Eating the weeds - in response to Reverie - blaugust the eighth

09 Aug, 2025

Preparing dandelion greens

In response to Reverie: Weeds in the garden

Preparing dandelion greens begins before you enter the kitchen, just as preparing art begins before you put pen to paper or brush to canvas. Dandelion, being prolific and therefore plentiful, gives us the luxury of choice. We can be selective in our foraging—not because the rest is bad, but because timing and context change what we can make from them.

Even if I have the spark of an idea, a lot of the time I need to let it sit and percolate. That natural lull in my writing process is just enough of a crack for my flinch to creep in and start sprouting little mean-spirited weeds all over my creativity garden, and I'm really not much of a gardener in the first place.

Some ideas—like young greens—are best picked early, before the spines harden or the bitterness deepens. Others you let mature so they scatter seeds, drifting into tomorrow’s work. And if one dandelion gets away from you? It’s fine. They beget more. The trick isn’t to bulldoze the field—it’s to keep showing up, hands ready, so when the right greens appear you can take them home.

I'm desperately curious to know what other people do if and when this feeling appears. Bulldoze through it? Wind around it? Sink beneath it? How do you get out?

For me, it’s less bulldozing and more foraging. Doing the work regularly means that when a truly remarkable specimen appears, I’m ready for it. And with something as prolific as dandelions, the more you’re out there, the more you find.

Cooking the greens

If we’re sharing a dish, the preparation matters. Cut the greens into fork-sized pieces. Blanch them in salted water—heat and seasoning bringing out their vibrancy and tenderizing their edges. Just like editing, this tempers the bitterness without erasing it.

There are fears I have to overcome in order to have these things, much like Shrimp said, and there is more than one skill to build on within those fears. I have to make myself tough, hardy, and difficult to pierce, for there are weeds with sticking thorns to carefully pluck out.

From here, you can keep it simple—blanched greens over rice with a fried egg, satisfying and enough. Or you can take them further: sauté in bacon fat for smokiness, let them wilt, then add stock for richness. That’s the revision stage—building depth, adding nuance—especially if you’re plating for someone else.

But here’s the line I don’t cross: I won’t strip away the character that makes dandelion greens themselves. Their bitterness, texture, and wildness are the point. Same with art—I shape it, refine it, but it’s still mine.

Table views

I must learn to keep a warm, discerning eye, for there are dandelions that I should let thrive.
You tend to these things a little at a time, I suppose — learn what to keep and what to let go of: chickweed or yarrow; clover or crabgrass.

This is the real work: knowing which to pick, which to nurture, and which to let grow. Not changing your nature, but making sure the dishes you create feed you first. Some of the best advice I’ve ever been given is this: everything you make should be something you enjoy, otherwise it’s hollow. Artists—whether we’re cooking, painting, or writing—have good taste. If you follow that taste, if you season and plate for yourself first, an audience will find you.

Weeds are what you call them when you don’t know what to do with them. Call them greens, treat them with care, and they become a meal worth savoring.

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#blaugust #cooking #foraging