One wonders if, perhaps, the eccentric little band of herbalists was inhaling too much allium.
After all, they call themselves the Wild Onions, this bunch of herb garden enthusiasts, and you can just imagine them at their monthly meetings, nibbling paper-thin-onion-and-mayonnaise triangles, sipping chive tea, shuffling through thick volumes, reading aloud from Chaucer, Swift, Shakespeare and some ancient Chinese poet named–honest–Tu Fu (A.D. 759) Tittering until tears at times ran down their sun-kissed cheeks–and not because someone had just sliced into a big, juicy Bermuda onion.
These “herbal sisters,” as they refer to themselves, were carrying on with purpose. And in the mail the other day, in a brown paper wrap, there arrived the, er, fruit of their six-year labor.
It’s a doozy.
Called the Wild Onion Cookbook of the Northern Illinois Unit of the Herb Society of America, this is not some docile compilation of onion stews and onion dips and on and on.
“It’s quirky. That’s because we’re so quirky,” confides Beata Hayton of Evanston, chairman of the Wild Onions, who tend to their chives and shallots, elephant garlics and prairie nodding onions in gardens from Flossmoor to Waukegan. “Herb growers–I don’t know if I should say this for publication . . .,” ponders Hayton, “tend to be eccentrics.”
Indeed.
Peeling away the covers for a reading of the contents reveals these offerings:
Syrup for Frigid Brides, p. 351.
Garlic/Chili Bug Spray, p. 9.
Garlic Ice Cream, p. 352.
Onion and Honey Cough Syrup, p. 357.
Onion Hush Puppies, p. 185.
Green Onion Jelly, p. 340.
Garlic Dog Biscuits, p. 358.
Pear and Leek Soup, p. 90.
Candied Garlic with Chocolate Glaze, p. 354.
And a thorough reading of the 365 pages of pungent history, poetry, folk wisdom and literary snippets uncovered these cloves of allium esoterica (Allium is the genus name for the bulbous herbs including the onion, garlic, shallot, scallion, chive and leek.):
It seems the little stinkers go way back in time. The Roman emperor Nero (A.D. 37-68) was called “Porrophagus” or “leek eater” because he downed the chubby stalks daily to improve the quality of his voice when he declaimed his poetry. The Latin name for onion, unio, originally meant a large pearl, and the roots were thought to instill valor. Thus, they were a regular part of Alexander the Great’s diet. Garlic as a remedy for earache and toothache are mentioned in the Talmud, the ancient Hebrew text.
Back in Egypt, before the days of ovulation kits, the fertility test of choice was this: A woman who kept a clove of garlic in her womb until dawn, and whose breath then smelled of it, was thought certain to conceive.
The medicinal properties of garlic date back to the dawn of history, but Pliny the Elder (A.D. 23-79), the great naturalist, was certainly one of the first to pen a list of garlic prescriptions, some 60 of them. Since then, it’s become backwoods wisdom that pressing the cut face of a garlic clove against a bee bite is sure to take the sting out. And in the 1828 “A Guide for Butlers and Other Household Staff,” there’s a dandy recipe calling for equal parts roasted onions and soft soap, beaten together and applied hot to the corns on one’s feet. Writes the author: “This I have known to assuage the raging pain of a corn.”
And about that Syrup for Frigid Brides, it is this that Turkish bridegrooms supposedly concocted:
1 cup finely minced chive leaves and roots
2 cups champagne.
Boil, then simmer, until reduced to a thick cupful. Drink, unstrained, with a large bottle of champagne.
The authors note that, if necessary, the poor bride’s nose was pinched as the aphrodisiac was poured down her unwilling throat.
So much for romance.
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The Wild Onion Cookbook is available for $15, plus $3 for shipping and handling. Make checks payable to the Northern Illinois Unit, HSA, and send to: Northern Illinois Unit, HSA, P.O. Box 794, Libertyville, Ill. 60048.
