Alfalfa Anyone?

Eat Like an Explorer: Alfalfa, Dandelions, and a $26 Durian

On the joy of trying new foods, the humble plants I’m most grateful for, and what my grandmother taught me.

Sometimes I imagine walking into an ordinary grocery store and asking, “Where do you keep your alfalfa?” I suspect the clerk would point me toward the pet aisle, or send me off to a feed store meant for livestock. Alfalfa is one of the most mineral-rich plants on earth. I’m genuinely grateful I can find it at a health food store or order it online, and it’s near the top of the list of things I’d love to grow in my own yard someday. Right next to the dandelions.

I love expanding what I think of as my “food vocabulary.” I get a quiet thrill setting turnips, kohlrabi, rutabaga, kale, or jicama on the checkout belt and watching the clerk hunt for the little sticker, or squint and ask, “Now what is this one?” I don’t blame them one bit. There was a time I couldn’t have told you a turnip from a rutabaga, or kale from chard, either. With so much of our food narrowed down to the same familiar handful, it’s easy to forget how much variety is out there. So whenever I get the chance, I try something new.

Sometimes it goes wonderfully. Sometimes it’s a durian.

We were in Australia when I spotted something at the market that looked like a big, deformed, spiky coconut. I had no idea what it was, and I didn’t stop to convert kilos to pounds before I bought it, which, in hindsight, was a mistake. We carried it home, gathered the family around like it was Christmas morning, cut it open, and all took a giant step back. Inside was something that smelled like a cross between rotten onions and rotten eggs. I honestly couldn’t tell you whether to call it a fruit or a vegetable.

A few days later I described it to an Australian friend, who lit right up. “Oh, a durian! Those are really, really expensive. They’re a delicacy.” I went back and checked my receipt. It had cost me around twenty-six US dollars. Twenty-six dollars for something that tasted like onion-flavored eggs. My dear husband, who cannot bear to waste a single thing, ate the whole fruit by himself. I wanted to be a good sport and help him, truly, but I could not make myself do it. Lesson learned: look up a recipe before you buy the mystery fruit, not after.

I’ve since learned that the durian is famous all across Southeast Asia. It’s a football-sized, spiky fruit with a smell so strong it’s banned from some hotels and trains, and yet it’s beloved enough to be crowned the “king of fruits.” People fold its rich, custardy flesh into cakes, ice cream, and all sorts of desserts. So clearly I was doing it wrong. Next time, I’ll do my homework and try it the way it’s meant to be eaten. It’s a bit like an onion, really. Bite into a raw one and you’ll wonder why anyone bothers, but cook it into a dish and it turns into something lovely.

My grandmother’s green drink

My grandmother would have understood my adventures. Every morning she made herself a thick green drink. She didn’t own a juicer back then, so she used her blender, and I still remember her sending me out into the yard to pick dandelions for it. She had a patch of alfalfa nearby, too. She was decades ahead of the green-smoothie trend, and she simply called it breakfast.

I used to be nervous about herbs. I assumed they were unsafe, and that I had no business taking anything a doctor hadn’t handed me. I’ve come a long way since then, and I’ve fallen in love with plants in their whole-food form, the leaves and roots and flowers that have nourished people for centuries. A reminder that “natural” doesn’t automatically mean “harmless.” Some herbs interact with medications or aren’t right during pregnancy, so it’s still wise to check with someone knowledgeable, especially if you take anything. But eaten as food, close to how they grow, humble plants like these are some of the most nourishing things you can put on a table.

Take dandelion. Its name comes from the French dents de lion, “teeth of the lion,” for its jagged leaves. The whole plant is edible, flowers to roots, and it’s one of the more nutrient-dense greens you’ll find, long used to support digestion. Or alfalfa, which the Arabs called “the father of herbs.” Its roots reach twenty feet down or more, drawing up minerals from deep in the soil that never reach shallower plants. No wonder my grandmother put them both in her glass. If you’d like to keep herbs like these in your own pantry, buy from a source you trust for quality.

A word about my family, and about hope

Let me share something more tender, because it’s part of why food and plants matter so much to me. Depression has run through my family. My father struggled with it. So did my great-grandmother, Nana’s mom, who by every account was absolutely hilarious, the kind of woman whose stories get told over and over because they’re that good. Late in her life, in a very different era of medicine, she underwent a drastic brain surgery a doctor believed would heal her depression. It didn’t. She was never quite herself again, and losing that spark in her broke my grandmother’s heart to watch.

I don’t tell you that to frighten you. I tell you because it’s shaped how gently I want to hold this subject. We live in a kinder time now. If you’re carrying depression, please hear me: it is real, it is serious, and it is not a character flaw or a failure of faith. There is good, compassionate help today, and reaching for it, in whatever form fits you, is an act of courage. For some people that means counseling. For some it means medication that genuinely gives them their life back. For many it also means the quieter, daily things: nourishing food, sunlight, movement, prayer, and people who love them. These aren’t rivals. The best care usually weaves them together.

What I can tell you from my own life is that how I eat changes how I feel, more than I ever would have believed before I lived it. Feeding myself well, with real food and the humble greens I’ve been going on about, is part of how I care for my whole self. I offer it as one good piece of a much bigger picture, held alongside the people who can walk with you, never in place of them. For me, I absolutely have to avoid gluten. 

My prayer is simply this: that if you or someone you love is suffering, you won’t suffer in silence, and you won’t lose hope. That you’ll find real help, real people, and yes, a well-set table, and that little by little, joy and vitality will find their way back to you.

A gentle note. Depression is serious, and this is a personal reflection, not medical advice. If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out, whether to a doctor, a counselor, or someone you trust. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 (the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) any time, day or night, if things ever feel like too much. You don’t have to carry it alone.

Lots of love to you and your family,

— Steffanie