Wild Things

This has nothing to do with Maurice Sendak or misbehaving.  This is about all the stuff that we ate while walking to and from Ivanhoe Elementary School. Not the stuff we bought at Mike’s little store, but the stuff we culled from the neighborhood.

First, there was the lemon tree.  I now know that it was a Meyer lemon.  We would pick a fruit, peel it and sprinkle the remains of the small Morton’s salt container on it.  Our teeth would lose whatever they lose when you eat pure acid, and our salivary glands would kick into high gear.  The lemons weren’t like the ones my mother bought at Hub Mart. They had a distinctive flavor that was not as sour.

Then there was the wild weed—usually growing in an empty lot that today would be worth at least half a million dollars—that we called the licorice plant.  We’d shake the head and dislodge the seeds and chew them. I now know that it was wild anise.  The last time I tasted it in seed form was at an Indian place that gave a seed mixture as an after dinner palate cleanser.

We also ate the stems of the little purple flowers that grew all over.  They were sour and tart and it is no surprise that my generation grew up with a candy called SWEET TARTS.  Wild sorrel.  I think this may have been a subversive move on the part of dentists who would later advise products to strengthen one’s enamel.

There was also the pomegranate tree that we eyed enviously but waited until Halloween night when it’s owner would bestow us with a fruit or two in lieu of candy.

And lastly, was the magical little drinking fountain on Panorama Drive.  Why it was there, I have no idea.  But I always loved drinking the cold water and wondering about who put it there.