I Cooked 16 Flowers in One Spring. One Numbed My Tongue.

Eating Flowers

The first time someone told me daylilies could be eaten, I put my chopsticks down. The plate was already on the table: green-yellow buds, thin and straight, mixed with pork slices. I asked, “This is a flower?” Nobody answered. My aunt took a piece and put it in my bowl. I ate it. It tasted like a mushroom that had learned to be tender. I ate three bowls of rice.

That was the beginning. Not a philosophy. Just a plate.

Chive Flowers

At hot pot restaurants, chive flowers are a gray-green paste in a glass jar. People either dig in or push the jar away. There is no middle. In spring, at the market, the buds are tight and green. I bought a bunch. The seller tied them with a strip of dried grass.

At home, I cut them into segments. Eggs, salt, oil. I scrambled the eggs first and set them aside. Then garlic, chive flowers, high heat, one minute. Back in the eggs. Out of the pan. Yellow and green. Steam. I burned my tongue. The stem was crisp. The flower was sweet. I left the garlic on the spatula. I did not wash it.

The next week I bought more. I did not tell anyone.

Daylily

Fresh daylily contains colchicine. Soak. Blanch. Pour the water out. Do not drink it. Dried daylily is safer. In winter, soak a handful. Stir-fry with pork. Or put it in soup. It drinks the broth and becomes better than the meat. In northern China, tofu pudding gravy has a few pieces. You chew. It is soft and firm.

I made a soup with dried daylily, egg, and a little sesame oil. My mother watched me. She said, “You are using too much water.” I added less water the next time. She did not say anything. She ate two bowls.

Paper Mulberry Flower Spikes

In Henan, Shandong, Shanxi, Shaanxi, people steam them. They look like green caterpillars. Only the male flower spikes. Salt water. Blanch. Steam with flour. Garlic, sesame oil, vinegar.

My neighbor asked what I was doing under the tree.

“Picking flowers.”

“Can you eat that?”

“Yes.”

He watched. I filled a bag. At home, I steamed them. The kitchen smelled like wet leaves. I ate them standing at the counter. The vinegar was sharp. The garlic stayed on my fingers.

Pumpkin Flowers

Golden. Male flowers. Remove the stamen. Remove the stem’s outer skin. Stuff with pork. Steam. Or dip in batter and fry. The petals are thin. The filling is hot. You bite. Juice runs down your chin. Wipe it with the back of your hand.

I fried a batch. The oil spat. A drop hit my wrist. I ran cold water over it. Then I ate six. The plate was empty before the rice was ready.

Lotus

Petals. Batter. Oil. Fry. They curl. They are crisp. The flower smell stays in the oil. Or cook rice porridge. When the porridge is almost done, throw in petals. Stir. The porridge turns faintly pink. Or dry them for tea. Or candy them. The whole plant is food. Leaves, seeds, root, stem. The flower is the part that looks at you.

I fried lotus petals once. They looked like pale shrimp. I ate them with salt. My friend said they tasted like nothing. I said, “That is the point.” She ate another one.

Chrysanthemum

Qu Yuan wrote about eating chrysanthemum petals in the evening. I read that and wanted to try. Not all chrysanthemums. Hangzhou white, tribute chrysanthemum, edible small chrysanthemum. I had them once at a hotel buffet. I thought they were egg strips. They were petals. Cool, soft, a little bitter, then sweet.

I put them in porridge. I stir-fried them with eggs. I put them in hot pot. They cut the grease. I did not eat the ones in the lobby. Those were for looking.

Magnolia

Magnolia petals are thick. They smell clean. I dipped them in batter and fried them. They came out like small, pale spoons. The outside was crisp. The inside was soft. I ate them with tea. The tea was cheap. The magnolia was not.

The Failure

Taro flower. Yunnan. The flower has a numbing poison if you do not clean it. Remove the stamen. Remove the skin. The stem is the good part. I did not clean it well. I took a bite. My tongue went numb. I drank cold water. I drank more. The table was quiet. My friend said, “I told you.” I did not answer. I ate plain rice for the rest of the meal.

That night I looked up the steps again. Remove the stamen. Remove the skin. Blanch. Soak. Change the water. I wrote it on a piece of paper and put it on the fridge. The paper is still there.

White Rhododendron

Only the white one. In parts of Yunnan, Guizhou, and Sichuan, people eat it. Remove the petals. Remove the stamens and calyx. Blanch. Soak in water half a day to a day. Change the water. Then stir-fry with cured meat. Or eggs. Or soup.

Red rhododendron. Yellow rhododendron. Poison. Do not touch. Oleander. Poison. Datura. Poison. Poinsettia. Poison. Calla lily. Poison. Narcissus. Poison. Do not pick flowers from parks. Do not pick from flower shops. They have pesticides. This is the first rule. Not the last. The first.

Pomegranate Flowers

Crisp. Bitter. Remove the stamens. Blanch. Soak one or two days. Change the water. Stir-fry with chives and cured meat. The bitterness goes. The crunch stays.

I made this in June. The kitchen was hot. The cured meat was salty. The pomegranate flowers were pale. I ate them with rice. I drank cold barley tea.

Sea Cabbage Flower

It grows in clean plateau lakes. Slip. Crisp. Sweet after. Soup with taro. Taro soft. Flower crisp. Broth clear. Do not pick wild ones. Buy farmed.

I had it in a small restaurant in Yunnan. The bowl was white. The soup was clear. The flower floated like green glass. I asked for another bowl. The owner said, “You know this flower?” I said, “I am learning.” She smiled and brought more.

Banana Flower

The pale yellow heart. Slice. Salt water. Blanch. Stir-fry with pork. Cool. Cuts the heat.

I made it once in summer. The banana flower was huge. I cut it open on the floor because it did not fit on the cutting board. My hands turned brown. I washed them with lemon. The stain stayed for two days.

Walnut Flower

The male catkins. Blanch. Soak twelve hours. Stir-fry with cured meat. The flower drinks the fat. It is chewy. It is spring on a tree.

I have not cooked this one. I have only eaten it at a friend’s house. Her mother made it. She did not give me the recipe. She said, “You have to pick them at the right time.” I asked when. She said, “When they are still tight.” I wrote that down.

The Empty Season

Then the flowers go. The market has no more. The fridge has a bag of frozen locust flowers. They were white. Now they are yellow. I open the door. I see them. I close the door. I do not cook them. The pot is dry. The stove is clean. I eat cabbage.

I walk past the paper mulberry tree. The spikes are gone. The leaves are wide. A dog barks at me. I keep walking.

Second Spring

I mark the date. I set an alarm. Six in the morning. I stand under the paper mulberry tree. The green spikes are there. I reach up. The branches are wet. My hands get sticky. A neighbor walks by.

“What are you doing?”

“Picking flowers.”

“Can you eat that?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. I fill the bag. At home, I steam them with flour. Garlic, sesame oil, vinegar. I eat standing up. The pot is still on the stove. I have not washed it.