If you were an herb, which herb would you be?
Over the years, I’ve been asked to identify myself as many things. Which muppet am I? Both Statler and Waldorf. Which animal? An otter, of course. Disney princess? No thank you.
I’m more the supporting character type, but one who gets a really good musical number, like Sebastian the crab or Peg the Pekingese. But which herb? No one has ever thought to ask me that question.
So which herb would I be? Parsley.
Rosemary’s too pungent, too in-your-face. Dill is too Scandinavian, tansy too bitter, chervil too sophisticated, and angelica is much too hard to find.
So parsley it is.
Yes, parsley. Think of me as a sprig of herb lightly crushed under a slice of orange on a Denny’s breakfast plate. That little bit of extra effort on the side that says “Hey, at least we’re trying” which your dentist father orders you to chew on because he says it will freshen your breath. And, ultimately, that tiny nub of green a schoolmate tells you is stuck in your teeth an hour later when you have no access to a mirror and you start to worry that your breath is much less fresh than it was when you left the restaurant earlier that morning.
Parsley is rarely the hero, which is suits me just fine, because I almost never see myself as one. Instead, parsley is often minced well beyond an inch of its life and sprinkled over the hero like chlorophyl confetti. Visually, parsley is the finishing touch that both enhances and gently guides the eater’s focus towards the main attraction. If one thinks about it from a certain angle, chopped parsley might just be the culinary equivalent of a sequined push-up bra.
Parsley is seldom given a second thought, but it does put the verde in Italian salsa verde, the persil in French persillade, and the chimi in Argentinian churri. I made that last bit up, but I think you can see where I’m going with this. Without parsley, bouquets garnis would be ever so slightly less fragrant, but quietly slip a handful of parsley into a sauce or stew and a diner might think—consciously or sub— “What is this flavor? I can’t quite put my finger on it even though that would be pointless because I can’t taste with my extremities because I am not a butterfly”. But Lepidoptera or Homo sapiens, how marvelous would it be to be that little something extra which vaguely improves everything it touches?
In its way, parsley is that subtle, muted X factor which makes a lot of dishes a little bit better. Not a lot, mind you, but just enough to make a slight difference. And who wouldn’t want to be that?
Historically, parsley has a special place on the Passover seder plate, being dipped into salt water to represent the bitter tears the Jewish people shed under Egyptian enslavement until they were freed by G-d and Cecil B. DeMille in 1923.
In ancient Greece, to say someone “needed parsley” meant that that someone was about to die. The parsley in question was then used as a macabre garnish to deodorize the corpse and decorate the deceased’s tomb.
On a slightly less morbid-yet-a-little-bit-evil note, folkloric traditions suggest that only pregnant women and witches could grow parsley, or that pregnant women who grew parsley were doomed to carry Satan’s child, which I’d have thought was more up a witch’s alley, so to speak. And parsley’s slow germination rate was blamed on the idea that its seeds needed to travel from Hell and back anywhere from seven to nine times before it would sprout.
Like most people who’ve made it to midlife, I’ve cried bitter tears, mourned and tended the dead, and have been to Hell and back more times than any parsley seed could probably handle.
Give me a bit of fertile ground. It might take me a while to get going, but once I do, I’m hale and hearty and there when you need me.
Just please don’t let me wilt and die forgotten in your vegetable crisper.
Use me. The parsley fantasy me, not the actual me. I’ll never fit inside your vegetable crisper.
Stick me in a glass of fresh water and put me on your kitchen counter so I can both watch you cook and remind you that I exist. Tie me up with string and toss me in a boiling pot or chop me to pieces and sprinkle my remains over whatever suits your fancy or just break off a piece of me to add a bit of decorative flair— I promise I’ll do my best to make things just a little bit better.
What’s the worst that could happen? Dermatitis? Anaphylaxis? Or maybe I’m just not your thing and that’s okay.
At least then we can both say, “Hey, at least we tried”.
Somewhat Inauthentic Tabbouleh
As you may have suspected, I am not a gatekeeper of Eastern Mediterranean culinary authenticity. I’m just a guy who lives alone and does his best to use as much of the produce he purchased while grocery shopping on an empty stomach before it rots in his refrigerator as he can. And currently, I have a lot of parsley because I bought a bunch to garnish my dinners with because I thought it would make me feel more grown up.
It did not.
I’m also the type of person who often cooks like a grandmother— I add a little bit of this and a whole lot of the other, preparing dishes by feel and instinct while wearing too much Navajo turquoise jewelry with a cold cup of Chock full o’Nuts at my elbow and a Virginia Slims menthol quivering between my lips as I mutter disapprovingly about “kids, cats, rats and dogs”.
I just Googled that last phrase. Apparently, it’s not a thing. My grandmother made it up. Not the Sicilian one. The one from Kansas.
But I’m getting away from the subject.
This is the tabbouleh I sometimes like to make. Or one version of it anyway. Since it’s not part of my heritage, I’m probably more willing to switch things up. If I have no lemons on hand, I’ll use red wine vinegar. No scallions? A judicious amount of finely diced red onion will do just fine. No mint? No problem.
And that current lack of mint is a good thing, as far as I’m concerned. Mint likes to run roughshod over more subtle, leafy flavoring agents and gets more than its fair share of limelight. Think: mojitos and Girl Scout cookies. Mint demands your attention, bruises easily, and I won’t have it upstaging the hardest working herb in show business.
Mint is an asshole.
Parsley is the star of tabbouleh. Parsley is the star of this Substack post. And since I do all the thinking, writing, editing, fretting and photography here at Spatchcock, for today at least:
I am parsley. I may not be a star, but I can steal a scene or two when I want to.
And Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.
.Serves: 4. Easily.
Ingredients:
• 2 cup of bulgur wheat. Fine grain if you can find it easily. Medium if you can’t.
• 3 -4 cups loosely packed parsley. I like Curly. He’s my favorite Stooges.
• 1 cup finely diced tomatoes. I use cherry tomatoes because they’re better off-season.
• 1 scallion sliced thinly. Or a couple tablespoons of finely minced red onion.
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil. Or non-virgin. There is no oil shaming here.
• The juice of 1 lemon. Not Meyer. Lacking lemons? A couple glugs of red wine vinegar will be fine. Or rice vinegar. Use what you like— you’re the one eating it, not me.
• As much salt and pepper as you like.
Preparation:
Prepare bulgur wheat according to its packaging instructions. If there are no clear instructions, consult the bulgurmonger at your local bulgur emporium. Please make sure the bulgur is cool before using in this salad.
Give your parsley a good rinse, then dry it off in a clean cloth or paper towels, pick the leaves off the stems as best you can, then chop finely. I was lucky enough to find a vintage mezzaluna for about $5, so chopping herbs is a quick and relatively safe venture in my kitchen. If chopping with a knife, make sure its a big, sharp one. And godspeed.
Finely dice your tomato and onion, then combine them in a large bowl with your chopped parsley and add the cooked bulgur wheat.
Drizzle with the olive oil and lemon juice. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Mix thoroughly. I find mixing by hand both highly effective and pleasurable. Taste. Adjust seasoning or add more oil and lemon if needed.
It’s nicer when you cover it and let all the flavors get to know each other a little better in your refrigerator for a couple of hours, but it’s totally fine to serve immediately.
Don’t bother garnishing with parsley because that would just be utterly pointless. But, hey, at least you’re trying.
As a W.A.S.P., it’s probably unseemly of me to claim Oregano, but, dammit, I like Oregano - it brings back fond memories of making homemade pizza from those silly kits that were around in the late 1960’s.
I guess I’m cilantro because I’m polarizing and some people think I taste like soap.