“People are often characterized as being part of a community,” Jared writes. “What sometimes goes unremarked is that community arises from interdependency, sometimes dire, inextricable, even unpleasant interdependency.”

As he mentions in the text, we only consider ourselves as being part of the human community. Plants, insects, wildlife, we classify as a separate biological community. Why don’t we consider ourselves part of the same biological community? Why do we disconnect ourselves in our language from nature?

We do have a relationship to the greater natural community. This isn’t some metaphysical or spiritual concept, but one backed by science. That being said, there’s nothing wrong with attributing a greater meaning to our relationship with nature. I am not a fan of dismissing an individual’s personal connections or beliefs on the basis that we cannot quantify it with our current scientific understanding. This continues to underpin much of the racist thought which views Indigenous peoples (those who generally have a much more intimate relationship to nature than western civilization) as primitive, and therefore somehow less intelligent—completely ignoring the fact that logic (IQ) is only one of nine different intelligences, and such individuals score fairly low on the intrapersonal intelligence scale.

I would certainly count myself among those who find meaningful connections with the flora and fauna that surrounds me. I have cried over damaged trees. There are certain birds that seem not only at ease, but curious about my outdoor activities. I’ve heard many stories where the birds even come to expect certain things from certain people whose habitats overlap.

This week, however, I started focusing on a different sort of connection—one which explores which of the plants that I cultivate can, in turn, nurture myself and my family. I have a number of books on the topic of eating our native plants, and I’ve certainly sampled quite a few, but I’m always looking to add more.

I finally took the leap after thoroughly studying Alan Bergo’s post on harvesting milkweed to try immature milkweed pods. I also recently purchased his book, The Forager Chef’s Book of Flora (affiliate), since I’d realized that knowing something is edible doesn’t always equate to knowing how to eat it.

My family thoroughly enjoyed the young milkweed seed pods, which I’d blanched then sliced into medallions and sauteed along with black forest bacon and caramelized onions into a delicious risotto. We were less a fan of the slightly older milkweed silk, which didn’t look very appetizing and were a bit tough to chew. I may have overcooked them, however.

What prompted this sudden desire to step away from our usual weekly rotation of meals was the fact that the common milkweed (which is the only milkweed native here that one can eat), absolutely insists on growing in my food forest. I have now attempted to relocate them to garden beds on more than one occasion. Each time I have, more pop up in the food forest—a concept borrowed from permaculture in which you grow an edible plant community rather than conventional vegetable gardening. They are absolutely thriving there, too. Since anything that grows there is either a weed or meant to be eaten, I’d decided I’d try eating it.

After all, what’s better than a perennial vegetable that is not only delicious, but also effortless and provides benefit to other creatures within our habitat?

The monarchs know what’s good…