Diary of a bad housewife: A fine line between foraging and pilfering

We had been back from holidays for about a week before I realised it was gone. It was a bit like the time G didn't notice for ages that her husband had shaved off his beard, and only then, after he'd pointed it out to her. "It was obvious, and also not obvious," she'd said, like some Eastern sage.

In this case, it was only as I was collecting the post one afternoon and bent over at an odd angle that I finally registered something was missing from the front garden. A tree, in fact. One of the pair of white magnolias on either side of the path was simply no longer there. There wasn't even a memorial hole to mark the spot.

It seemed so extraordinary that someone would steal it that I kept searching, like a cop out of CSI, for any remains to indicate death by natural causes – the most obvious cause being "neglect by owner". Will's theory was that the Plant Liberation Front had staged an intervention and rescued it from a cruel and careless mistress. "At least it's gone to a good home," he said.

It's true the tree had suffered from what is known in paediatric circles as "failure to thrive", which meant it was scrawny and only about a metre and a half high, thus saving any thief the need for awkward heavy machinery or, thanks to the loose soil, even a spade. One firm yank and that magnolia would have been good to go.

I've since heard of other plant crime. L told me he'd come out the other day to find someone had made off with a large lavender, a thriving basil and two spearmint, roots and all. Thoughtfully, they'd left behind the oregano and the rocket. The plants were growing in a bed he'd planted out on the council verge, so not on his property precisely, but a low act even so.

L said he'd heard there's a thriving trade in the theft of mature plants from professional landscaping jobs. Thieves take note of properties, then swoop in under cover of darkness and make off with the pricey ones. Spikiness no object. Earlier this year, some plant gang or other managed to steal $5000 worth of cactus from a botanical garden in the Hunter.

A criminal act, of course, but stealing giant cactus – or even a struggling white magnolia – at least makes commercial sense. What self-respecting thief would trifle with a basil plant?

L and I concluded the prime suspects had to be other gardeners, once we ruled out juvenile delinquents on the grounds of zero interest in horticulture or in adding piquancy with herbs. Nor would delinquents have been so selective. Other gardeners? Those nurturing, sharing, non-violent, community-minded members of society? (Or am I thinking of footballers?) A disturbing thought. It was like discovering out that a fellow yoga student has stolen your Lululemon mat.

There are rules, spoken and unspoken, about these things. There's a line between foraging and stealing, a line that means you can only gaze longingly at somebody's laden lemon tree if it's inside their fence, or hope a kindly, crinkle-eyed and apple-cheeked gardener emerges with a basket of fruit to press upon you.

On the other hand, I understand it is legal to pick fruit from a branch overhanging public land – ie, a footpath – even if the tree itself is on private property. A useful distinction to raise next time an owner appears with a shotgun.

Our big old mulberry tree, stretching out over the back fence, used to be a permaculture-y, community resource like that. Noisy knots of local kids used to gather to collect berries, or leaves for their silkworms, and I loved to hear their chatter. Then some unknown tree-lopper and/or mulberry hater – not the council – came and cut off the lower, reachable branches when we were away one time. Note to self: never leave home.

As well as foraging the odd orange or lemon that creeps over the boundary, L and I agree it's fine to pick a few leaves from herbs someone has planted on a public verge. This is to be expected, welcomed, even. Courtesy dictates restraint – garnish rather than two batches of pesto. And not the whole plant, obviously.

Courtesy dictates restraint – garnish rather than two batches of pesto.

Grey areas I raise with L: if it's acceptable to pick some sprigs of lavender from a bush growing through someone's front fence, what about a big fat rose? L says no, on the basis of size and level of horticultural difficulty. What about an emergency Thai-curry situation, say, when all the shops are closed: would it be all right to dig out a few pieces of lemongrass growing in a huge clump just behind someone's fence in a derelict-looking rental property very like the one near my place? L says no. Not unless you ask the owner. The same with cuttings, although we have all stolen those. Respectfully.

A cutting, however, is not a tree. My other magnolia is still in the ground, looking a little smug to be the last one standing, but also lonely without its runty mate. I haven't dared buy a replacement. I'm trying to convince myself symmetry is overrated.

Please explain

Our weekly podcast giving you insight into the stories that drive the nation.

Listen now