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Walt Whitman wrote of grass in 1855: “I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful greenstuff woven.”

When it comes time for happy hour, "lemon balm makes an absolutely delicious liqueur," says Greenstuff.

“These are last year’s, as you’ll have noticed. I suppose the remains are being cleared out. It may be anything—roots, greenstuff, old apples: it all depends. Sometimes there’s nothing at all, especially in good summer weather. But in hard weather, in winter, there’s nearly always something. Big roots, usually, or kale, or sometimes corn. We eat that too, you know.”

There was a smell of greenstuff.

Through the mesh he could see a brown bowl, some greenstuff and the ears of two or three rabbits.