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Balanophagy

Natural History,  June, 2005  by William Bryant Logan

[Balanophagy, "acorn eating, from the Greek balanos, "acorn" + phagein, "to eat"]

Oaks have been cut down without a thought around the world for the past 3,000 years, but they are not forgotten as a source of foodstuff everywhere, or by everyone. My own culinary adventures with the acorn began with a walk I took in the heart of New York City's Little Korea, on Thirty-second Street in midtown Manhattan. In the biggest Korean market in the city, when I asked whether there were any foods made from acorns, I drew a mystified look from the sales girl. I rummaged around in my change pocket, where I usually keep at least one acorn. Sure enough, there was a red-oak acorn. I drew it out and held it up. "This," I said.

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Immediately, the girl broke into smiles and laughter; the acorn was obviously as familiar to her as a rice grain, though not by the name "acorn." She led me to a shelf full of one-pound packages of acorn-starch flour, and then to the cold case, where she showed me a tofu-like square of acorn jelly.

The first prepared oak food I ate was the acorn jelly. It was a lovely chocolate-brown color. It hit the tongue with a slimy slipperiness, like the feel of a slug, but fortunately it began to dissolve almost immediately. It was lighter in texture than Jell-O, and the sensation of it, after the first shock, was pleasant. The only real trouble was the taste. One writer called the flavor "insipid." But "absent" might be nearer the mark. There is a definite presence and texture to the stuff, satisfying on the tongue, and palatable going down the throat. But flavor? Tap water is tastier.

I tried frying it in olive oil. That was better. I sliced it thin, grated scallions over it, added sesame oil and rice vinegar. That was delicious. What I eventually discovered by repeated experiment was the last sensation it produced when I ate it: a pleasant feeling, in the pit of nay stomach, of being full.

More experiments were called for. I pulled out a cookbook called Acorns and Eat 'em, by Suellen Ocean. Suellen lives in the northern mountains of California, where good corns are plentiful. She is the sort of person who, if you called her an unregenerate hippie, might proudly nod assent.

I made Suellen's acorn pancakes, using the acorn flour. They tasted fine; a little chewy perhaps. The acorns added no flavor, but again they gave me that odd feeling of being able to satisfy my hunger very quickly. I felt that I could eat acorns on a regular basis, so long as I varied the flavorings. That pleasant sensation of being full was strangely rewarding, though I might not value it as highly as those who have often gone hungry in their lives.

It occurred to me that the acorn might well have been the foundation of all the stews and hot pots that are still the mainstays of cuisines throughout the temperate world. If the acorn was once a staple food, it would have called out to be flavored, spiced, varied, and embellished. And if, as a number of anthropologists now think, the culminating state of hunter-gatherer culture was one in which everything from seeds and nuts to fleshy fruits, meats, fish, shellfish, turtles, insects, and berries were consumed, it would have been natural to develop a cookery based not on roasted or boiled meats but on mixed stews.

The first time I saw a map with the legend "World Oak Distribution," I was startled. The map showed clearly that the distribution of oak trees is coterminous with the locations of the settled civilizations of Asia, Europe, and North America. It is interesting to think that where there are or have been the cities and cultures that shaped the modern world, there are or have been oaks.

WILLIAM BRYANT LOGAN, a certified arborist and award-winning writer, lives and gardens in Brooklyn, New York. This essay is adapted from his forthcoming book Oak: The Frame of Civilization, which is being published next month by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Natural History Magazine, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning