Walking at dusk in my neighborhood, a fishhook barrel cactus wore a crown of fruit that looked like mini pineapples. People eat those, I thought. Paused on the sidewalk, I considered the house in the background, built probably in the late 50s or early 60s, and the cactus added as an ornament more recently. Long before the houses were built and waves of settlers arrived, the cactus grew in south-central Arizona and northern Sonora, Mexico, and people ate the “tart and lemony” fruit.

When I moved to Phoenix, I didn’t know the fruit was edible. The cactus in my family’s yard bore fuzzy-headed yellow ovals every year, but they didn’t register as “food” in my brain. But as I read more about how people ate before the industrial era, and how people continue to eat today who were taught where to look and how to eat sustainably (unlike this fellow), evening walks become a potential feast. It’s like learning bird calls. A wall of generic avian noise transforms into specific, distinguishable voices.

I briefly contemplated knocking on the door, introducing myself, and asking if I could pick the fruit off their barrel cactus. Would they know it’s edible? Would they not care – or would they feel some ownership of the fruit and tell me to leave? When I asked a different neighbor about picking the figs that grew over her wall into the alley, she said to go right ahead. But I just kept walking. Maybe I’ll start carrying tongs with me so I can sneak a fruit or two without permission.