Burdock

(This column was published in the March 10, 1997 Buffalo News.)

   The day after that formidable windstorm I hiked a section of the 
Conservation Trail where it follows the former Peanut Line Railroad right-of-
way in Amherst.

   Among the weeds along the path I found many burdocks -- and, indeed, they 
found me as well. Blocked by high water at Gott Creek, I had to bushwhack out 
to Casey Road to cross on its bridge. By the time I got back to the trail my 
pants and jacket were festooned with burdock burrs.

   That is, of course, this hitchhiker's mode of transportation. Some of the 
weed's many homespun names record others who offer it rides: fox's clote, 
hare-lock, turkey-bur, horseburr, and the delightfully descriptive beggar's 
buttons. Every burr is a bristly sphere of spears, each spear hooked like a 
crochet needle. Many of them attached themselves to Velcro patches on my 
jacket, a case of the original model adhering to its imitation.

   The source of these burrs were essentially dead plants, completely brown 
and with only a few remnants of twisted leaves remaining on the lifeless 
stems. Their roots were only shriveled remnants.

   But nearby was a very different appearing rosette of big, pale green leaves 
lying flat on the ground. Cutting under those leaves, I exposed a thick, 
fleshy root, quite unlike that of its neighbors. Yet despite these striking 
differences, this too was a burdock.

   Burdocks are biennials and the two plants I have described are the same 
species at the end of its first and second year. The first year is a year of 
growth and energy storage. Driven by solar power, those leaves draw carbon 
dioxide and water from the atmosphere and send the resulting sugars down into 
that thick root. The basal leaves survive the winter, remaining green under 
the snow.

   The second year is a year of sacrifice and the direction of that engine is 
reversed, the stored energy moving back up out of the root to accumulate in 
the seeds that form behind the tiny purple flowers of each burr. Indeed much 
energy is needed as one plant can produce thousands of seeds, hundreds of them 
stored in each burr.

   Another biennial, the carrot, would follow a similar history if we didn't 
steal its thick edible root before the end of its first year.

   Today we think of the two burdocks, common and giant, as ugly weeds that 
occasionally find their way into gardens and whose three foot tap roots are 
nearly impossible to remove. They are aliens, introduced to this country 
inadvertently by early colonists probably as burrs stuck in cattle hides or 
seeds embedded in the dirt that was then used for ship ballast.

   But burdocks have another history -- as food and medicine. Harvested and 
prepared at the right season, their tender roots, stems, and leaves serve 
variously as salad greens, asparagus-like vegetables or even confections. 
Their roots provide the gobo in the sukiyaki of Japanese cuisine.

   Made into a tea, soup or extract, they were formerly used to treat a litany 
of maladies including gout, stomach and labor pains, measles, and rheumatism. 
Hikers still apply the leaves directly -- as they do those of jewelweed -- to 
relieve the pain of mosquito bites, nettles, sunburn, and sprains. Poultices 
made from the leaves soothe boils and abrasions.

   Claims go further to include various "quack" cancer therapies. At the same 
time, however, the National Cancer Institute has been investigating the 
possible use of burdock lignans to prevent cancer-causing mutations.

   But these many merits did not diminish my aggravation as I wrestled with 
the dozens of little spears so deeply embedded in my clothing.