At my grandmother’s home, in the messy back yard, soon to be my friend, nettle stung me, thousands of times in the good old days, me in my shorts, running up and down, thought every green thing is innocent and my friend. Isırgan, literally meaning stinger, you do the maths.
When nettle touches you, you feel featuring in the itchy and scratchy show, I wanted to scratch my legs till they bleed. And I did. But granny in her cool sort of way, picked them with them, as if nothing happened, sauteed them with onions, or make börek with them…
Last time I was around a nettle, it was cleaned properly and ready to be savoured, in a salad with beyaz peynir, tomatoes, peppers, parsley, dressed with lemon and olive oil.
