The hogweed is in its final form, these days. A pale grey skeleton, seed heads clinging on to the spokes that were its flower stems. You’d hardly believe what it was in the summer, a great rearing beast. Those flowers were white, atomic against the lush abundance of July. Still, it has something to offer. We each tug a seed from the flimsy structure nodding by the fence, put it between our teeth. It is warm and bitter; England’s cardamon.
You can get three harvests from hogweed, Sammie tells us. In the spring there are the leaf shoots, good cooked in butter. Later, the flower buds are akin to broccoli. Eat too many of either and you won’t get the seeds, nor more next year. The plants give and the plants take away.