"Go on," she said, plucking a single leaf and holding it to my lips. "It won't bite."
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. tasting mothers bush
"That's sorrel," my mother said. "Wood sorrel. The Indians ate it. Soldiers chewed it for scurvy." "Go on," she said, plucking a single leaf