Fern buds, the herb for rheumatism and tea for gout. The fern buds on my menu are called “fiddleheads” in English because they resemble the rounded end of a violin. They grow in the northeastern United States and eastern Canada, especially in the province of New Brunswick, but also here in Stockholm, in local national parks, where they have become a symbol of regional pride, and their short harvest season is celebrated in the spring with various festivities. Fern buds are eaten when they are still closed and young. They come from the fern Matteuccia struthopteris (popularly called “devil’s back”) and, before the colonization of North America, were a traditional food of the indigenous population. They are not cultivated, but are collected in (often hidden) places in the forest. The most common way to cook fern buds is to boil them in salted water; then, they are fried in butter with salt. Crisp and very aromatic, fern buds are a perfect side dish, alongside any dish with which they could be combined. As a rule, they are served with asparagus and regional specialties, such as Atlantic salmon.

In the corner of the forest, hidden in silence, Buds are born, in green mysteries. Violin meters, gently twisted, Dancing with the wind, in a traveling waltz. They come to life under the rays, in dew and dream, In New Brunswick, in the springs of paradise. They are carefully picked, from hidden leaves, Their ancient story, steeped in legends. Boiled in salt water, then in butter, Crisp and aromatic, they are served on plates. Alongside salmon, served with asparagus, A gift from the forest, an endless feast. In the dance of nature, with a light rustle, Fern buds, a touch of thrill. Symbol of the earth, of the first world, Pure and fragile taste, from the times of the theme.

Fern Bud Festival, a plant for rheumatism and a tea for gout, the seasons urge us to return to simplicity in the company of birds, madrigal symphony, on a walk on May 13.

In the silence of the forest, in the shadows, they grow, tender and wavy, with a delicate glow. Violin dancing in whispers of air, spinning in silence, such a rare rhythm.

Bathed in sunlight, kissed by dew, in the parks of Stockholm, where spring feels like a new one. Carefully picked from their secret embrace, a treasure of nature, a fleeting grace.

Boiled in salt, then kissed by flame, golden and crispy, they earn their name. With salmon, with greens, such a refined feast, a gift of the earth, perfectly conceived.

In the gentle waltz of nature, such a brief moment, the violin whispers in elegant leaf. A symbol of the seasons, of untold stories, a taste of the wild, a bold memory.