I remembering hunting. My dad would get me up before dark, and it was cold. I would go out across the street and sit beneath a holly tree, a loose screen of dead branches shielding me from view. Or perhaps I would be in a stand, high up in a tree. Try as I might, I never seemed to be able to sit as still as I felt I needed to, so still that anything could come up- though sometimes, something would.

When I finally got a shot at a deer it was not a still moment. Two bucks were chasing a doe, one slowing as it turned, which was just enough for the bullet I aimed at its chest to hit below its front leg. The deer kept moving, so I kept shooting. It still managed to run off into the woods. We found it, not very far away, our German Shepherd smelling it before we saw it.

I’ve never shot a deer again. Deer sausage is good, but I’ve never been able to muster the discipline to return to the cold. But I soon discovered that unlike deer, plants did not run. While I would occasionally screw up the courage to try various shoots or berries my guidebook or Dad said were edible, gardening appeared to be the fastest route to food security.

My experiences in gardening soon convinced me that most vegetarians are probably not gardeners. While plants do not run, the various creatures that eat them do. I soon found myself at war with all animal kind. Even when horses could be kept out of the corn field, there was little to keep the crows from flying in. The small green worms that ate the tips of the corn ears were also a severe annoyance. Hopefully many of them perished by the crows.

A small paddock worth of corn plants resulted in my family happily eating corn for two weeks, exhausting a supply I had hoped would last for fifty. I was yet again dependent on the grocery store. One year, I planted a smaller corn patch, closer to home, and the crows magnanimously ignored it, though the worms still had their quarter share.

Despite meager results, I continued to experiment, expanding from corn to other crops. One of my most exciting discoveries came after unloading a hay trailer for a farmer. We were finishing up unloading bales into an old chicken house, when he mentioned that he had two kinds of okra growing in his nearby garden, one passed down from another farmer. Apparently, the okra had special properties, allowing it to grow longer than the typical two to three inches before hardening, and it grew much taller. I was intrigued.

I saved a copious quantity of the seed, and one year planted a long swath of it. Okra grew taller than head high, with end of season growth looking like small trees. The leaves were harsh and scratchy, but could be avoided with care. It produced enormous amounts of okra.

Unfortunately, my wonderful discovery was unappreciated by my siblings. My sisters, who frequently experiment with foreign dishes wouldn’t touch it. My brother once said something to the effect that if you cured world hunger, but it was with okra, had you really cured world hunger?
My parents did eat some, though. Some of it was sold, and finally I resorted to giving it away just to get rid of the growing supply. I pickled a little more of it, which turned out incredibly sour and delicious. I still have some of the seeds, carefully stored away. One day, when I have a place of my own, I plan on growing an okra forest again.