Pedicularis Wine

The nectar of world peace

I wish everyone would call a time-out, sit around a nice bonfire, and sip Pedicularlis Wine. It’s hard to get too wrapped around the axle when the nectar of that burgundy flower flows, calming nerves and mellowing the mind. Known as Warrior’s Plume, native to Oregon and California, it usually starts popping through brown-needled duff beneath Ponderosas, Madrones, and Manzanitas in late February, depending on the microclimate of the patch. Don’t go picking it. Over-harvesting has decimated this spring early riser in many areas. This year, Pedicularis bloomed at least a month early, fooled by the outrageously consistent fifty-degree days of January and the relentless blue sky.

The plant has fern-like leaves with a bushel of dark red petals forming the head of a short, stocky flower. It’s a nervine with mild sedative qualities, sometimes used as a sleep aid. Years ago, shortly after I moved to this Southern Oregon valley, I went to a barn party down the road at an organic farm. Pedicularis was there, transformed by the hands of a master herbalist, from a flower into a delightful, delicious, decadent wine. 

★★★

Everyone seemed to know each other, milling around talking to someone familiar - relaxed, chatting, smiling. My gut twisted into that familiar self-conscious nervousness being in a group of people I didn’t know. Squinting, I scanned around in the room’s low light while the thought brushed across my mind, Maybe I should just go home. Pushing past the jitters, I found a vacant spot on the food table and set my potluck dish down. After loading a small plate with Kettle chips, creamy garlic dip, and a scoop of salad, I meandered over near the barn wall. 

Fifteen minutes later, a woman, younger than me by at least ten years with long flowing straw-blond hair wearing a cute dress, tights, and calf-high boots strolled over, introducing herself. 

“Hi, I’m Becca. The food is ridiculous. So good. What’s your name?” She smiled warmly and had such an air of ease that I felt my wire-tight nerves relax a little. 

I told her my name, but my awkwardness was obvious, even in the muted, dusky light – words and social manners eluded me.

“Hey, do you like wine?” Becca smiled after a couple of gawky minutes of silence. 

My brain perked up. Wine? My favorite. “Yes, I love red wine.” 

Becca smiled mischievously, “Well then, come try the wine I made,” she wrapped her petite hand around my wrist and led me to a smaller table full of cups and glasses, wine bottles, whiskey, fruit juice, and sparkling water. A blue cooler full of beer sat beneath the table. Becca reached for a dark green wine bottle with a white mailing label stuck on the front. Little flowers and whimsical lines hand-drawn around the edge of the label encircled two words written in cursive: Pedicularis Wine.

Sparkly lights hung on nails along the wall above the table, casting more glow in this area of the barn. The wood floor vibrated with the local band thumping out Grateful Dead tunes on the front porch. We had to talk a little louder. 

“What kind of wine?” I nearly shouted. 

“Pedicularis,” she tossed back over the din. 

I tried saying it to myself and couldn’t wrap my anxious mind around the word. Becca turned toward me, handing me a coffee mug half-full of dark liquid. 

“Here, try this,” she said. 

I lifted the cup to my lips and took a small sip. A mellow, oddly sweet nectar introduced itself to my taste buds. It was exotic, unnameable, and unlike anything I had ever tasted. I couldn’t stop the slight smile from forming on my lips. 

Becca watched me sip it, “What do you think?” 

I answered her cheerfully, “I like it! What’s it called again?” 

Pedicularis densiflora is a perennial herb, commonly known as  Warrior’s Plume, and is a plant in the family Orobanchaceae. Like others of its genus, it is a root parasitic plant, attaching to the roots of other plants to obtain nutrients and water.

A few sips later, Becca and I were talking up a storm. I wasn’t aware of the tension melting from my body or the calm, relaxed, happy sensation slowly radiating throughout my being. The taste and effect was more subtle than the french Beaujolais wine I got for nine bucks a bottle at the store. 

“Do you want to go outside by the fire?” Becca asked, grabbing the glass bottle containing her homebrew. 

“Sure!” I fired back a little too vigorously, suddenly comfortable in my own skin for the first time since arriving at the party.

We stood around the bonfire, raging hot with big logs underneath smaller sticks and twigs. A tall bearded man threw more branches on top, sending sparks exploding into the dark, chilly March sky. Within minutes I was deep in conversation with the fire tender, several women, and a musician taking a break from the hum of the stage. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I do remember passing the Pedicularis Wine.

★★★

I miss those days when we could pass a bottle of homemade brew and not think twice about catching something. When we sat around fires and talked with people outside our normal circles, listening to others’ ideas and concepts, disagreeing politely, taking another sip, then passing the bottle. Back then, we laughed at benign arguments and gave space for contemplating heavier words. 

I wish the Right and the Left across America could spend a few spring nights under the stars, chilling with Becca’s brew. I wish the leaders of nations would sit around a bonfire wearing fleece pullovers and wool beanies, sipping Pedicularis wine. I’m quite sure wars would be averted.

Imagine this:

Joe leans his forearms on his knees, holding Becca’s bottle of Warrior Plume nectar, “Hey, Vladamir, I just don’t get it. The turf isn’t worth that much. It’s tiny compared to your acreage, man.” Putin throws up his arms, “Ahhh, Joe, of course you don’t get it, you’re American.” Joe straightens up his back, pauses, and gazes into the fire before taking a long pull from the bottle. He wipes the residual liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, then juts the bottle to his right, handing it off to Putin with a sly grin. 

“Thanks, Joe,” tendrils of Putin’s breath escape into the cool air as he swigs down some wine. Joe listens a moment to the fire popping and cracking, then says, “Here’s the deal, Vladamir, we all just can’t let you walk in and take someone else’s land. I mean, it’s not cool, man. People live and raise kids on that land. You can’t just show up with a bunch of guys and scare these people. They are good folks, Vladamir, good neighbors.”

Putin raises the bottle to his smirking lips and tosses back another mouthful, “Yeah, man, I suppose you’re right. But damn, it’s beautiful country. Who wouldn’t want to own that land? I mean, you Americans think you’re so good. You all took this land we’re sitting on from nice people. Right?” Macron chuckles a french sneer from across the fire and says, “He’s got a point there, Joe.” Zelensky pipes up, “Oh, for Crist’s sake, will you both shut up and pass the bottle? You’re talking about my country. No one is taking anything, so give it up. End of story. Pass the goddamn wine Vladamir before you empty the jug.” 

Putin shrugs, feeling too mellow to argue, and passes the half-empty bottle of Becca’s Pedicularis wine, the nectar of world peace.

☆

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Photos by Author

Quote from Wikipedia