“Dandelions! I hate pulling dandelions, and Mother said coming here was going to be fun,” I groused at my grandfather. I was eight.

“We won’t weed them out, only gather them up for our salad. It won’t take long, and we’ll chat as we work.”

“We’re eating dandelions? You mean, the flowers?”

“Not the flowers. Just the leaves.”

He went into the house for a minute and came out clutching two straw baskets. He handed me the prettier one with a bow. He’d placed an apple inside.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Papa. Or is Lena going to cook when she and Mother get home?” I asked, as though I knew every move he would make.

“We’ll do it,” he insisted as we crossed the lawn. The morning sun had not yet dried the dew that formed overnight on the grass. It seeped into the toes of my old sneakers. The neighbors’ dog, Scampi, frisked into the yard looking for a nuzzle. “You and I, though it’s hardly cooking. The dandelion greens never see a flame, while the eggs and bacon look after themselves. We couldn’t interfere with their magic if we tried. We just put all the ingredients in the right place. As to where I cultivated this humble cuisine that you praise, it’s to your grandmother that credit is due. Ever since we’ve had this house, she’s been pulling something up out of the ground to eat. Here we are. These are the tender young ones.”