Hopping mad in the garden

There is a colossal battle waged in my house these days. Well, not in my house actually, but in my herb garden. It’s a battle of wills, survival, of hide and seek, of dine and dash. Or, more succinctly, of woman versus beast. Some wicked creatures have been making a smorgasbord of my basil plant under the dim light of the smoggy Central Phoenix night sky. I don’t know how yet, but I aim to win this war.

Frost killed my beautiful and prolific basil plant this winter, so as the weather warmed, I planted another in its place. At first it grew nicely, but I began to see a few holes here and there. Nothing to worry about. Three days later, my basil plant looked as though it had passed through a combine. The beasts were wreaking utter devastation.

I remembered a tip from a gardening book. Since I don’t use pesticides, I decided to try using water and dish soap in a spray bottle. I was a dedicated sprayer, routinely soaking what was left of my plant’s leaves in the soapy substance. It was during this process that I had my first glimpse of the beastly buggers. They were a brilliant emerald color, and tiny, about the size of a grain of cooked rice, and in form, they resembled grasshoppers. In short, they were adorable.

As I sprayed, dozens of them dashed and hopped and sprung from my plant. With a sly feeling of satisfaction I thought, now I’ve got you. But I was deceived. After a week of saturating my plants with the soap and water, my beloved basil was more decimated than ever.

At lunch the following week, my friend Alice told me I had it all wrong. I needed to put sliced garlic in with the soap and water. Surely the baby bugs would find the taste of garlic acrid and unpalatable.

Wrong again.

I entreated my dog Gumbo to lie near the plant, thinking he might scare the crook‑legged enemies away. Nope. I found a dead palo verde beetle and placed it in a menacing pose on the plant thinking it would terrify them. No dice. I thought of buying a chicken to peck the bugs from the leaves, but that seemed extreme–even if I could get fresh eggs out of the deal.

I didn’t have the heart to kill them. I could have easily mashed the little nibblers as they dashed to safety during the many soakings, but after all, they were just trying to have a meal.

I began to wonder, with a diet consisting mainly of basil, actually, basil and garlic, could these baby grasshoppers be tasty? Just what would a free‑range, organic basil‑ and garlic‑fed, young hopper taste like? Like some exotic herb, I imagined. Like the ultimate Italian seasoning. Like heaven on a salad. Like crazy tossed with olive oil and fresh pasta. The culinary creations continued to emanate.

What wine would I pour with this newfound delicacy? Viognier would be too bold. Gerwurstraminer potentially too sweet. Chardonnay, not my favorite. Perhaps Champagne. Even better, my favorite Spanish grape, Albarino.

As I studied these creatures further, no longer chasing them from my garden, I pondered preparation and presentation of the aforementioned dishes. Would I add them live to the pasta? Surely they couldn’t be served live on salad, they would jump off. Actually, they’d be more likely to munch on the lettuce leaves while my guests and I munched on them–a captive audience in a way. But how to dress such a salad? With the finest olive oil and a rice wine vinegar of course.

Would their flavor be bold enough to hold up to baking? What kind of biscuit or bread could they be added to? What a wacky shortbread cookie they would make. Could they be pureed in large quantities like pesto? How lovely they would be as a garnish on tomato bisque or bread salad.

I had made up my mind. As they were devouring my basil, so would I devour them. I created a bug sanctuary from an old jar. With soil, twigs, water and basil of course, these bugs would think they’d died and gone to heaven (in a jar). I meant to harvest them and keep them alive until I had collected a great quantity.

But with all this fantasizing and preparation, I forgot one minor detail: I still had not tasted the tiny treats. With the possession and obsession of one of Poe’s mad characters, I took a seat in the garden in front of the plant and spied my victims. They looked so happy, so carefree ... nevermore. Little did they know they were the guinea pigs in what was sure to become the next epicurean empire. I assumed they had livers, perhaps the next wave of foie gras phenom was at my fingertips. From basil‑fed grasshoppers to mint‑fed earthworms would I go.

With these fantasies at the fore of my brain, I plucked one tiny green hopper from the plant. So delicate were its legs, so noble its head, so enchanting its color, I thrust out my tongue and lapped it from my palm like a bullfrog on a lily pad. All at once my hopes for fame and riches, for tapping into the newest haute cuisine fad, were dashed. For the little green bug tasted like a little green bug ... and nothing more.