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Fireweed honey. Photo by Naomi Klouda/Homer Tribune
By Naomi Klouda
Homer Tribune
Our Indian calendar tells us that summer is gone when the last fireweed
cottons out and blows away in the winds. Last week was the final chance to take the plant's blooms for honey or jelly. Still, I have a tendency to wait until the last minute, hesitant to make an admission
about autumn that I'd rather not.
Fireweed matches the rhythm of the seasons. In early spring, I gather a cup full of the shoots for a salad. Fireweed shoots are loaded with more iron than spinach. And – paired with cucumbers, olive oil and vinegar – can be blended into a dressing to top off a wonderfully fresh salad with all the hope of a long summer ahead.
Usually I eat the shoots straight from the ground on hikes through the woods, having learned the habit from my mother who was forever feeding us weeds as I grew up. As a child, I thought nothing of it, then grew self-conscious as I grew older: did other kids have to eat weeds?
I traveled out of that doubtful stage and began joining my mom on her Palmer farm, picking berries, leaves and plenty of weeds with my own children. She knows the remedies and vitamin content of many natural things; Raspberry leaves can be dried and boiled in tea; Fireweed leaves — gathered before blooming — make a relaxing, calming drink; Spruce tree buds that later become pine cones are packed with nutrition. Even dandelion leaves pack their own punch.
I tend to think I should be writing all these things down. My mom is always reading or experimenting with the growing things around her. I don't always keep up. Now my children, two of them grown and one still coming up, repeat the process of hanging around a weed-picking mother.
I don't know if they think it odd like I did at a certain age, but at least my son is willing to go with me to pluck fireweed blossoms at Karen Hornaday Park. We found a discreet spot and went for a basket full of blooms needed to make fireweed honey.
I call it honey because it is more liquid than jelly. To get the essence of the blooms, you pack a basket or sack full of the blossoms, put them in a kettle and add an inch or so of water in the bottom to boil the flowers briefly. Strain to capture the juice — a rich ruby-lavender concoction of natural color. The petals are white at the end of the process.
The juice is then used in canning recipes, for jelly or honey. Thicker consistencies call for longer boiling times, and need constant stirring to make the substance thick. For honey, I let it boil just over a minute.
When the jars are all sealed up, take one and hold it to the light. The honey's rich, ruby hue lets the light through like stained glass, and in the dark, cold winter, it's nice to think of the hundreds of blossom petals in your tea or on a slice of bread.
Fireweed, to me, is summer's most captivating flower. You can see it grow in various parts of Alaska from dwarf tundra size to over-your-head Homer size. Along the Yukon River near Holy Cross, fireweed gives lacy color to ancient gravesites. By the Arctic Ocean, its leaves feel almost plastic to hold firm against winds in a tiny toehold.
Native Alaskans have used the fireweed root for topical medicine, drying the roots and then grinding them up. Add Vaseline or some lotion product and rub it on an area that hurts, such as a bruise or a stomachache.
I've met Yup'ik and Athabascan women who said they used the blossoms as dye, weaving in lavender bands of grass for baskets and dance fans.
After I made my honey last night, I called my mother to tell her how it turned out. She sounded pleased that I'm still making use of fireweed. All these years later — now at the age of 82 — my mother is still doing her thing with weeds. She told me about her project with the raspberry leaves, drying them for tea we can drink through the winter.
Wistfully, she told me of the fireweed on her farm being almost too far-gone to make jelly. I told her I'd share mine with her.
Of all the things I might have done to make my mother proud, it's this
business with weeds that seems to bond me to her. I wonder if my
daughter, now grown, will one day go back to the habits of appreciating
these humble plants that decorate our summer days and add to a healthy life. I wonder if, one day, she too will eat weeds again.
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