Tasting | Mothers Bush [cracked]

Once, when I was thirteen, I brought a friend home. She saw me pluck a leaf from the bush and chew it thoughtfully. "What are you doing?" she asked, horrified. "That could be poisonous."

The leaf was no bigger than my thumbnail, smooth on top, fuzzy underneath. I hesitated—not because I was afraid, but because no one had ever asked me to taste a bush before. In my world, bushes were for hiding behind, not for eating. But my mother's eyes were patient, green like the leaf itself, and so I opened my mouth. tasting mothers bush

The flavor arrived in two waves. First, a sharp, lemony brightness—like the moment before a sneeze. Then, a quiet bitterness that spread across my tongue and settled in the back of my throat. It was not sweet. It was not sour. It was the taste of something that had survived frost and drought and my father’s shears. It was the taste of stubborn life. Once, when I was thirteen, I brought a friend home

I laughed. "It's my mother's bush. I've been tasting it since I was a kid." "That could be poisonous

My friend looked at me like I was feral. But my mother came out with a glass of lemonade and offered the girl a leaf. "Try it," she said softly. "It tastes like being alive."