This is a three-part story that really has nothing to do with the pretty photo above until the very end.
Many years ago, I took my young nephew to see Thomas the Tank Engine, a horrid film made expressly to lull adults to sleep. Which is exactly what I did. Who knows how long I’d nodded off but something startled me awake, and good thing too, as my little nephew had disappeared from his seat next to me. Nothing ruins a nap like a missing child. I ran to the bathroom. No nephew. Lobby? Nope. I dashed back into the theater, and scanned the rows. At the end of one row, I noticed the silhouette of a woman bent over her own lap, like a turtle. As I made my way closer, I could hear her entreating someone, begging them almost: “Honey, don’t. Please don’t. Don’t!”
There was my nephew, flat on his belly at her feet, and this nice lady pleading with him to stop eating the popcorn under her seat. When I claimed him, she informed me — more loudly than necessary — that she’d seen him crawling his way down her aisle, “like an anteater in shorts,” hoovering up sticky jujubes, dust-covered runts, and God knows how much street dirt, before he arrived at her feet.
“I’d suggest getting him checked at the doctor’s,” she warned me with the same withering look I’ve seen from one of my hens.
My sister took the news well, considering. She told me she had experience in this arena. This same boy had once accompanied his grandpa to Menard’s on an errand. Halfway through the shopping list, grandpa felt the need to use the men’s room, so he took his grandson along with. Inside the bathroom, the boy pointed to the urinal and asked his grandpa, “What’s that?” His grandpa explained that it was where men and boys stand up to go number one. “No, that,” said the grandson, pointing to the drain. “That is someone’s used-up chewing gum,” said grandpa. “They should have used the trash can.”
Then, grandpa told his grandson to stand at the sink and wait for grandpa. Grandpa went into a stall, shut the door, saw a man about a dog, and came back to the sink to wash his hands. He noticed his grandson happily working his jaws, and with a pit in his stomach, looked behind him at the base of the urinal, where the piece of chewing gum used to be.
Grandpa was mortified. And worried. So worried that he waited a week to make sure his grandson remained symptom-free of cholera or salmonella before admitting to his daughter-in-law what had happened.
The third part of the story happened last summer. We had possession of the farm for just a few weeks when my darling parents called and said they planned to drive up from Illinois for a quick stop. My mother’s high school friends were visiting and they wanted to see the new place.
“But no cooking,” my mother instructed. “We’re stopping at Leon’s Frozen Custard on our way back.”
They arrived and it was hotter than blazes. Leon’s or not, I knew I needed to serve them something refreshing, but the kitchen was practically bare. So while my husband squired them to the chicken coop, I quickly sliced and salted some Persian cucumbers. Enough for each person to have one and one quarter spear. Measly.
Out the window I noticed Lisa, my favorite smart chicken, jumping for elderberries. I remembered how Scott, the previous owner, raved about the elderberry pancakes his mother used to make.
I snipped a colander full of deep purple berries, rinsed them, arrayed them with the cukes and took them out to the grapevine-covered gazebo. Everyone marveled at their tiny size and luscious color, but wondered if they were truly edible? So I grabbed a cluster, tipped my head back, and used my teeth to scrape the flavorful little jewels into my mouth. My father, a true culinary tourist, didn’t need any more prompting. Soon, his fan club of ladies followed suit. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the gazebo and while no one actually said the words “farm-to-table” or “artisanal”, they were all thinking it.
Half an hour later, as they all climbed gaily into my mother’s car, I imagined the conversation on the drive back: Your daughter is a natural at that farm! A regular Ina Garten in mud boots! My mother would smile, saying smugly, “That apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Shortly thereafter, I needed to go see a man about a dog. Truth be told, I spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, not far from the bathroom. Maybe it was the heat but I definitely experienced some gastric distress. On my fifth jog to the toilet, it finally occurred to me. Elderberries?
Sure enough! Every website reference I found warned that raw elderberries are poisonous, causing nausea, diarrhea, and sometimes vomiting. According to the USDA plant guide, “The fruit of all elderberries should be cooked to degrade the alkaloid compounds before consuming.”
I thought of my mother and her friends. Do I call tonight? I mean, nothing could undo the fact that I’d poisoned four elderly individuals on a hot day. Maybe the chewing-gum-in-the-urinal waiting period was the better approach? I could wait a week. Check the newspapers for the story to come out if I really wanted answers.
Eventually, my concern led to a compromise. I called my mother and breathed a sigh of relief when she answered just as chipper as ever. She thanked me for the visit and reported that Pat and Joan enjoyed the day immensely. I told her I’d heard that Leon’s Custard Stand was having some “quality control” issues.
“Our hotdogs were delicious,” my mother replied.
“No stomachaches?” I asked.
“No… ”
“No bloody stool?”
She laughed. “We’re tough old birds,” she said. “And you’ll turn into one too, with that farm to take care of.”
She’s right. I’ll own the truth right now. We are greenhorn bozos trying to make the transition to tough-as-nails farmers. That’s why this morning, I’m once again eyeing the elderberry shrubs. According to the cookbook I was helpfully gifted this Christmas, you snip the flowers, dip them in pancake batter, and fry them like fritters. Here’s a recipe for you fellow brave souls.
