When my yard man showed up this morning, he was eager to tackle the dandelions sprouting all over my lawn. He saw them as pesky weeds, ready to be uprooted and discarded.
"Morning! I’ll start by getting rid of these dandelions," he said.
"Actually, leave them," I replied, smiling. "I enjoy them, and besides, they’re good for the bees." I remembered an old saying, "A weed is any plant you don't want growing there." As for me, dandelions, those humble lawn invaders, have always held a special place in my heart.
As long as I can remember, Dad had a peculiar affection for dandelions. When married with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and seasoned with salt and pepper, each crunchy leaf transformed into his cherished salad, a dish my mother reserved for the rarest of celebrations.
It was all I could do not to heave whenever this was served at dinner. Nothing in our kitchen could make these bitter greens edible. Only Dad indulged. After all others passed on a serving, he often said, "No problem, more for me," as he greedily squawked and emptied the bowl of greens onto his plate. The crisp snap of leaves between his teeth, his contented sighs, and the occasional "Mmm" vividly marked these moments.
This scene invariably led Mom to recount the dandelion salad story from their newlywed years, which I loved to hear...
"We were only married a few years; I was on my hands and knees on the front lawn, picking dandelions for a salad to celebrate Dad's promotion. Sandra, barely four, was on the front porch, nosy and concerned. Just as the postman walked up the drive, she shouted for the world to hear, 'Mom, are we having weeds for dinner again?!'
"I was still kneeling and looking up from the lawn. My eyes met the postman's, and we shared an awkward moment. I'm not sure what he was thinking, but he was stunned; his jaw dropped. He looked over to Sandra, then back at me, never closing his mouth, rushing to his next delivery."
Today, as I wander through my gardens with my coffee in hand, surrounded by lush greenery, I can't help but smile at the sight of dandelions poking through the grass, each one a small, golden prize. They are a reminder that the simplest of things hold a world of magic. Often blown upon to scatter our wishes into the wind, for me, they carry the seeds of our family memories and dreams.