Growing Up in the South

Greenwell Springs Author Shares Story

of Springtime Thistles From Childhood

Editor’s Note: Here is the first in a series of essays by author Terri Hoover Dunham about her childhood in Greenwell Springs. Keep reading Neighbors to read more stories from Terri.

Is it Time?

By Terri Hoover Dunham

Each year when the weather teases at turning warm, I ask my mother, “Is it time?”

“Not yet. Almost,” She replies.

If somehow I forget, if I don’t ask, “Is it time,” she’ll give me a call: “Honey, if you wanta get some thistles, we’d better go ahead before they get too tough.”

Thistles, also called spiny thistles, (Carsium horridulum Michx), are found in Louisiana pastures, along roadsides and across idle land from about March until June. They also grow in Mississippi, Texas and Arkansas.

My husband’s grandparents, who were from Ohio, bought a farm after retirement in rural Mississippi. They said they tried to cut down and finally dig up the thistles, saying they were afraid the cows might try to eat them. Ha! I never heard of a cow eating a thistle.

Anyway, one spring we happened to visit Mee-Mee and Paw-Paw in Mississippi at peak thistle time. When my husband and I went out for a walk and I saw so many thistles in the pastures, I made him cut several down with his handy pocketknife.

His grandparents spied me bringing in the cleaned stalks, but they didn’t know these were the same sticker bushes they’d tried so hard to get rid of. I told them what I had, and they were flabbergasted. They laughed, “She’s gonna eat sticker bushes! But I had the last laugh. They tasted my thistle salad and loved it.

Though my husband’s family still calls them sticker bushes, thistles are a seasonal tradition my family anticipates and appreciates as much as colored eggs and chocolate bunnies for Easter, turkey and dressing for Thanksgiving, and eggnog and Santa cookies for Christmas. It is a tradition, a ritual I have passed along to my own children.

Our annual harvest is something we contribute to the fact that we grew up in the country (though this may have come from my Cajun ancestors as well), for if we were not raised in the country, we would not know of this delicious delicacy. We would be eating something strange like lox and bagels or bean sprouts instead.

Every year, when it’s finally well enough into the blooming season, I pick up my mom and head on over to my grandmother’s house. My mother and I move through the field, tall weeds slapping against our black rubber boots as we step carefully, wary of snakes.

My grandmother, Mammy, used to accompany us, carrying the large butcher knife and swinging at the tall grass as she marched on. So this is a bittersweet trip as we miss her presence, though we feel as though she is by our side.

“I can almost taste them,” I call to my mother who has been somewhat left behind in my anticipation. She smiles. Since early childhood, I could never wait for thistle salad. I’d break off a tender end and pop it into my mouth, crunching my way back to the house. With this thought, I remember the delicate flavor, and my mouth begins to water. I hurry my mother to an area where many thistles stand.

“This one looks good. Not too big, should be plenty tender,” Mom says, and I can hear Mammy saying that very thing. Then my mother whacks the plant just above the ground. Holding the stalk by its bottom, she carefully peels away the tough outside all the way to the tip just below the purple buds. Then she slices off the top, the florets and stringy covering falling next to her feet (this was always Mammy’s job). She hands me the cleaned thistle. It’s the same shade of green as celery, but the spine is round and hollow like a pipe.

Mom then stomps over to the next specimen and eyes it. “This one’s too tough.” Turning to move on, she changes her mind. “The top should be okay.” This is something you learn after years of thistle-gathering. She hacks it midway, strips the upper portion and gives it to me.

We go through the field this way, picking and choosing, careful to leave plenty to seed for next year’s harvest. Then we head back to my mother’s house to prepare our goods, though I pause as usual to sample a tender bite. And my eyes well up with tears as I remember all of the times we performed this ritual with Mammy.

Once in Mom’s kitchen, it’s time to make the thistle salad. The stalks are rinsed, checked for any remaining strings and sliced into a large bowl. Then vinegar, salt, and pepper are stirred in. Each of us fix a jelly glass full of ice water and sit at the kitchen table to enjoy the feast, good company and a few memories. As I write this, my mouth waters again. I can hardly wait to ask, “Is it time?”