Standing at the stove my glasses steam as I peer over the large pot of boiling water. With long tongs and arms covered with sleeves to guard against any possibility of sting, I grab the nettles from my woven basket then plunge them into the hot water. Their deep green turns shockingly bright, as if they’ve just woken up from a dark winter sleep. It only takes a brief plunge to stifle their needly bite. 

Like so many, my first encounter with Stinging Nettles, Urtica dioica, was anything but pleasant. As a child, leaping from a towering tree swing into what I thought was a soft pile of stunning, jewel-toned autumn leaves, I found myself writhing in pain, my skin burning from the invisible venom of nettle’s tiny, stinging hairs. Hiding beneath what was meant to be a cushioned landing of fall leaves was a small but mighty cluster of nettles. That experience kept me wary of the plant for years and with every encounter on the trail or in the backyard of my childhood home, I would take massive steps around them. Once I safely navigated around them I’d call to the others behind me to alert them of the presence of these cruel intruders.

I don’t remember exactly when I learned that nettles were edible. It’s a blur of those early days, when I was ravenous for every bit of information I could gather about foraging and the bounty of wild foods in my backyard woods. Not long after this new discovery I cautiously donned multiple layers of long sleeves and thick gloves, then tucked scissors and tongs into my basket before heading out to a somewhat deserted trail near my house. You never forget a face of one who has wronged you so it was easy to spot the jagged teeth that line their heart shaped leaves. I began snipping away, filling my basket as the disdain started to thaw in the early spring sun. 

After a few successful forages I took my three kids with me to gather another basket full of nettles. Showing them how to avoid the fuzzy hairs that line the back of the leaves and along the stem they did their best to stay away from the bite. But even with the best of intentions there were a few stings along the way. We remedied the pain by rubbing the wound with the aloe-like ooze of the inside of a nearby horsetail. I had heard somewhere that this plant eases the pain caused by a nettle sting and the kids thought it fun to rub themselves with snot-like slime. Whether or not it actually eased the pain it definitely helped distract them while I continued to fill our baskets. Watching them thwap each other with horsetails and splash their boots in nearby streams it delighted me that their first interaction with nettles would be filled with laughter, joy, and later, dinner. 

It’s hard to describe the flavor even though I’ve tried many times. I’ve used words like grassy, earthy, or the more sophisticated cousin of spinach. Actually, that’s the first time I have used that exact phrase but in fact nettles do have a spinach-like flavor but are somehow more interesting and nuanced. To me they can taste like a mix between spinach and matcha but tastes more savory than either. Nettles return just as I’ve reached the end of how many ways I can cook and serve root vegetables. This prickly harbinger of spring, so abundant in vitamins A, C, K, and B, so rich in iron, calcium and magnesium have been shown to support the immune system, reduce inflammation, and, in my own experience, significantly ease seasonal allergies.

After I pull the nettles from the hot water I submerge them into an ice bath. This stops the cooking and keeps their color fresh and vibrant. From there I wring the leaves to remove as much water as I can and then place in my food processor blending them into a smooth paste. Part of this goes straight into the freezer so we can continue to enjoy nettles long after the plant has set their seeds and the remaining part becomes dinner. Kneading some of the green paste into flour I create a smooth dough that gets thinly rolled and hand cut into perfectly imperfect noodles. The remaining bit of the nettles are mixed with lemon zest and juice, minced garlic, finely chopped toasted pine nuts, and a blizzard of finely grated Parmesan. If I have it on hand I’ll also add a handful of mint that I chop into a fine aromatic paste. The noodles bathe in hot water seasoned with enough salt to make the bath taste like the sea. Swirling in the pot they cook to a perfect al dente in just a few moments.  I retrieve them with the tongs then shimmy them into a skillet warming with the nettle pesto. A ladle full of the salty pasta water helps the pesto adhere to the noodles as well as make the sauce creamy and cohesive. 

As I slurp the grassy noodles splattering green all over myself like a Pollock painting I’m grateful that I didn’t let the sting of our first encounter turn me off of this harbinger of spring  and I count it among one of my greatest parenting achievements that my kids, all teens now and long past the puddle stomping days, eagerly await the arrival of nettle pesto pasta every year. 

*It just so happens that the start of nettle season comes right around my birthday, so in the coming days I’ll be out foraging and then working on a nettle cake recipe. I’m thinking mint buttercream and maybe a roasted strawberry jam sandwiched in between the layers. I’ll report back!