Dill
I’ve been duped. Some time ago, during a short
break at the water-cooler, a colleague tempted me with tales of his wife’s
spectacular home-made mustard. He described scenes of their growing cottage
industry: twin ten-gallon pots gurgling on the stove top, the air pungent and
heady, his wife diligently stirring in her secret concoction of spices. He told
me of the clamoring crowds, her adoring loyalists, the farmers markets and local
businesses that set aside tables awaiting each painstakingly-crafted batch. He
very-nearly drooled describing how he brushes the precious unction on salmon
steaks before sliding them under the broiler. I pre-ordered a jar on the spot.
Weeks passed and my anticipation grew.
He stopped by my office every few days to give me the update -- she’s
gathering the essential ingredients, she’s planning to do it next week,
she’s making it tonight! -- until at last, this Tuesday morning, he
delivered the long-awaited jar. With trembling fingers, I took it and examined
the label. My smile slowly faded. My face, once flushed with excitement,
turned green. I very nearly dropped it in revulsion, but managed a wan smile
and a thank you. What he had neglected to mention all this time was the key
ingredient: DILL.
Those of you who know
me well can attest to my utter contempt for dill. Dill weed: the name itself
makes me recoil... as do the dark memories of the two most-traumatic dill
incidents of my life.
The first:
Thanksgiving. For the first time in memory, I step away from my time-honored
tradition of mashing the potatoes. I return to lend a hand, but before I even
take the masher, the evidence unfolds around me – a cutting board, a
knife, feathery remnants scattered, and a tell-tale odor filling the air. My
potatoes defiled! With dill! Tears stung my eyes as I began peeling another
batch.
The second: My birthday. A
specially-requested green bean salad. But wait! A suspicious green tendril. A
tentative first bite. Dill again! Dismay! Disgust! A confidence betrayed. I
shudder to think of it.
I don’t
recount these horrors to reawaken remorse in the monstrous dill-lovers
responsible. (You know who you are.) I am merely trying to paint an
appropriate backdrop for the mysterious events that occurred in my preparation
of dinner last night. Perhaps, given the essential history of dill and me (I
hate to use those two words together), you will be able to help me explain why
in God’s name I reached for that
jar...
Native to Europe, dill has been a
blight on the land since at least the days of ancient Greece. The fact that it
can be cultivated as far north as the Arctic Circle explains why it’s so
popular in Russian and Scandinavian cuisine (and why I avoid both as often as
possible, Stroganoff excluded). In Medieval times it enjoyed a spike in demand
for its effectual use against witchcraft. “Therewith her Vervain and her
Dill, That hindreth Witches of their will.” Supposedly, carrying a bag of
dried dill over the heart was considered protection against hexes, and here it
is employed by Dryden’s Nymphidia to frighten off the mischievous Puck.
The word “dill” actually comes from the Norse “dilla,”
meaning “to lull.” It won its name for its reputation to calm the
stomach and counter nausea, though it has the reverse effect on
me.
Why, then, was I tempted to use the
dill-laden mustard on our salmon last night? I could have substituted any other
mustard - I had at least four others at hand – but I distinctly reached
for the new jar, knowing full well the potential ramifications. I think I was
testing myself, checking in with my taste buds to make sure everything was
status quo. After all, there may be a time when I find dill appealing, hard as
it is to imagine.
With Jacob looking on
in amused interest, I brushed it on a salmon filet, ground salt and pepper over
it, and slid it into the oven. As it cooked, we tasted the mustard alone. It
had all the aspects of dill that I despise, particularly the way it blooms into
one’s nasal cavity and lingers there like a dank cloud. Jacob thought it
tasted like pickles (which oddly I adore) and told me that I need to keep my
mind open to new experiences.
Maddeningly, he was right. Baked into
the salmon, the dill-y mustard contributed a faint honeyed sweetness and musky
spiciness that was delightful. When I had finished, he gave me a sidelong
glance and grinned. “I guess you’ll have to admit that it passed
mustard.” Reluctantly, I agreed.
Posted: Fri - October 8, 2004 at 11:05 AM