Harvesting the Nettles in My Life
I went foraging for stinging nettles, yesterday. For a southern Indian and tropical me, I had read about these plants, only - I had never seen them. From words that other authors had used, I could just about vaguely imagine and visualize the itch and the discomfort they caused. But, when I moved to more northern and colder climes, I first came across stinging nettles in Mongolia. My introduction to these plants was gentle and I soon embraced and experimented with their benefits.
A friend was the one who introduced me to them. These nettles grew all over our little central Mongolian town of 20,000 inhabitants. They popped up on sidewalks and empty plots of land, and even covered the mountains that surrounded our town.
However, the locals were into Aloe vera and other such miraculous plants that grew in different climes: they were caught up with other wonders that a so-called modern world — far removed from their own backyard — trumpeted.
As is the case in many countries, the call of benefits that can be gleaned from one’s own outback and backyard are being forgotten.
The friend who introduced me to stinging nettles, was Mongolian. Only, she was from Inner Mongolia. Perhaps, the pressure of Chinese authorities trying to press-in on Inner Mongolians had something to do with her being able to uphold local customs. Our local Outer Mongolian friends were quite surprised about my nettle explorations. They had “forgotten” about these bio-power packs that grew around them and eschewed them for the more expensive imported “wonder” foods and such whimsies. And there I was, experimenting with the wonder plant that was in our backyard (the entire mountain ranges were our backyard!). I added the nettles to soup and even used nettle juice as rennet to make cheese. Yes, I got a few pokes and itched just that bit, but I had learned to handle the nettles.
I forgot all about those stinging nettles when we left Mongolia.
After a brief holiday in India, we returned to Finland. Finding a job became a full-time project. Except this year, the third year after my return to Finland, I had lost all steam to keep knocking on doors. I wrote about that, too.
And in the process of enjoying the now, as I described in my story embedded above, I met a new friend. A lovely Finnish lady. We meet up once or twice a month and hang out together. Last week, she asked if I wanted to go nettle-picking. This is the best season for them, just before they become huge and tall and full of sting!
A flood of memories came rushing back! Yes, of course I wanted to pick stinging nettles. But, I had forgotten how they even looked.
And so began a journey into a memory that had once more an opportunity - to come alive.
A journey into looking out for this and and spotting that. A journey of being able to tell and differentiate between that and this.
We walked to a protected nature reserve that is hardly known amongst most city-dwellers. Close to the Helsinki city-center yet far enough to spare the birds and wild plants the noise, the pollution and human-footfalls.
I learned a lot that evening …..
That I could walk just that bit more even though I was tired.
That I could train my eyes to spot a raspberry bush from a stinging nettle that grew just beside it.
I learned to check and verify if the stinging nettle was what it was without getting stung. Tip: the nettles and fine downy hairs that can cause those pokes and ouches hang out on the underside in plenty.
I learned to live with the few stings, they were not so many. I also learned that I need not fester an itch by itching it.
We snipped and collected. We handled with care. We let some be and we gathered the others.
I returned home with my collection of nettles. I washed and drained them: two colanders of snipped stinging nettle and one or two little pokes that asked for attention, the latter, ones that I could well ignore after a nice hot steaming shower.
Dear Husband was resting. But I bristled at the mess around the house. I stung out with words about X not having cleaned up and Y doing scat. But out of the edge of an itch that beckoned on my dear little finger, I caught myself. Ouch!
Surely, there are some small wee little nettles and barbs in life that I can live with?
And as I looked around at the many “nettles” that I thought I was surrounded by, I had to “harvest and deal with them”…..small ones, the could-be-larger ones ….Simple ones like: my hair going many shades of grey, others that poked and taunted and said “you are no good because….”
Quite suddenly, I realized - I nettle too.
Quite often.
From just a small stinging-nettle, I could grow to be quite porcupine-like.
And then, I asked myself some questions. Some deep and serious ones.
……About living with nettles and wondering how I could possibly be prickly about things that I should possibly be less prickly about.
And so thought….for example……Well, so what if the house is filled with Mr.Bookworm’s books? Mr. Husband is my walking encylopaedia about history and suchlike. Such a status could not have been achieved if he didn’t have his head in the nettles that fill up every nook and cranny of our house…..oops! Recorrected…. books. Yes, yes, I can live with them….and choose to live gladly with him.
Maybe I should ask Mr. Husband to let me know when I am being Mrs. Nettle.
But, before that, first, let me make those yummy, nutritious nettle pancakes.
And while I’m busy living, I’ll try not to be a thorn in anyone’s flesh.
