly chilly. There is some cheer in the flowering trees and the early flowers, the gradual greening of the neighborhoods and fields. But there is a lull, a sort of heaviness that descends as we wait for the sun. When I was young my mother told me that for our ancestors, early spring was “the lean time.” Food stores would be running low, foraged food was yet to fruit, and the animals were producing their young and therefore shouldn’t be hunted/couldn’t be found. Maybe there is a lingering sense of waiting for the good times that still haunts us. It also happens to be when tree pollen is everywhere–everything is reproducing!–drifting in yellow clouds, coating our cars, and causing intense allergies for yours truly.
When we do get breaks from the rain, it’s like everyone is drunk on sunshine. We wander about, faces raised to the sky, smiling foolishly at each other and forgetting to pay attention to things like traffic lights. On one of these sunbreaks, Coyote harvested poplar buds, a late winter-early spring gift. The best time to harvest is March (sometimes late February if it’s a warm year) and the buds should be tightly closed but ooze a (very) sticky orange sap when pinched. They should smell resinous and rich, like propolis (which frequently includes poplar sap). In North America, one of the folk names for this sap is Balm of Gilead. The origins of the true Balm of Gilead are somewhat murky (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balm_of_Gilead) but in folk medicine the term refers to the populus genus, poplars and cottonwoods. Coyote’s paws were sticky and perfumed when she brought me a big bag of the buds–note to foragers: bring disposable gloves! I put them in oil and heated them on low overnight, then strained into a large mason jar. Ideally, you should use about 3 parts oil to 1 part buds. (My proportions were almost the inverse by the time the buds expanded in the oil, so my oil is very potent but my crockpot is ruined, thanks to the intransigent sticky sap I couldn’t get off of the pot.) The deep amber brown oil will later be made into a warming salve with beeswax, arnica, and cinnamon essential oil.
There is something deeply satisfying about making things from foraged finds. It takes time to learn to identify the right plant or tree, to recognize it in different seasons, to know when to harvest. It ties you to the land and to the cycles of growing and dying back in a way that most of us don’t grow up knowing, at least not so intimately. For me, I have learned slowly and often one plant at a time. The benefit is that I know them well, I see them pop out at me from the woods and sidewalk edges, almost like they’re greeting me. It has given me an appreciation of weeds and wild things and I look forward to each season’s friends. With the snowstorm now a memory, the growing and blossoming things are my guideposts and signs of hope amidst the seemingly endless rain.
Poplar bud infused olive oil
Tree and Stone, River and Bone 