Asparagus, sweet cicely, Gareth Hunt burping, and a red mac
Asparagus, sweet cicely, Gareth Hunt burping, and a red mac
Abundance: Thursday 4 April 2024
It won’t stop raining. It won’t stop raining long enough for a lame sun to brighten the 56 pages of Don’t Look Now I’m trying to read. It won’t stop raining long enough to half fill a barrow of weeds without the soil turning to sludge. And it won’t stop raining long enough for the sun to encourage the seedlings towards it.
It is, at least, elastic band season. Between now and the end of May I’ll acquire all the rubber bands I need for the year. Small packets of red lentils and black, that erroneously purchased pack of coffee beans, and that half finished bag of penne, all safely secured thanks to my enthusiasm for asparagus.
Heartbreakingly, I don’t grow what is perhaps my favourite vegetable, as it takes so much room for a few short weeks of productivity - which would be fine if it didn’t need to be entirely without even friendly neighbours for the entire year. Asparagus doesn’t suit polyculture. So I buy it, and with it all the elastic bands I need.
I may not have homegrown asparagus, but I do have sweet cicely. Isn’t it beautiful.
I owe its now-longtime acquaintance to my father-in-law. Getting on for twenty years ago, when I mentioned I liked the sound of it, his face lit up that I might relieve him of numerous self-seeded plants that were more nuisance than ornament to him. As a result, I happily occupy the centre of an affectionate Venn diagram with sweet cicely on one side and he on the other.
There are a few herbs that make you wonder how you got by before you knew them, and sweet cicely is one1. Its flavour and fragrance is a sweet coming together of fennel, liquorice and star anise, all of which contain its essential oil, anethole.
It is so good with shellfish, stone fruit, rhubarb, and most certainly asparagus and eggs. It has another gift, as botanist John Parkinson wrote in the 17th century: ‘it gives a better taste to any other herb put with it’. It is a catalyser, one whose qualities fade behind others it upliftings: chop it with parsley and it’ll appear more parsleyish without sweet cicely seeming present. This ability to enhance other herbs’ flavour - as well as being delight on its own - makes it a favourite in France, Scandinavia and northern Germany in particular. As botanist John P alludes, it was once used commonly here in the UK, where the implied sweetness of its gentle aniseed lessens the need for adding sugar to rhubarb and other sharp fruits.
Every part is edible. Its incised fern-like leaves emerge first, followed quickly by small white flowers, creating a fair impersonation of cow parsley. I love how sweet cicely displays its life cycle - leaf to flower to seed - within a few short weeks. By the time spring has settled in it might reach a metre tall, catching any whiff of breeze that might be passing, bees drawn to those frothy white flowers.
The seeds - little, ridged, liquorice comfits - are most intensely flavoured. You can just see a few forming in a couple of places, above: they’ll get to 3cm or so long. Eat them while they’re green: the texture and flavour declines as they turn brown. Any that fall on to fertile ground will - as my father-in-law found - readily germinate: eating is the surest way to avoid self-seeding. If you save seed to start off in modules, do so before winter as they need a period of cold to germinate. I take the easy road and usually let a few seeds fall where they like, relocating any seedlings that result: they’re free plants and - equally importantly - doing so reminds me of my father-in-law, of whom I am very fond.
Sweet cicely doesn’t mind the cold2, so in mild locations you might be able to harvest it through winter, but here in the UK it usually retreats against the chill. I’m particularly grateful, if I’m honest: the fact that it comes back at the first sign of lengthening days helps me believe spring proper will soon arrive.
Today, somewhat worn down by the overcast (at best) and torrential (more usual) conditions, I felt the need for sweet cicely’s and asparagus’ implied springtime. I put on the Colour of Spring3, cook, and pretend.
Asparagus and spring onion tortilla
This is just about thick enough to deserve the name tortilla4, but I wouldn’t argue if you called it an omelette. The work of perhaps 10 minutes from thought to fork, it partners three of my favourite spring ingredients to glorious effect. If you haven’t any sweet cicely, this works very well with tarragon instead.
Serves 2
2 tbsp olive oil
10 spring onions
7-8 asparagus spears, tough ends snapped off and discarded
1 fat clove of garlic, or two slim, finely chopped
6 eggs, lightly whisked
A small handful of sweet cicely (or tarragon), roughly chopped
Half (or quarter, if large) the spring onions lengthways. Use a peeler to shave thin slices from the asparagus - start just below the tip, towards the base, taking slices alternately from opposite sides - leaving a thin slice attached to the tip.
Warm the oil in a frying pan (I love my Netherton prospector pan) of around 25cm across. Add the spring onions and cook for 4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the asparagus and cook for a further 4 minutes, then add the garlic and cook, stirring a few times for two minutes.
Pour in the eggs and allow to cook undisturbed for a couple of minutes. Sprinkle with sweet cicely, pepper and a good pinch of salt.
Take the pan off the heat and place a plate over it. Using oven gloves, flip the pan over, turning the tortilla onto the plate. Slide the tortilla, cooked side up, back in the pan - a little untidiness here is not usual - and cook for another few minutes.
If you feel the need for greenery, a couple of quartered, dressed little gems are very food here, but I’m most likely to eat this from the pan, sprinkled with too much salt, picking at it with a fork.
If you don’t have sweet cicely in your life, you really ought to do something about that.
Should you find yourself wandering the mountain pastures from the Pyrenees to the Caucasus, you will almost certainly come across sweet cicely growing wild; so too, in the hills of Wales, northern England and Scotland. And, more intentionally, in my rainy corner of Devon.
The only downside of eating tortilla is that I am reminded of the finest tortilla I ever ate - the classic Catalan kind - where the potato and onions were slow-cooked in what my memory tells me was a pint of olive oil, producing something of such intense savouriness, with the perfect crust and a giving core. If you ever have the opportunity to bribe Rachel McCormack to do so for you, pay whatever it takes.
What a lovely and inspirational article and recipe. I have sweet cecily in my herb garden and it’s gorgeously pretty, but I haven’t cooked with it yet. Now I know what to do with it - thank you!
This! : “Its slightly aniseedy flavour also makes it very good with seafood. Try it, too, in egg dishes such as an Omelette aux Fines Herbes, or in a yoghurty sauce to dress a cucumber salad.”