Every year sorrel grows here as if it's been planted — but no.
Better than that, all over our lawn and fields. It grows, to be precise, with the vigour and health of a weed.
And every year that Rosie was alive, we'd spend time every day picking these burrs out of her coat. How I miss those times!
When A____, a girl of 12 and her sister L_____, 7, first came here on holiday, they wanted only to stay indoors, but that didn't last long for without a TV, their smothered curiosity that I hated to think was just barren fields – now topped with a fertiliser of boredom, grew a rampant crop of adventuresomeness.
Soon they were exploring the creek, collecting stones and bones and unidentifiable things they treasured. And when A____ saw me picking and eating that strange weed, she tried some too. Her face made me laugh, and then she decided she loved it.
They began to beg their parents to come here every year, and one year A_____ brought her first boyfriend along, too. The first thing she did after unpacking was to look for sorrel to pick for him.
I like to eat sorrel leaves under the sun, fresh-plucked, but there is so much more you can do with this green that anyone who loves sour will find irresistible.
Schav is one of the great soups and childhood memories, told about beautifully by Food Maven Arthur Schwartz in Cold Schav.