THE SANSAI WINDOW

And thus was quelled the Spartacan rebellion of chickweed and cleavers, my army of one finally mowing them down like weeds, leaving here and there patches of worthy mitsuba to thrive, and the butter-yellow dandelions, of course, 'cause their seedpuffs bring dreams to grandchildren.

The Spartacan comparison isn't really appropriate though, since these are not Roman slaves, they are vegetable competitors, and have plenty of land of their own around here, indeed the whole mountain. They practically run the place this time of year. Just their field across the road dwarfs my small property. Why they want my place too, is what I want to know. You have to put your border down somewhere.

To eradicate cleavers with a weed whacker is to now and then get a face full of wet green mush, but I used the whacker to get the job done because I wanted to go looking for some sansai later in the day, the sansai window being a very narrow one, all wild goodies being wise to our hungry ways, especially the thornily reclusive, yet noble, taranome (aralia elata). To say nothing of the many wily and early rising sansai hunters. You have to act fast and strike while the bud is hot.

In our upper forest wanderings we also came upon a mother lode of koshiabura (of the ginseng family) and got bagsful of the opening buds, which Echo later chopped and lightly boiled some of, then added sesame paste and soy sauce to make a wonderful addition to any meal one might be eating that came straight from heaven.

Of course I was most thankful to the taranome and the koshiabura for these gifts of nature they gave us, though I took pains to point out that I can't really say the same of the punky cleavers and chickweed. They nodded in complete agreement, but it might have been the wind.

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PUNK GARDEN

This time of year the garden looks like a punk with green hair, insouciant, casual, certainly uncultivated. Clumps of cleavers stick up everywhere like they could care less how they look, no respect for decorum. In the early morning after a dewy night the whole thing looks like it's ready to revolt and revert to uncultivated.

I don't have a Japanese garden, needless to say; such things would never be tolerated in a staid and pristine Japanese garden. I have the opposite: a weedy, somewhat productive and nearly purely utilitarian 'garden' with a vegetable patch, several stacks of firewood and some shiitake logs, but just let me not do much for a few days around this time in Spring and WHAM! The chickweed and cleavers (opinions differ) take over the place and start giving orders to the perennial residents-- festooning the rosemary, draping from the gardenia, making the early flowers and herbs bow to their green whims and flattening the chives, though the lemon balm hangs in there.

The cleavers, which gives the garden its punk attitude, is especially prolific before the trees leaf, when it grows like a weed in a real hurry. I'll bet in a proportional race it could beat kuzu, which they say can cover a sleeping drunk. Chickweed, on the other hand, is said to be the most common weed in the world, though here it's less common than cleavers, commonness being the essence of weedness.

Fortunately though, both weeds are tasty greens (sauteed chickweed!) and have medicinal and other herbal/cosmetic uses (cleavers hair rinse!), so that takes care of a modest portion of the natural largesse - we are but a small household until the hordes arrive – but the sight of all that cleavers can be pretty intimidating in the bright morning. Weeding cleavers is like plucking at sticky green ghosts. Messy too, cause the stretchy-strandy plants don't let you toss them easily into a pile, they cleave to you in a very delicate but ultimately irritating way, like a guest you can't quite get to leave: "Well alright -- if you really --insist -- I'll go on the pile --are you sure?" You pull a few thousand of those, you can call it a morning. And there are hordes of legions out there, awaiting my next move.

These mornings of mental preparation I gaze over the punky green field of contention, planning my campaign as the countdown begins. G-day is mere days away now. They better have enough seeds in the ground by then.