Everybody Hosta Calm Down: What Herbaceous Perennials Mean for You
Introducing Persephone Days, a new recurring column covering all things permaculture
High spring in New England: aside from the pollen that’s already grinding my sinuses, this time of year is undeniably glorious. Just in time for Easter, we begin to see glimpses of the purest magicians of the plant world; the complete resurrectors; the mysteries that burst, seemingly from nothing and nowhere. This is the return of the herbaceous perennials.
If you’re not a gardener, you might not even know that herbaceous perennials are a thing, because they’re often misunderstood. They’re plants that, assuming they are able to stay alive at the minimum temperatures in the region each winter, completely die to the ground every autumn and grow seemingly from nothing in the spring. This is in contrast to annual plants (like most garden vegetables), which grow from seed, make new seed, and then die completely over the course of one growing season. Herbaceous perennials are also a class separate from “woody perennials,” which leave some aboveground parts as a scaffold for next year’s growth.
Looking at herbaceous perennials from a wider angle, speeding up the seasons in your mind, their existence forms the earth’s breath. The exhale begins with the first hard frost, when the plant’s foliage dies and the energy is held in the roots; the inhale starts now, in midspring, when the green shoots begin to emerge, and the herbaceous perennials (which include grass!) cover and oxygenate the land.
From this perspective, we can also see another cycle, one in which minerals are brought from the subsoil up to the surface like a botanical oil derrick. Often the leafy parts of the herbaceous perennials can be slashed to be used as nutrient-rich mulch for other plants, and will regrow in just days to weeks. Comfrey, another herbaceous perennial, can be slashed many times a year, providing multiple pulses of fertility from the subsoil. It is famous in permaculture circles for this very purpose.
The category also includes flower bulbs, like the crocuses and daffodils currently splashing color over the final bare patches of earth. But many of the plants don’t have that obvious belowground part to act as seed-analog; buy a bag of asparagus crowns and you’ll wonder if you’ve been had. This clump of dirty, dry-looking root things doesn’t look like it can possibly lead to a plateful of the most heavenly vegetable — not to mention the delicate-leaved six-foot-tall foliage that asparagus sends up when left to grow!
Most of the plant calories we eat come from heavy-producing, intensely-cultivated annual grains and legumes. These plants should have their place even in a permaculture system. But where corn needs a lot of input, a lot of human help, and a lot of outside sources of fertility and water, herbaceous perennials might need a weed and a mulch. Because they have years to come into their own, they move on a different time scale than a plant like corn, which has only a few months to transform from seed to towering plant laden with many calories.
In our own lives, there are projects that fit well the annual agriculture model of planting our seeds in a hurry, intense tending and feeding, culminating in a big harvest in fall. But in this sense, too, herbaceous perennials inspire me: the idea of moving slowly, rhythmically, building strength, pulling necessities for life and creation from deep places. Taking little harvests along the way rather than banking on one big reckoning. Tending something even when it’s growing slower than desired, investing in the long term.
In the permaculture world, the first three years after planting are described as “sleep, creep, leap,” years. Perennials need time to get situated, to store energy, to figure out their surroundings and conditions before leaping out into full glory. I think many of our projects and aspirations fit this model better, or should, if they’re to take hold and persist for many years.
I get a certain thrill out of eating things few people even know about, kind of like the nerdiest possible parallel to those people who thrive on discovering obscure bands. I love foraging for salads in May with a few leaves or buds from this or that, all jumbled together into a bowl that represents here and now. Many people are aware on some level that common lawn plants like dandelions and violets are edible, and although neither are particularly delicious in quantity, I highly recommend everyone take a stroll to collect a few of the tender spring greens growing all around them, and then eat this in the spirit of communion with the land and plants.
There are dozens of easy-to-grow, at least moderately delicious herbaceous perennial edibles even for our cold New Hampshire climate, but few are well-known, due in large part to the historical demands of broadscale agriculture. Perennials are much more difficult to harvest mechanically, and they take up valuable productive space during the times they are not at peak edibility. Brassicas in particular are a family populated by common garden vegetables (broccoli, cabbage, kale) which come from a perennial heritage, bred into annuals for ease of harvest.
Anthropocentric as this may be, my absolute favorite edible herbaceous perennials are ones that provide a meal, or at least a respectable side dish. Most don’t — I’m still waiting on the intrepid permaculture enthusiasts who are working on reproducing some of the morphological diversity (brussels sprouts, cauliflower!) of the brassica family in perennial form. Many species offer up only a handful of leaves once or twice a season, or have such strong flavors (I’m looking at you, lovage), that only a handful can be tolerated.
So it was a shock when I, already a fan of perennial edibles, learned that the common hosta was not only edible, but delicious, and easy to pick in decent quantity. I used to actively deride hostas, thinking of them as ugly and overdone. You’ve certainly seen them — they’re those big clumps of leaves everyone plants around their foundations. Think of them as food, and suddenly they’re amazing: utterly foolproof to grow, found everywhere, and productive in shade? Good luck finding a garden annual that fits that description!
The leaves are edible (and tasty) at any stage of toughness you’re willing to cook out or chew through, and a good substitute for spinach in recipes. My absolute favorite thing, though, is to shear the whole plant in early May, when the leaves are coming out like curled up spears. Like comfrey, they’ll pump out new leaves even when the whole plant has been mowed down, so help yourself without guilt.
Here’s a fantastic recipe for hosta shoots in sambal, adapted from Ottolenghi’s Plenty. He uses okra instead, and it’s great that way, too — but come the apocalypse, those of us in the know will be able to feast off of the decorative plantings of the rich.
Hosta Shoots with Sambal
1 and 1/4 lbs hosta shoots
1 big handful cilantro, chopped
2 limes, halved
For the sambal
2 fresh red chilies, seeded*
2 dried chilies, seeded*
1 onion, peeled and roughly chopped**
1 clove garlic, peeled
½ tsp salt
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp thick tamarind water (seedless tamarind paste whisked with a little water and strained***)
Put the chillies, onions, garlic and salt in a food processor, add two tablespoons each of oil and water, and process for a minute, until you have a fine paste. Put a wok or large, heavy frying pan on a high heat. Add the remaining oil and, when hot, add the paste and stir. Reduce the heat, and simmer, stirring frequently, for 10–15 minutes, until it’s dark red and oily. Off the heat, stir in the sugar and tamarind water.
Blanch the hosta shoots in boiling water for 3 minutes. Drain, then add to the sambal and cook until the whole thing heated through and the shoots are tender. Serve with rice, sprinkled with cilantro, and with a lime half for squeezing over.
*The original recipe calls for 5 fresh and 5 dried chilies. I love spicy food, but that’s pretty intense. Start with two and see what you think — and add more onion if you get carried away.
** Bonus points to you if you use Egyptian walking onions or another perennial onion!
*** Or not, I never do