"We have to pull that,” my mother said, pointing to the wall of vegetation sprouting from the dark earth of my garden. I peered through the glass doors at the legion of green and purple giants. They didn’t look so bad. “Why?” I asked. “Those are weeds,” she assured me. I shrugged, neither consenting nor rejecting her proposal. Of course, one must pull weeds, especially those in our carefully-tended gardens. I didn’t care what my neighbors thought, but being a first-time homeowner and gardener, I did want my meager patch to look agreeable and to produce something delicious I could use in the kitchen. Still, those weeds didn’t look like weeds to me, amateur though I was.

I spent the next month fixing indoor areas of the new realm, but finally had time to investigate these four-foot tall monsters, which leaned heavily out from the circular garden, straining into the sunlight, away from my tall pine hedge. What were these mighty plants, with leaves shaped like enormous arrowheads and greenish-white flowers? I dug out my field guides and found numerous plants that matched this description. Then, on a whim, I found a book on edible plants and paged through. And as I compared the pictures with the backyard weeds, I found an undeniable match: poke.

Far from being a weed, poke or poke salad was apparently a potherb used by country people all over the United States. Moreover, it had been taken back to southern Europe and to this day remains a staple in many gardens there. The young shoots in the spring could be picked and cooked like asparagus, fried in oil or fat, or preserved. The book had a variety of mouth-watering recipes and I could feel my belly rumbling. Then I found out that the root was used in very small quantities by many native peoples as a medicinal herb. The mature plants in my backyard could not be eaten, having some of the root’s narcotic in the giant celery-like stems. Nevertheless, I licked my lips and began to look forward to sampling the tender, fresh poke when April came. The best part was that I didn’t have to do anything – it was growing in my garden already. Almost like a weed.

In October, the stems blushed violet and the flowers blossomed into clusters of lovely black berries. They outshone the fading day lilies that framed them, beautiful in the autumn sunlight. They had advanced to five and six feet by now and looked like strong, healthy young trees rather than plants, seeming to dominate my entire backyard. I began to wonder why these were considered undesirable by my well-meaning mother, and indeed everyone else who stopped by my house and observed them.

As winter came, my mother stopped by again and pulled the poke along with all the other unidentified plants. I said nothing, but secretly churned with conflict. I suppose a bed of roses would look nicer. And I did need space in my limited backyard to plant onions and potatoes for my summer dinners. Still, the decision gnawed at me, as if I had allowed something awful to happen. It wasn’t my mother’s fault – she had her traditions and they did not include poke. Weeds were weeds and neither useful nor beautiful.

Now, as spring peeks around the corner, I must consider what sort of garden I want to plant. Should it be acceptable to look at, full of gorgeous flowerbeds? Should I plant traditional fare for my dining room table? I suppose I should compromise and sow more day lilies to frame a handful of tomatoes and green peppers. But a secret thought has begun to grow wild in my brain. I might plant a healthy sampling of plants that others consider weeds: wild mustard, milkweed, wild gobo, whatever I can forage in local meadows and by roadsides. And when my first crop appears, I will invite my mother for a healthy meal. I bet she’ll enjoy fried poke.