Nigel and I started foraging as newly weds on the slopes of Penshaw Hill above the River Wear. We had very little money and the wild blackberries and crabapples were frankly welcome.
And a forager can always tell who their friends are.
Autumns past, we have fried up a bunch of knobbly, unfamiliar toad stools and served them up on toast to a group of… “But wait – where did everybody go? They were here a minute ago.”
At least Spring foraging is less controversial.
Recently, I’ve made a load of wild garlic pesto (not to be eaten the night before a big meeting).
And pictured is my variation on saag aloo, made with three cornered leek.
So thirty years after we began, foraging has become fashionable.
Now, in one fell swoop, we can boost not only our diet, but also our smug middle class credentials.