The Wisdom of L.A.’s First Couple of Foraging

I need to remember that Pascal Baudar is not trying to kill me—even though the plant he’s offering looks exactly like hemlock, the shiny green sprout that spelled curtains for Socrates.

“So I can eat this?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “Trust me.”

We are in a scruffy, sun-baked clearing within earshot of the Foothill Freeway, north of Burbank. All morning I’ve been munching on shoots and branches I assumed only rabbits and squirrels ate, or maybe druids:...

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