After spending an evening hunting cicada in Western Springs with Marilyn Pocius (cooksguide), and coming home with less than a dozen bite-sized morsels, I ambitiously met the dawn and went in search of the little bastids in several local forest preserves.
No luck.
Then, driving home along Lake Street, desultory and beaten, I spotted a tree with the familiar brown knobs glistening in the early morning light. I hit the brakes, careened to the curb, and started foraging.
This was a motherlode. Nearby, several other trees promised similar riches. I filled a ziplock back with about 100 tenerals and a few white ones that had just shed their shells (interestingly, the tenerals seemed to cannibalize the white ones almost immediately).
This collection experience was, honestly, an electric thrill, kind of like being present when cheese is being made, when the rennet hits the milk and it all starts...changing. I saw before me the full lifecycle of this amazing creature; squirming out of the ground (and I was grabbing these babies hand over fist), making for the tree, climbing, then arching out of the carapace, a ghostly white creature, ready for love, insect-style.
Seeing me walk back to my car, I imagined River Forest folk out for a jog must have thought me an etymologist collecting samples; little did they know. To civilians, what I had in my hand was just a bag of bugs: to me, it was dinner.
Back home, I quickly blanched about half.
I froze one-quarter and refrigerated the other quarter.
To be continued…
"Don't you ever underestimate the power of a female." Bootsy Collins