Rosemary
If you ever were to doubt your love’s devotion,
give him (or her) the sniff test: Place a sprig of rosemary under his nose and
watch closely. Indifference reeks of betrayal. But if the woodsy-sweet perfume
stirs him, his heart is true. And if your sweetheart is moved, as is mine, even
more by tongue than nose, steep his taste buds in the stuff. It will remind him
that he is yours.
This was my strategy
for dinner last night. It was supposed to be Jacob’s night to cook, but I
preempted him once I had rosemary on the brain. Admittedly, I was also tempted
to test the claim above. When Jacob got home from work, I wafted some rosemary
under his nose. The results were inconclusive. He wasn’t
“moved” per se, but neither was he indifferent. If anything, he was
curious as to why I would be eagerly waving herbs around. I had expected as
much, so I moved on to the taste test.
We had some center-cut pork chops
thawed, so I rubbed them with chopped fresh rosemary from the plant on my porch.
The spicy resinous aroma saturated the kitchen, and I nearly swooned. (I would
pass the sniff test with flying colors.) I sautéed the chops in some
garlicky olive oil until they were nicely browned and cooked through, then took
them out to rest while I made a sauce. White wine, cream, chicken stock, more
chopped fresh rosemary, and (secret ingredient) two teaspoons of balsamic
vinegar went into the pan and simmered until reduced to coat the back of a
spoon. I nestled the pork back into the sauce and served it with some roasted
potato spears and simple dressed
greens.
There were six pork chops. Six.
I don’t mean to broadcast our gluttony, or to make you raise one eyebrow
in disgust, but they all disappeared. To be sure, they were small, but the
truth is that they were absolutely irresistible. I had two. Jacob had three.
Then he sat there, eyes darting toward the kitchen, until he finally said
“I blame the rosemary,” and finished the last one
off.
In this age of fact and pragmatism,
rosemary has slipped out of legend. Now it’s just an herb, albeit a
popular one (herb of the Year 2000 according to the International Herb
Association). But for centuries rosemary was intertwined with love and memory.
For instance, it was metaphorically tied to the birth of Venus, the Roman
goddess of love. In the myth, Venus springs lustily from sea foam, and so it is
with rosemary, which is most content clinging to the salty cliffs of the
Mediterranean. Rosemary’s Latin name,
Rosmarinus,
means “mist of the sea.” In English Tudor times, the herb played a
symbolic role in weddings, representing faith in new love and remembrance for
families left behind. Bridesmaids gave sprigs of rosemary to the bridegroom.
Brides wore corsages of it to show they would always honor their families.
Sprigs were burned as incense, and were also added to wine to toast the happy
couple and ensure their nuptial bliss.
With enough rosemary under our noses, we
might be able to remember back even further. The first references to rosemary
were found written in cuneiform on stone tablets dating from the 5th
millennium B.C., making it the oldest known herb. In those earliest of days, it
was likely used in ointments and balms to soothe the mind, and ever since, it
has been thought to improve memory. In the 1st century, Dioscorides
the Greek physician prescribed it as a learning aide, and students wore springs
of the herb in their hair when they studied. Rosemary was tossed into graves by
ancient Greeks and Romans to remember the departed. Ophelia murmurs,
“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray, love, remember.”
And with one whiff, we do.
Posted: Fri - August 6, 2004 at 03:17 PM