hour of riding in the sun baked old Chrysler. The luxury of riding in air
conditioned style was still a few years off for our family. I was ten years old
and Dad was on a quest. The dust cloud raised by driving down the unpaved road
engulfed our car when we stopped. I opened my door to the mid-day sun and
closed my eyes to the brightness and sting of dry black dirt swirling around
me. Like I said, Dad was on a mission. The driver’s door slammed shut and he
was halfway to the worn whitewashed farm stand before I could open my eyes
again. His hunt for “Sour Grass” or “Schav” (Fresh Sorrel)
was endless. It started in
young man and continued years later when he and mom semi-retired to
His quest was alive and well at the farm stands and markets of
and the
as we know it, is relatively easy to find. It appears in upscale markets,
trendy restaurants and the pages of fashionable food magazines. In fact, it
wasn’t until many years after our visit to that dusty roadside stand that I
finally made the connection of sour grass to sorrel. It was in a French
restaurant kitchen and the Chef was showing me his recipe for the classic
French Sorrel Soup. After my first taste I remember shouting out to the
amazement of the kitchen staff around me, “that’s Schav”.