I am obsessed with the meditations of a dead man. Thoreau’s Walden or Life in the Woods sits on my nightstand, a bookmark stuck between dog-eared pages where those famous lines are highlighted in yellow: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” Thoreau lived (and ate) in a time and place vastly different from my own, yet I regard his words as a direct assault against, of all things, my culinary principles: improvisation, experimentation, simplicity.
You think you’re so high and mighty, Mr. Live Deliberately! I’ll have you know that I make my own yogurt and soymilk, tend vegetable plots, can fruits and veggies, even forage berries that more cosmopolitan minds consider food for birds. I’m a … a … a modern-day cooking maverick!
I cooked under primitive conditions for five years – a hole in the wall, no pantry, maybe 2 square feet of countertop – before my kitchen was remodeled. True, I have yet to live like a real frontier woman or an American Indian who found nourishment in the fields and woods. But how far can I challenge my body and mind in an experiment that pits me against, yet in communion with, Mother Nature? I live in the city, for Pete’s sake! Do you really expect me to go to the woods?
Woods are scary; I’m not sure I’d find enough sustenance there. I make a mental checklist of edible plants and flowers that I’ve learned to identify: chervil, dandelions, watercress, wild brassicas, purslane, pokeweed, prickly lettuce, pigweed. How long can they keep starvation at bay? An hour?
I know where the berries are in Forest Park. I’ve mapped them out, but that might be cheating. Mushrooms – forget it. I know I’d devour a poisonous one and die on the spot. I might be able to find some tubers, pepper root, for instance, and maybe wild carrots, but grains, those hunger-thwarting carbs, are going to be tricky to come by.
Protein, protein, protein. It’s gonna take hours to split open acorns and crush the meat into acorn meal. Then again, I’ll have time on my hands. True, I could hunt legged animals but I can’t bring myself to kill them, really. Anyway, I need those industrious squirrels to lead me to their bounty.
I’m no survival expert, but I think I could manage well enough. I am a planner, so I make a provisions list: a hammer to crack nuts, a Swiss army knife, two glass vials – one filled with vinegar, the other olive oil – along with a child’s plastic marble bag converted to salt pouch (greens should at least taste good), and a fishing license (I’m a law-abiding citizen). I write down “cell phone,” then cross it off. Definitely cheating. If I really have an emergency, I’ll crawl to Barnes Hospital on all fours.
I picture myself armed with weapons of modern life: a pack of full-flavored American Spirits (organic appetite suppressant), bug spray, sunscreen SPF 80, a sturdy Nalgene water bottle. Not quite the image of a 19th-century naturalist, though. Deranged is more likely what a ranger would call a woman clad in camo pants and combat boots, pockets bulging with survival gear, hair tucked inside a bright bandana. Folks thought Thoreau was weird, too. As long as I am outfitted Spartan enough for his satisfaction, I don’t care.
I really can’t stay long, though. I’ve got kids and a husband, and they all refuse to come. Then there’s the house, my job. … Perhaps I’ll go for just one day. Is it possible to “live deep and suck out the marrow of life” in 24 hours? I really don’t like camping.
Maybe the end of this month. Or, better yet, July 4. Not too hot, and there’ll be plenty of wild edibles to pluck. Independence Day in the woods. What better date for this contentious cook to take her countercultural stand than while the masses are eating their Hunter hot dogs, commercially made potato salad and biogenetically modified seedless watermelons? I’ll feel charged with patriotism and contented with righteousness. Maybe I’ll carry a miniature American flag.
I’ll show you, great American prophet. You’re not the only one that can march into those woods and come back alive.
Although St. Louis city girl Ligaya Figueras strives for simplicity, she is hard-pressed to camp without the aid of a Coleman stove, mini espresso maker and quality coffee beans.
This article appears in Jun 1-30, 2009.