"I can't believe she ate the nasturtium."  My mother's voice trailed back from the front passenger seat, more amused than surprised it seemed to me.  
"Why does she always do that?"  
My father smiled fondly, "Well-they are edible after all."
Edible or not, it was my uncle's wedding.  Not just any wedding, either, but the wedding of the only relatively "normal" family member on my father's
side--assuming, of course, that you count yuppy-hood as normal.  But at least the wedding had been elegant and tasteful, even if my uncle's "crazy" 
family members were the only ones to show up at the official start time: apparently we'd missed the memo announcing the hour-long delay (you know,
not being yuppies and all).  Late or not, and weird food aside (does anyone really like salmon canapes?), it was fun seeing my extended family all in one 
place for once.
"And that outfit!"  Now my mother was definitely laughing.  "I think she wore the same pea-green polyester pantsuit to our wedding!"
My parents had been married for seventeen years--four years longer than I'd been alive--and I wouldn't have been at all surprised to discover that my 
mother was correct about the pantsuit.  "Oma," my father's mother, subscribed strongly to the concept of living life one's own way: hence the bit about 
the nasturtiums.  It really was hard not to find the nasturtiums amusing, even if I did feel deeply for the poor young man.  After all, it was hardly his 
fault--he was supposed to offer refreshments to the guests--that's what caterers do: too bad for him Oma prefers flowers to salmon canapes. 
Still, the look on the poor kid's face was gut wrenching (in a very non-tragic sort of way) when the "sweet old lady" politely declined his offer of 
ridiculously expensive hors d'oeuvres and neatly nipped the garnish off his platter instead.  They clearly didn't cover nasturtium thievery in catering school.
I've always wondered, in an idle sort of way, whether my uncle intentionally laced the serving platters with edible flowers--just to enjoy the visuals his 
mother so willingly provided.  But he probably wasn't aware of the nasturtium situation; it's my observation that men, even humorous young uncles of 
the yuppy variety, spend as little time as possible in the contemplation of garnishes.  If he wasn't aware of his chosen garnish, it was--at least in my 
eyes--a providential coincidence.
When Oma first began eating flowers, I'm not sure--certainly it was long before my own entrance into the family.  Regardless of her origins as a flower
eater, the practice of flower consumption is one of my earliest memories.  The nasturtiums, you see, was only the latest in a long series of flowers-as-
food related events.

									* * *
I am three-years-old, sitting beside a cement lined pond beside Oma's house.  I think there might be some sort of smallish fish.  I know there are lily-pad-like
plants.  I sit on a thick carpet of moss under a camellia bush, dangling my feet in the pond.  (Because, of course, wherever there is water, a child younger 
than five will be in it).  Oma, (comfortable, unpainted, coarse-black-hair askew) joins me in my not-entirely-self-inflicted solitude.  My cousins, you see, 
are too busy to play with their youngest-by-three-years cousin, and Oma has come to get acquainted with the granddaughter she barely knows.
To me, it seems the most natural thing in the world for this fun old woman to remove her worn-to-shreds brown moccasins and black socks, roll up the legs
of her powder-blue synthetic blend trousers (revealing a pair of unshaven calves), and join me on my moss pile for a good foot splashing.  I smell the sharp
scent of pine needles and the sweet-tang of decomposing leaves.  From the house, voices rise and fall indistinctly like the pattering of rain.  Here everything
is still but for the intrusion of our feet in otherwise calm waters.
"Would you like a sour-flower?"
Oma's voice breaks in unexpectedly.  Of course I have no idea what she's talking about--but it has something to do with a flower (even if an oddly named 
one), and she's offering it to me, so I nod happily.  Her brown-spotted hand reaches beneath the Camellia, brushing an errant branch and sending a shower
of petals down, and detaches two small lemon-colored flowers on long wavy stems.  I accept mine happily.
And Oma sticks the end of her flower in her mouth.
I watch, amazed, as my grandmother nibbles her stem clear up to the bloom--until finally chomping the flower itself.  My feet make no ripples now.  I sit 
absolutely still as only a child struck mute by a remarkable sight can sit.
"They're edible you know," Oma said.  "Why don't you try?  Bite on the stem and suck the juice out."
Slowly (not frightened, but a little incredulous), I raise my own stem and chew on the end as I saw my grandmother do.  Immediately, tangy-sour juice fills
my mouth.  My eyes water.  I suck up the rest of the juice.  I eat my first flower.

									* * *
I remember hiking with my grandmother at age seven.  I hadn't seen her in a long time.  My parents told me she had been in China for some years.  China, I 
knew, was a very long way away.  I wanted to ask her about China, but I wasn't sure if that would be ok.  Maybe China was a bad place.  Maybe she 
wouldn't want to be reminded of China and all those years when she couldn't see her family.
I liked hiking with Oma.  She didn't walk too fast like my dad, or worry about getting to the picnic table so she could feed my little brother--and she didn't 
tell me to watch my step and not to touch certain plants that I already knew not to touch.  Occasionally Oma would stop and look at something very 
closely--usually something small.  Sometimes I would come and look at the spot ... but all I could see was a shriveled mushroom or tiny plant.  Since she 
stopped so often, I decided it was all right to dawdle as well.  I paused at a place on the path where the steep wall on our right was mostly rock.  Because 
it was spring and it had rained recently, a steady trickle of water ran down the rock-wall and into a little stream at the base.  I watched the tiny waterfall for
a long time, and my grandmother watched me.  I put my hand flush against the rock and watched the chill water dance across my fingers.  My grandmother
reached up and put her hand in the trickle above mine.  Now both our hands were a part of the current.
"Have you ever had miner's lettuce?"
I looked at Oma uncertainly.  She pointed to a little patch of greenery growing out of a bit of dirt on the rock just out of my reach, and I shook my head.
"They call it miner's lettuce because during the California gold rush the gold miners would pick it and eat it with their dinners," Oma explained.  "Here, try some."
I accepted the odd looking plant from my grandmother and studied it carefully.  The leaf was round and thick with a very tiny white flower sticking straight up 
from the center.  It looked like something a fairy would eat--like something that would change you into some fantastic creature if consumed.  But my grandmother
was eating them enthusiastically--so clearly they didn't turn you into anything strange.  I put the flower whole into my mouth, like Oma did, and chewed
experimentally.  Surprisingly, its texture was similar to iceberg lettuce, although its flavor was decidedly of the earth.  I removed my now numb hand from 
the seasonal stream and continued on our hike.
For the second time in my life I had eaten a flower.

									* * *
"It will be a fifteen-minute wait for a table."
My grandfather sounded harassed, frustrated.  Of course he had every right to be.  We'd been in Glacier National Park nearly a week now--just my brother my 
cousin and me with our Grandpa and Oma.  It was decidedly the longest we'd ever been in one place together, and we didn't even have our parents with us.  My
grandpa didn't like eating out to begin with, and the constant waiting was not improving his mood.
"That's all right, Mac.  We'll wait on the porch--it's almost completely stopped raining now, and it's nice to have some fresh air."  Oma's soothing voice seemed 
to alleviate some of my grandpa's stress, but he still insisted on waiting inside by himself so that he didn't miss our table call.
I liked the building.  It was made of rough-hewn redwood with a solid porch and small unfinished logs serving as railings and support beams.  A profusion of 
flowers was planted all along the walk-way leading to the restaurant, and hanging planters spilled even more blooms over the sides of the railing.  The rain had
kicked up the musky scent of dirt and the un-nameable scent of concrete.  Birds twittered in the trees; patrons clanged silverware and dishes and chattered 
cheerily inside the restaurant; the sun peaked through the tall evergreens--persistently piercing both cloud and branch to filter picturesquely to earth.  It was 
odd seeing the gentle yet persistent drizzle illuminated in the pale sun-beam: two members of different worlds converging.  I stepped off the stoop, allowing 
the rain to softly mist my hair, my face.
"I can't remember if those flowers are edible or poisonous."
Oma's voice seemed intellectually curious as she spoke with my cousin Alain.  He just blinked at her uncomprehending; why would she even care.
"I remember that it's one or the other, but I can't remember which," Oma mused, still in that same mildly curious voice.
I watched my grandmother step into the mist to examine the flowers.  My brother stood at the other end of the porch engaged in his own affairs.  My cousin
continued watching Oma from his dry perch.  Alain seemed nervous--a state of being that he had assumed with increasing regularity around our grandparents.  
It seemed he wasn't sure how to behave around them or how to relate to them.  Not that he could be blamed, of course--everything he did did seem to be
wrong ... at least it was understandable why he would get that impression.  Both grandchildren and grandparents seemed unable to find even shreds of common
ground on this trip.  I tried to recall the last time I'd really spoken with my grandparents before this trip--and I realized it must have been before my uncle's 
wedding ... nearly three years ago.  Of course, they had moved from California to Ithaca, New York, some time ago which accounted for most of the disconnection. 
But still, three years was a long time.  Why!--at sixteen I was nearly a grownup!
"Poisonous or edible.  Poisonous or edible."  Beside us my grandmother mumbled quietly to herself--heedless of her increasingly muddy shoes and damp hair.  
She squatted down for a better look and picked one of the small purple blooms, holding it close to her eyes.
Suddenly, she popped it in her mouth, chewed thoroughly, and swallowed.  Straightening, she looked at my cousin and said matter-of-factly, "If I die, you know."
My poor cousin looked stricken--his eyes about four-times larger than usual--his mouth hanging open in shock.  I felt like laughing, but I wasn't entirely sure she 
had been joking.  It would have been just like her: to poison herself in pursuit of intellectual curiosity.  My grandmother was fond of experiments, after all.  As one
of the first female veterinarians in the country, she had provided plenty of entertainment and irritation over the years.
Standing in the rain, I recalled all the stories I'd grown up with: snapshots of our family.  The formaldehyde-soaked goat that sat for over a month in the backyard 
as my grandmother slowly dissected it was by far the most famous.  But there were others as well: stories of her childhood on the farm selling strawberries to pay
for college, stories of my great-grandmother--the time she nearly killed her brother with an irate toss of a butcher knife, the way she raised her kids through the 
depression, the way she blithely disregarded all rules and authority in her later years.  I thought of all the stories I didn't know about Oma and now felt a strange 
urgency to know: why had she never practiced as a veterinarian?  What was China like?  Why did she want to go?  What was it like growing up during the Depression?
But the only question I could form was: "Why do you eat flowers, Oma?"
"Because I like the way they taste."  Her reply was as prosaic as she was, and I should have expected it.  Yet I felt, somehow, that there should be more--something 
deeper, connected, symbolic.  But, of course, there wasn't.
"Come in out of the rain!  You don't want to get sick."  My grandfather's voice held a double dose of grumpiness this time: apparently our table hadn't been called yet.
"It's stopped raining, Mac," Oma replied.  "Do you remember if these flowers are edible? or poisonous?"
My grandfather glanced at them impatiently: "Those are edible."
"Oh.  That's good."  Oma didn't sound as if she was terribly excited about this knowledge, nor did she seem disappointed--only clinically interested.
 
My brother called us for our table; my grandmother walked back to the porch.  Overhead, the clouds cleared a bit more, dropping a beam of light onto the little purple
flowers.  I took a deep breath--held in the rich flavors--and joined my family inside.

									* * *
My friends and I went to a fancy restaurant last week--mostly as an excuse to eat out in our fancy clothes before our dance.  When our salads arrived, I laughed to see 
an artful arrangement of nasturtiums across the top.  The others asked what the joke was--so of course I had to tell them the stories: first wedding garnish then the 
"poison" flowers.  We all laughed, although I wonder if they laughed for other reasons than I did.  It never occurred to me to laugh at my grandmother.  What
I always found amusing was the reactions of the spectators: the poor caterer and my cousin.  But it seemed to me as I watched my friends that they found amusement
in my grandmother's eccentricity as well.  All around me people were picking off the nasturtiums and laying them on their bread plates.
"What are you doing?"  I asked surprised.
"You don't actually expect us to eat the flowers do you?"  My friends looked incredulous, amused.  
I looked down at my plate.  I thought about my grandmother and about the other times we had eaten flowers.  I thought of her pea-green polyester pantsuit and of her
refusal to wear a bra.  I thought of my great grandmother, of her butcher knife and her defiance.  I thought of my mom, of her prairie dresses and vegetable garden.  I 
thought of my childhood in Davis, of walking to central park for the farmers' market, of hunting newts in the spring, of home-schooling and silent Quaker worship.  I 
thought of all the women who had gone before me, of their strength and independence, of their love and individuality, of their refusal to bend to expectations, and of their
insistence on living their lives on their own terms.  I thought of water and of flowers.  I looked at my plate.   
And I ate a nasturtium. 

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