I used to dread family car rides around town, especially if my grandmother was sitting in the passenger seat. You see, she was famous for making my parents pull over whenever she saw plants or fruit which were free for the taking. We would park and walk through dirt lots that were full of weeds. My grandmother would scold us and tell us that this was a field full of edible wild greens. She would point at the ones she wanted and we would get to work. Patiently, she would walk around the plants, skillfully gathering herbs and flowers. Styrofoam cups would magically appear from her purse and gently filled with a small handful of earth and a bouquet of that days harvest. She kept a watchful eye on us making sure that we were not stepping on or mistreating the plants. I was not patient or gentle, I was working as fast as I possibly could to get out of that field. My biggest fear was having to explain to someone that we were going to eat all of these weeds.
We would pile back into our mighty mini van and set sail to the next location. She knew every dirt lot in town and what could be found there. We would make sudden stops whenever a couple of branches hanging into an alley caught her eye. We would turn back and in a matter of heartbeats I was standing on the rear bumper reaching up into random trees quickly picking lemons, limes, oranges and if we were lucky a few handfuls of figs or peaches. I would protest and tell my grandmother that we were stealing. She pointed out that the branches were hanging over the fence and that the ground was littered with fallen fruit. It was still scary, especially when dogs would start barking and jumping up to investigate what I was doing. My grandmother would recite old sayings such as “barking dogs never bite”, really? I always wanted to call her out on that one and have her switch places with me. Abuelitas were sacred though and we never spoke back or questioned their authority.
On more than one occasion curious homeowners would come out to see what was going on. After handshakes and introductions were made I was often invited into the yard to pick more fruit. Look up the word embarrassed in an illustrated dictionary and there you will find a beautiful woodcut illustration depicting a 10 year old boy gathering fruit of some sort into a paper grocery bag. In the background of that illustration you can see two grown men chit chatting and enjoying a cigarette and my grandmother gathering herbs and flowers. Oxnard was a small town when I was a kid so by the end of the week everyone on the school playground had heard that I was in someones yard picking fruit off their tree instead of buying it at the grocery store like normal people. These field trips went on for years and spilled over into neighboring towns containing a plethora of street food.
We would take the back roads into Camarillo to gather cactus paddles and the fruit that grew on them. This was without a doubt my least favorite thing to do. On a good day the cactus was young and the thorns were still rubbery to the touch. I could work fast whenever we found them in this state, but sometimes fellow gleaners would claim them all and we would have to settle for the older cactus paddles. These had the infamous razor sharp needles all over them. Open up that illustrated dictionary again and look up the words doomed, agony and acupuncture. Do you recognize our young protagonist? My mother and grandmother were the only ones skilled enough to collect and clean the fruit that grew on the cactus. Prickly pears are a very deceiving name. There botanical name should have been “Do this wrong and you die!” My grandmother could put the greatest brain surgeon to shame with her steady hands. Hands so callused that she could have probably dusted off the prickly fur on the fruit as if it were a peach.
After our mighty wagon was packed and back on the road we would listen to our abuelita tell us stories about going into towns after the harvest to pick up the leftover produce. This was a very normal thing for her and I would begin to feel ashamed about feeling embarrassed. On our way back we would stop at the homes of friends and relatives to share what we had gathered. Lengthy stories and lengthier recipes were always exchanged and more times than not we would end up leaving with more bags and boxes of produce. My grandmother would memorize coordinates of new locations where one could find a guayaba branch so loaded with fruit that the branches touched the ground. Great, I knew what I would be doing the following weekend. When we would finally arrive home it was my job to deliver these bags and boxes to my friends and their parents. My friends would always ask where I had been and were always ready with the jokes when I told them about the days adventures. They knew the routine, we were very well known within our own neighborhood and could often be found in someones fruit tree looking for a quick snack.
By the time I made it home the kitchen was already in full swing. The steady sounds of chopping were usually accompanied by the sweet sizzle of fiery chiles, onions and tomatoes. My uncles were famous for always arriving at this exact moment. Dipping freshly made tortillas into the blender as the salsa was being made. My mom would chase them all out of the kitchen waving a steamy wooden spoon at them but at the same time smiling and loving every minute of the commotion. Outside, my grandmother was busy transplanting her new flowers and herbs. Our garden was a walk up pharmacy for home remedies. We had it all and it was not unusual to have someone knocking on our door late at night asking for some mint, chamomile and lemon grass. That usually meant someones child had an upset stomach. The styrofoam cups would magically appear again and our visitor would walk away with enough clippings to start their own herb garden.
Sadly, the dirt lots became gas stations, car washes and mini marts. Some of the hillsides became neighborhoods and all of the trees seem to have been trimmed back or chopped down, but if you look closely the planters in those places usually have mint, horse tail or rosemary growing in them. Somewhere, someone is jotting down the coordinates to these places and will eventually make their way back for some street food.