When Life Gives You Nettles . . . Make Nettle Soup

Stinging nettles—yowch! See those glassy hairs on the stems? They break off if you touch them, pushing histamine, serotonin, acetylcholine, and several types of acids into your skin, and giving you—“nettles.” At first it stings, then you might get welts where they went in, and then they begin to itch, an insistence that may come and go, but especially come back in the middle of the night. A day or so later, the experience is just a memory.

The plants look like mints, with their opposite leaves, so sometimes you grab them to squeeze and sniff—then scream. They are part of the woodland foliage in the prettiest places—moist spots, near creeks, where you may be walking in shorts.

You, my friend, get caught. You get nettled. Your first thought might be, “A pox on you! Get them off this earth. Herbicide! A bulldozer with a sharp blade! Kill! Kill!”

So you follow links and learn that before flax came to northern Europe, nettles were the fiber that people—probably many of your ancestors— had to use for much of their cloth. It was hard work, though, because the fibers in nettles are attached firmly to the wood, and also because at every node, there’s a chunk of wood someone has to pull off.

You’ve heard me rave—or rage?—about nettles, so you call to ask about my experiences. I tell you how I went down that same line of reasoning you did, and decided to let my fingers learn what my ancestors may have experienced. I made enough yarn to make a small wall hanging.

I tell you all about it. You hear the pride in my voice and think I’m a little dingy.

I would have told you that the damsels in the folk tales had better technique than I did. No one would wear a shirt made this stuff. A welcome mat, maybe!

You hang up and keep reading. You learn that the coastal Native Americans used nettles for twine for fishing nets. And that it has been used medicinally for a thousand years. Meh, you think. That was a long time ago.

But then you read that nettles is super-nutritious—high in vitamins A and C, protein, and a slew of minerals, and it’s a “new gourmet ingredient,” so you get interested. So you call me again and ask if I’ve ever eaten nettles, and I tell you, “Absolutely! They’re—well, really green!”

And here is the rest of what I tell you.

In the spring, I put fresh leaves in lasagna instead of spinach. Why buy spinach (that has to be produced, transported, sold, purchased) when I already have so many nettles? I don’t think anyone has ever commented until I tell them. “Tastes like lasagna,” they say. “With green stuff.”

I’ve also steamed it, like spinach, and it tastes—green. Until I add butter, and then it tastes like something green with butter. Maybe asparagus, but with a raspier texture. Not a texture I enjoy, but then maybe I harvested it too late, when it is said to get that way.

Soup: for me, that’s the real calling. I made nettle soup recently. It was really—green. And good. This is what I do.

After I have “enough,” maybe sixty or eighty tips, I return to the kitchen. I then lift the shoots one at a time (my left hand in a plastic bag again, scissors in my right), and clip the leaves and terminal bud into a bowl, and discard the stem. I fill the bowl with water and swirl it with tongs that I then use to lift the contents onto cookie sheets or cooling racks. I spread them thin so that if there are any little flying insects, they can depart, and if there’s the occasional caterpillar, I will see it. This time, I saw no bugs whatsoever probably because it’s early in the season and the weather has been cold. [An alternative method is to clip the leaves off after boiling the nettles. That way, you don’t need to wear a plastic bag. But I like handling the beautiful greenish red folded hairy foliage with its paired leaves. So pretty!] Now I’m ready to make soup! Here’s the ingredient list I used. You’ll need a blender or an immersion mixer.

• Sixty or so nettle shoots
• 2 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 white onion
• ½ C celery tops and a few celery stalks (optional)
• 4 C of chicken stock
• 2 sausages, already cooked (optional)
• salt

While a large pot of salted water comes to a boil, I start a second pot, the soup pot. I pour in a little olive oil and a chopped onion, which I sauté. Then I add about a quarter-cup of uncooked white rice and whatever else I want to add, plus a quart of stock. This time, I used an onion we’d already baked in the woodstove; it gave a caramelly flavor. I also added two celery stocks and a half-cup of celery tops. For stock, I used a commercial chicken stock. I’ve used veggie stocks before, but prefer the chicken.

When the salted water boils, I toss in the nettle leaves and buds for two or three minutes, then drain them. [At this point, the glassy hairs are disrupted, and they are safe to handle.] I run the scissors through them a few times to break up fibers a bit. I add them to the soup pot and let it all simmer another fifteen minutes, then run it through the blender. After returning the soup to the soup pot, I add a couple sausages that are already cooked, sliced up. They give little prizes to the eater!

So—should you end up in a place with nettles, make sure no one has applied herbicide there, then go for it! If you still think I’m a little dingy, I’m okay with that. I’m pleased you got out and tried a native, unimproved, naturally-occurring crop of the earth. And it was good, wasn’t it? Really—well, green!