Oregon Grape

Day 348: First off, we need to get a couple of things straight. Oregon Grape (Mahonia nervosa) is no relation to table/wine grapes. Neither is it related to holly despite what many people will try to tell you, although the leaves are equally prickly. It is edible, but I use the word advisedly, and on that point, I will tell you a story.

Many, many years ago when I was about 10-11 years old, I used to drag my best buddy Marilyn out in the woods on "survival expeditions." I doubt her mother knew what I was putting her daughter through; mine acknowledged my woods-lore, and was probably hoping that I'd be eaten by a bear since I wasn't likely to poison myself. I didn't have the best relationship with my mother. In any event, on one notable occasion, I had planned a weekend outing despite a forbidding weather forecast and was set to prove my (our) ability to survive in the wild, equipped with only a bedroll (blanket), a few meagre provisions, a knife and a book of matches, and I'd convinced Marilyn that we'd have fun regardless of what hand Nature might deal us.

After we got home from school that autumnal Friday, we headed out to camp at the base of an enormous ivy-covered stump my mother and I had dubbed the Liberty Bell, not too far from our barn. When dinnertime came around, it became painfully obvious that we weren't going to be able to open a can of Franco-American spaghetti with my hunting knife, a problem I had not foreseen. Marilyn suggested going back to the house (about 500' away) for a can opener. I informed her succinctly that that would defeat the whole goal of surviving in the wild. It would be cheating, plain and simple. We went to bed early, hungry, rolled tightly in our blankets, uncomfortable despite a thick cushion of ivy for a mattress.

At first light, I roused my companion and told her we were going hunting for foodstuffs, and although she'd endured boiled Skunk Cabbage root on a previous expedition, she expressed some concern about what we might be able to turn up so late in the year. Sure enough, the only edible I could find was Oregon Grape. Now there's a thing or two you should know about Oregon Grape. One, it's mostly seeds. Two, the sparse flesh which surrounds the seeds is strongly acidic and tart. You're not likely to eat more than five or six at a sitting, and I'm betting you won't even go that far.

We'd started a small fire to try to dry out the morning damp which had penetrated our bedrolls and spirits, so the thought occurred that we might render these tiny fruits more palatable if we roasted them. About the size of canned peas, they were not the easiest things to skewer, and the twigs we'd impaled them on burned to cinders before the berries were heated through. Most of our morning was wasted in trying to prepare Mahonia nervosa in some way which would at least allow us to eat enough to stop our tummies from rumbling.

And then to add insult to injury, it started to rain, just like the weather forecast had promised it would.

Even in those days, I was a stubborn little thing, and I had a point to prove. Did we scamper for the warmth and shelter of the house? I would not hear the suggestion! We built a shelter of boughs leakily shingled with ivy and endured another night longing for the contents of that unopened can of overprocessed spaghetti. It rained even harder Saturday night and drowned the remnants of our pitiful little fire. I could not rekindle it on Sunday morning, so we had another breakfast of Oregon Grape directly off the vine. About 2 PM and at Marilyn's urging, I relented. The two of us bundled up our soggy bedrolls and went back to the house. We'd survived, but I can never see Oregon Grape without remembering what torture I put my best friend through in the name of "fun."