My apologies to anyone who arrives here by searching for weed and BC or Vancouver.
This is not about that kind of weed.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way…
This was going to be my Sunday Edition video yesterday, but then I never got a chance to record it. Then I was going to record it tonight. Then I got into my pajamas.
At 2030. But that’s besides the point.
I’m not going to record a Sunday Edition on a Monday in my pajamas after house cleaning tidying. You get to read my confession in words instead.
I bought chickweed on Saturday.
As in, I went to the Farmers’ Market and purchased chickweed. Right next to the sorrel and mixed greens.
I mostly bought it because Mr.Q is horrified that I, in my youth in the Small Town, ate things from the sides of the walking trails and in the woods all the time: rosehips, wild strawberries, chickweed, wild raspberries, crab apples, saskatoon berries. He can’t fathom how this did not kill me. So, when I can buy rosehips or chickweed as a real food, I do. And then I make him eat it.
And then I feel beyond stupid for spending my hard-earned pennies on chickweed. That is a weed. That grows everywhere. All the time.
So, I went looking for it at the plant store. Because, as an edible weed, the plant store should carry it and I’d really rather buy it at the plant store where I can be a little more assured that half of the neighbourhood dogs haven’t peed on it. And, despite the fact that the plant guy informed me that I was the second person that day to ask for it, the only chickweed he had was out front in the display gardens.
As a weed.
I took it.
Now, among my planters of spinach, peas, borage, lemon balm and rosemary lives a little pot of weeds.
And, if it gets loose and runs amok in the complex’s gardens, the neighbours will probably be crankier than if was the other weed…