Can dandelion wine be bacon-flavored?

Do you remember hearing that 2015 is the Year of the Goat? Or is it the Year of the Sheep? For people in China it is one or the other.

Last year was the Year of the Horse and next year will be the Year of the Monkey. Chinese put a lot of stock in their new year celebration even though sometimes it is the Year of the Rat or Tiger or Rooster or Dragon, to name a few.

I've wondered what symbol could be attached to our new year rather than an old man with a scythe and a diapered baby. This year? Maybe it could be called the Year of Bacon. Or was that last year, since bacon seems to be the flavor of the decade? Have you tried bacon-flavored ice cream? Or cookies? Or?????

It seems bacon is creeping into every sinew of our society. Ripley, the "Believe it or Not" man, reported the other day that New Hampshire has bacon-flavored lottery tickets. Could a scratch-off with the smell of frying bacon tempt a person to spend a buck or two? Would a big winner be congratulated for "bringing home the bacon"? Wonder what could help Arkansas' faltering lottery? Perhaps some high-paid staff?

Enough about bacon. Let's talk about dandelions. After reading our editor Randy's experiences with those pesky, persistent plants, perhaps a little lingo might be in order.

But, first, back to bacon. Or make that a pot belly pig. After mentioning the loss of a pet several weeks ago, someone, pigs feet in cheek, I think, suggested a potbelly pig might be a good addition to the Evans household. He did mention a miniature version. Tough sell. Imagine a plump little pig rooting around the premises. Or, worse yet, poking his little pink snout into the parlor to crash a tea party. Or even a pitch party. 'Nuff said.

Back to dandelions. Haven't we all had our share of dandelion experiences? Say ... like using a wand to spray weed killer that drifts onto the iris bed. Or, worse yet, onto the neighbor's up and coming pea or petunia patch. Maybe you've tried to dig 'em out by the roots, a project that does little more than give you a backache. Maybe a potbelly pig is an answer.

Then, after all kinds of efforts result in a carpet of lush, green sod, voila, suddenly there appears a single yellow blossom which is joined almost immediately by a dozen or two more. They grow overnight as their slender stems reach skyward to release clouds of seeds. Another battle lost.

My personal dandelion tale dates back to the days of Euell Gibbons and his challenging book, "Stalking the Wild Asparagus," which appeared in the early 1970s.

Those of you of a later generation may not be aware of Gibbons' best seller which provided information on how to survive with goodies you can glean along country roads, in meadows and forests. It was a book that challenged scouring the hills and countryside for plants to cook or "chew in the raw." Make that just "chew on raw."

Gibbons went to great lengths on how to find and prepare mushrooms, cattails and knotweed, whatever that is, as well as watercress, purslane and sassafras to name a few. He delved into how to prepare muskrats, 'possums, coons and woodchucks (we call 'em ground hogs). He also featured crawdads, turtles and even terrapins. One section was information about the medicinal value of herbs and roots, including quite a treatise on dandelions. One recipe was how to make dandelion wine.

Someone, and this was a long, long time ago, presented me a wine-making kit which included all the "stuff" to make a batch. Since this was before online recipes, I dug out Euell and followed his recipe religiously. I use the term loosely.

I gathered a gallon of dandelion blossoms. You ought to try that sometime. I placed them in a stone crock and doused them with a gallon of boiling water. They were to sit on the back of the cabinet counter three days, then you were to strain the juice, add sugar and yeast and other stuff to continue the brewing process.

Something else was brewing. Before the third day dawned, the cook-boss-sweetheart of the house issued her ultimatum. I can still paraphrase her words which were spoken in what could be called a stern voice: "Either it goes, or ..." 'Nuff said. Needless to say, the odorous mess was dumped and the brewing apparatus went to a yard sale.

And now, every five or six springs or so, I gather some dandelion leaves and other plant parts for a "mess" of good old-fashioned greens. I can enjoy them while sipping a cup of sassafras tea and looking out the window to also enjoy the bouncing bunch of yellow blossoms. I can relax as I realize they will soon be gone as our hot, dry July days arrive. I can also be assured they'll return as early as February next year. Such is the joy of living in the Arkansas Ozarks.

But I wonder: What would a glass of bacon wine really taste like? I really don't want to know.

Dodie Evans is editor emeritus of the Westside Eagle Observer. Opinions expressed are those of the author.