Every wisp of smoke carries a story. For millennia, humans have burned fragrant herbs, resins, and woods to mark moments of reverence, to purify the air, and to connect with something deeper than words can reach. Today, few of us make our own homemade incense—yet the process remains as accessible as ever, especially when the raw material grows wild all around us. On Long Island and across much of North America, one plant dominates marsh edges and roadside wetlands: Phragmites australis, the common reed. Though invasive and often unwelcome, this tall, whispering grass hides a secret. With a little knowledge and care, its dried stalks can become a soft, slow-burning charcoal—the same carbon our ancestors used in ancient incense and pigments.
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Every autumn, the ritual begins: rakes pulled from sheds, blowers roaring, bags filling with leaves. For many, fall yard cleanup is about creating order before winter sets in. But when we clear every corner, we sweep away far more than debris—we take shelter from bees, butterflies, salamanders, and countless insects who rely on those leaves to make it through the cold. Even bigger furry friends like squirrels and chipmunks benefit from the extra shelter.
This season, it may be time to rethink what fall yard cleanup really means. By leaving some spaces untamed, we create pollinator habitat, wildlife shelter, and healthier ecosystems, all while keeping our yards beautiful.
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The glow of a fire pit has a way of pulling people together. The crackling wood, the smell of smoke on the breeze, and the rhythm of conversation create the perfect setting for a drink that feels alive with history. For us, that drink is homemade hard root beer.
Unlike the store-bought soda that most people grew up with, this version connects back to the earliest roots of brewing in North America. It is flavored with plants that once held medicinal value, brought to life by fermentation, and shared in the spirit of community. Making homemade hard root beer gives you a chance to step into that lineage, to become part of a chain that stretches from Indigenous healers and colonial homesteads all the way to your backyard gathering.
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Picture a late-summer trail on Long Island. You rub a spicebush leaf and get that peppery citrus note. A nearby sapling shows off the mitten-shaped leaves of sassafras. Then—abruptly—the scene breaks character: an otherwise healthy sassafras has browned almost at once, the leaves still clinging as if the tree forgot how to let go. That unsettling “drought look” after a week of rain is the calling card of laurel wilt, recently confirmed on Long Island and now part of our forest’s story. [1]
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Long before marshmallows were soft pillows in hot cocoa or gooey layers in s’mores, they were something far more serious: medicine. Nearly 4,000 years ago, along the banks of the Nile, Egyptians cultivated a humble wetland plant called Althaea officinalis — the true marsh mallow. From its thick white root, they extracted a slippery sap rich in soothing mucilage.
Mixed with honey and sometimes nuts or spices, this sap became a chewy, nourishing preparation reserved for pharaohs and the gods. It was not just a sweet indulgence but a functional remedy, used to ease sore throats, calm coughs, and heal wounds. In this earliest form, the history of marshmallows was not about campfire fun but about healing, comfort, and divine luxury.
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Storm season reshapes Long Island’s beaches each year, and when storms like Hurricane Erin churn offshore, they leave behind a quiet treasure for those willing to look: driftwood. These sun-bleached branches and salt-smoothed logs are more than just sea-tossed debris. They carry stories of storms, tides, and time itself — and for centuries, people across the world have seen driftwood as a gift from the ocean, ripe with possibility.
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Editor’s note: This article was originally published in July 2025 and treated salt-hardened wool armor as an established Viking Age technology. Since then, we have learned more about both the evidence and the limits of that interpretation. One of the goals of Forgotten Skillz is to keep learning as better information becomes available, so this article has been substantially revised to distinguish documented history from modern interpretation and experimental possibility.
The idea of salt-hardened Viking wool armor is wonderfully compelling. In its familiar form, warriors who could not afford mail soaked heavy wool clothing in seawater or concentrated brine, then dried it repeatedly until salt accumulated in the fibers and transformed the fabric into a stiff, inexpensive form of armor capable of reducing damage from blades and other weapons.
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In an age of satellite precision and phone-guided maps, it’s easy to forget that for most of human history, people found their way across vast, untamed landscapes using nothing but their senses, stories, and the shape of the world around them. When it came to navigation, they followed the pull of the sun, the lean of the trees, the whispers of the wind, and the tales embedded in rocks and ridgelines. These skills weren’t optional. They were vital. And they still are.
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With the selection of granola bars and protein powders available today, it’s easy to forget that the art of portable nutrition is ancient. Long before modern energy snacks lined convenience store shelves, high-altitude travelers and nomads were fueling their bodies with something far simpler and more enduring: tsampa.
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Summer Foraging on Long Island is a fun hobby, but it’s also a return to traditional knowledge, a way to connect with the land, and a chance to gather wild food and resources hidden in plain sight. Long Island’s forests, fields, and shorelines offer a surprisingly rich bounty when looking to fill your basket with edible greens, wild herbs, or materials for crafting and building… especially in early summer.
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