A talk on Foraging

Foraging invites a different way of seeing the landscape, where sidewalks, hedges, and neglected corners become conversations rather than scenery. Many edible plants thrive unnoticed because they fall outside our inherited idea of “food.” We are taught to shop, not to look, so dandelions become weeds, nettles become nuisances, and acorns become litter. Learning to recognize such plants is less about memorizing lists and more about rebuilding attention. Shape, season, habitat, and smell tell stories, as do the insects that visit and the soils that host them.

Edibility is not a single trait but a relationship, dependent on preparation, quantity, and the individual eater. Traditional knowledge, field guides, and local mentors matter, because confidence without care can be dangerous. Foraging therefore becomes an ethical practice as much as a practical one: take little, leave plenty, and never harvest what you cannot name with certainty.

By noticing edible plants that are not culturally framed as food, foragers loosen the boundary between wild and domestic. The result is not just nourishment, but a renewed intimacy with place, and a quiet resistance to forgetting how landscapes once fed us, in small, patient, observant ways everywhere today.