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I don’t
often see the sunrise on Saturday, but there I was—bathed
in the first golden rays of the weekend, with a bag of hot Croissanwiches;
standing in line, with a few friends, for the annual herb sale
at the Ellington Agricultural Center. An unusual variety of pungent,
tasty plants waited for me on the other side of the metal barn
wall. Thai basil, borage, California bay and Angelica aren't generally
found—even at the better nurseries—so, we arrived very,
very early to secure our selections. Already, there were more
than fifty people ahead of us. Up and down the line, I saw fellow
herb enthusiasts…happy, buzzing, dedicated gardeners…slightly
geeky salt-of-the-earth types. Twenty years ago, they were probably
brooding in front of lockers, feeling isolated there on the fringe
of mainstream high-school experience. They were science club kids,
student government treasurers and hall monitors. And now, they
stood with me, waiting for the sliding barn door to open. I felt
at one with Middle America—easy listening stations, Reader’s
Digest, and elastic waistbands.
Surrounded by these gentle, glowing faces, I knew the stories
couldn’t be true. Brad and Blaine had, perhaps, embellished
for dramatic effect. I couldn't imagine this innocuous group turning
into an aggressive, angry mob. Surveying again, I made out a mother
with a Graco stroller, a white-haired grandfather and his grandson,
two pudgy men with their noses deep in a tattered, paperback herb
guide. These were people who put carrot sticks and celery in their
children’s lunch boxes, not the makings of some violent herb
riot.
An hour later, hundreds had gathered behind us. I remembered a
newspaper headline from 1979: “Eleven trampled to death at
The Who concert.” I had second thoughts as the scraping sound
of the opening door silenced the throng. We moved, quickly but
orderly, toward the entry. Nearby, I heard the growing rumble
of tense voices and hurried footsteps. It was too late to back
out. Like a leaf in a tornado, I was instantly sucked into the
melee: People shoving, jockeying for position, hostile grunts,
outwardly-thrust elbows, and everyone frantically grabbing at
the flats of seedlings. Adrenaline kicked in. I drove my shoulder
into the horde and moved from table to table. Within minutes,
my box was nearly full with bushy, aromatic foliage. That's when
I saw the Thai basil—a tall, robust specimen in the center
of the table—and I reached for it. The Graco stroller crashed
into my leg. The mother steering it glowered at me and reached
for the same plant, but I was closer. I blocked her with my forearm
and claimed my prize, then turned and rushed toward the cash registers.
The roiling sea calmed as I walked to the end of the barn. I stood
in the checkout line and waited for a big “I told you so!”
from Brad. Comparing my selection with the other survivors', I
smugly complimented myself on having made superior choices. The
woman with the stroller stood about ten feet to my left; I noted
her puny Thai basil plant. I gloated internally and thought “Bring
a bigger stroller next time, suckah!” I paid the attendant
and it was over. Victory was mine and I smiled triumphantly at
the exotic feast contained in corrugated cardboard. “There
are no substitutes for fresh herbs,” I mused, as I settled
my treasures into the back seat of my car.
My first memorable experience with fresh herbs was with the sweet
basil my dad grew in the backyard. That initial taste opened a
new world for me, flooding my mouth with honeyed, spicy glory.
A thousand trills ran up my spine and exploded in my head. Sweet
Mylanta! For the first time, I was truly alive! And I've not been
the same since. I've tried more than a dozen varieties of basil
(there are well over 100!), but sweet basil is still my favorite.
About 20 years ago, that fondness was almost destroyed. During
a brief but joyous life in California, my sister and I made pesto.
Gallons of it. I was never one to worry about over-indulgence;
but I should have stopped eating after the first gallon. It was
nearly five years before the smell of pesto lost its ability to
make me sick. I've now fully recovered. And since my garden is
small, and many of my herbs grow in pots, I have safe, limited
quantities that prevent a repeat debacle.
With varying degrees of success, I've been growing herbs most
of my adult life and, in a good year, I grow Thai, lemon, sweet,
and Genovese types of basil. They join about ten other herbs in
my garden, on any given season. I most often grow French tarragon,
spearmint (a/k/a garden mint, lamb mint), garden (common) sage,
flat leaf (Italian) parsley, rosemary, French thyme, creeping
thyme, dill, and Greek and Italian oregano.
When I’m
cooking, my garden provides that crucial top note of flavor. Fresh
herbs are the piccolo, flute, and trumpet of any well-orchestrated
meal. There's nothing better than scattering the zesty, green
confetti over steaming pasta. Especially when the leaves were,
moments before, playing host to a pair of bees in the sunshine
of my yard. The satisfaction is profound. Circle-of-life types
of thoughts hover in my head as I pick, chop, sprinkle and eat.
In colder months, I rely on the grocery for fresh herbs, but the
quality and selection are unpredictable. Like most produce, it’s
better to enjoy them in season. A small handful of chopped parsley
and tarragon endows a brightness so often lacking in egg dishes.
Herbs are splendid for topping a pizza, finishing soups and sauces,
scattering in a green salad, and with fresh fruit. Watermelon
and cilantro combine beautifully. I also like strawberries with
basil and crisp apple slices acidulated in lemon and rosemary
water. Whatever you eat, think herbs. “What would take this
over the top?”
The list below may inspire some ideas in your kitchen.
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Try some
of these ideas or strike out on your own. Sample herbs that are
unfamiliar to you. My list is, by no means, exhaustive. Just remember
that the stronger the herb, the more caution required. When in
doubt, I pull out a small sample of whatever I’m making—a
spoonful of soup, a ladle of sauce, a slice of meat—and I
basically create a small test. I add some of the herb and then
check flavors. This has saved many soups and sauces from a serious
lapse in judgment. Contained experimentation is everything.
Thicker leaves stand up better to cooking. Bay leaf, rosemary,
sage and thyme all withstand roasting and grilling temperatures
superbly. The thinner leafed herbs are better with little or no
heat. For maximum impact, add these at the end of preparation.
The next
time you're cooking and ask yourself, “What does this need?”,
consider adding brightness. Most often you’re missing the
tang of an acid (vinegar, citrus zest or juice) or the zing of
an herb. If the weather is hot, I say go for the green. Fresh
herbs are an ideal compliment to the blazing, summer months. Grow
them yourself, find a farmer, visit a local market, or fight through
a vicious mob. It’s worth it. A little Graco wrestling never
hurt anyone.
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