Abundance can be contradictory. Something’s always available, so we don’t question its existence. We don’t wonder what makes it unique. During the recent spring bloom when Russian olive scents wafted on spring breezes, I thought of Wallace Stegner’s remembrance of landscape Wolf Willow. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that common Russian olives and Stegner’s wolf recollected plant share roots in the same plant family.
These familiar trees dot western landscapes, punctuating pastures and lining streambeds. We can’t miss silvery leaves contrasting against deep green native cedars and brighter cottonwoods. While it never grows as tall Kansas’s state tree, it shades cattle and offer prime real estate for nesting birds. After more research, I decided this recent new world arrival is a mess of inconsistencies.
Most call it a Russian olive, but, in truth, its Middle Eastern origins make it a Persian olive. Over time, it spread into southern Russia and by the 1920s to the U.S. Its ability to fix nitrogen in its roots permits it to thrive in minimal soils– a perfect fit for western landscapes.
When you examine fencerows and windbreaks, it’s clear birds relish its fruit and deposit undigested seeds below roosts. Our former fencerow sprouted scores of pale starts amongst mature red cedars. While feathered friends enjoy eating these misnamed olives, few plains residents do. However, diners in Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq prize this plant’s pale, oval drupes, including them in Norwuz, a festive meal.
Those who do consume them select fully ripe fruits. Unripe ones are unpleasantly astringent. In addition, the seed is disproportionately large and the flesh mealy, which explains why many Fertile Crescent region cooks dry and pound them and use the flour to thicken soups. Innovative cooks find internet sites offering jelly and syrup recipes utilizing Russian olives.
Though small, this fruit packs a nutritional and pharmaceutical punch. Rich in vitamins A, C, and E as well as bioflavonoids, it’s a source for essential fatty acids, an unusual quality in fruit. Another source mentions that researchers are investigating its ability to slow or stop cancer cell growth. Other medical practitioners use oil from the seeds to treat bronchial conditions as well as distilling juice from the flowers to treat various fevers. It appears this tree that’s made itself at home on the plains might be good for more than a place to raise baby birds.
Because of its ability to withstand poor soil, cold temperatures, insects, and drought, several states including California and Wisconsin have identified it as an invasive species. In short time, these saplings can overtake native trees, particularly along waterways. Despite the negative press, some landscape nurseries market Russian olives for their attractive appearance, minimal care, and survivability.
Russian olive trees are living contradictions. Cousin to Stegner’s wolf willow which inspired a memoir about landscape, these mostly uncultivated trees and their large seeded, mealy fruits are rich in nutrients and pharmaceuticals. They didn’t originate in Russia. Biologists have determined they threaten native plants. They thrive in minimal soils. They’re so common most don’t notice their presence. Like the author’s northern relative, they make us think of landscape and how inconsistent life on the plains can be—productive one moment and destructive the next.
Native Kansan Karen Madorin is a local writer and retired teacher who loves sharing stories about places, people, critters, plants, food, and history of the High Plains.