Bush: Tasting Mothers

The girl declined. But I understood. Not everyone gets to taste a mother's bush. Not everyone has a mother who shows them that the wild, overlooked things are often the most worth savoring.

I swallowed and smiled. The bush tasted like her. It always had. If you meant something else by the phrase, please clarify, and I’ll be glad to adjust the response accordingly. tasting mothers bush

I learned to read those stories. A dry spring made the leaves sharper, almost angry. A wet summer made them mild and a little muddy. After a long rain, the bush seemed to weep its flavor away. After a heatwave, it became concentrated, fierce—a tiny green rebellion against the sun. The girl declined

I laughed. "It's my mother's bush. I've been tasting it since I was a kid." Not everyone has a mother who shows them

"That's sorrel," my mother said. "Wood sorrel. The Indians ate it. Soldiers chewed it for scurvy."

The flavor arrived in two waves. First, a sharp, lemony brightness—like the moment before a sneeze. Then, a quiet bitterness that spread across my tongue and settled in the back of my throat. It was not sweet. It was not sour. It was the taste of something that had survived frost and drought and my father’s shears. It was the taste of stubborn life.

I put it on my tongue.