Hi Everyone…a post here for Mike H. again:

A rite of passage occurred for me this weekend. Harry, my oldest brother took me fiddlehead picking. I cannot tell you where, partly because I’m still not clear where we were, but mostly because the location of this forest of fiddleheads must remain a secret. Ten years ago, just before my father moved to Maine, Harry was selected as the keeper of the secret that my father kept to himself for 20 years. I half expected when we met at our mothers house early Saturday morning that I would be blindfolded and stuffed into the trunk of his hybrid. When that didn’t happen, I buckled in shotgun with my extra large dunkin donuts coffee and we set out for the 80 minute drive north to God’s country.

Excitement set in as we parked the car on the side of a country road in the middle of nowhere. I was taken aback when I was handed a pair of (leaky) waders, two empty 5 gallon buckets, bug spray and some napkins that he referred to as emergency wipes. Suddenly I was feeling like I didn’t “deserve” to be there (and wondered if my Blackberry would be safe). We walked 30 minutes in a light rain until we reached a river. Without pausing we kept walking across the knee-high river which, because of heavy rains in CT, had a fairly strong current. Another 15 minutes through the woods we reached a different part of the river which was higher and faster. Invigorating. Once on the other side, we were finally at “DF” (Destination: Fiddlehead). At our feet in this thick, muddy forest were beautiful dark clusters of young fiddlehead ferns poking just two inches from the ground and still covered in their protective peanut-like shell. I was given quick instructions on how to pick them and how not to get lost (always keep the river on your right). Harry pointed me to the left and then, pulling a cigar from his waders, he went to the right. I hit my knees and began filling my buckets with the wild green veggies that my family has been going ape over for as long as I can remember.

It was back breaking hard work, I really needed a beer, and I regretted drinking that huge coffee before heading into the woods. All that aside I can’t remember in recent months being happier. Five hours later (four hours longer than I expected) we were backtracking towards the river. We paused to wash our hands in the river as a lot of the ground I was crawling around on was riddled with poison ivy. A sign of success was that all our buckets were heavy and filled to the brim.

After our long day at DF, I have so many fiddleheads that I will pickle some and others I will use in salads, soup and a savory quiche. But the way my grandmother prepared them comes first…Gram would steam them, toss them in bacon fat (or butter) and serve on top of warm homemade biscuits. On special days they were served at brunch with fried eggs, dandelion greens, grilled fresh brook trout and homemade baked beans. Ahhh.