A series of essays.....
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| NATIONAL GARLIC DAY ~ APRIL 19, 2017 |
.....as seen through my eyes!
By: Jacqueline E. Hughes
When the English poet, John Donne, composed the poem
stating that, "No man is an island, entire of itself, every man is a piece of
the continent, a part of the main," he was not referring to me. At least, not
when it comes down to the growing of, cooking with, or consumption of the garlic
plant.
Evidently, I am that island that stands alone and at a
great distance from any and all garlic plants and/or consumers of said
plants!
The real reason I bring this up, especially, writing this today, is that it is 'National Garlic Day' around the world and I
am forced to attempt to ignore the reality of this celebration. I, seriously,
was never going to mention this minor factoid in public, especially due to my
Ukrainian heritage, but here it goes: I hate garlic!
Okay, okay....hate is a strong word and one in which we
school our own children never to use. Let's call it a phobia of mine as I do
suffer an extreme fear and aversion to.....garlic.
No. No, I am not a vampire, nor do I claim to own any
supernatural or 'black magic' powers that I am aware of. Thanks to Hollywood
and popular literature, we're well aware of the myth that garlic deters all of
the above therefore, placing the nugget of possibility into our consciousness
that such supernatural powers might exist if garlic happens to be the 'perfect
protection' against such things.
Garlic is an onion-like plant (Allium sativum) with a
bulb that breaks-up into separable cloves and has a strong and distinct
'odor' and flavor. Garlic isn't dubbed the 'stinking rose' for
nothing!!!
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| GARLIC PLANT FLOWER HEAD |
Even though I own 'Alliumphobia,' (fear of garlic), I will concede to the
fact that the flower of this plant is pretty with its white, reds, and various
shades of purple that are more than pleasant to the eye. I like flowers. That's
where it ends.
America's history with the herb wasn't always a positive
one and gourmands frowned on it because it was mainly used in ethnic,
working-class neighborhoods. And, they say America doesn't openly show class
distinction! Diner slang in the 1920's often called garlic the Bronx halitosis and
Italian perfume. It wasn't until the 1940's that America embraced garlic and
recognized its (apparent) value.
My aversion to the 'stinking rose' stems from its
overpowering taste and smell, how it causes horribly bad breath and, it's odor
seeps out from the body's pores days after its consumption. Cooking with it can
pervade the air and permeate the vulnerable cloth that succumbs to it, such as
kitchen curtains, tablecloths, and clothing, while lingering in them for
eons.
Oh, yes indeed......! I know this first-hand, my friends!
As a young child, both of my parents worked full time
and my dear, Ukrainian Grandmother would watch my older brother, Ronnie, and me
until Mom and Dad picked us up after work. Often, however, we would stay for
dinner as my Grandmother was never one to cook only 'just enough' and knowing
how exhausted my folks were after a long day, prepared ample food to feed a
small army.
Grandma had lived and grown-up as a young adult in
her homeland, the Ukraine, and, consequently, was taught to cook using 'old
world' recipes that were passed down from one generation to another. Garlic,
fortunately, was not Grandma's most significant ingredient, as I recall. The
distinct aroma of raw and cooked onions pervaded the air at every meal I can
remember. Even breakfast consisted of pierogies sautéed in light fat and mixed
with slivers of buttery fried onion. These small, dough pouches, filled with a
variety of mixtures, had been the boiled pierogies smothered in a combination of
cottage cheese and sour cream we had consumed for dinner the night
before.
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| GRANDMA WITH ME ON HER KNEE AND PAPA BESIDE US |
So, I do not have an aversion to onions. Their aroma
reminds me of Grandma and all of the long, hard work she would perform every day
just to keep many mouths fed and so many people feeling happy and
loved.
My afternoons were another story altogether!
Papa Moshak, my Ukrainian Grandpa, would take me on his
rounds of the neighborhood when we would check on everyone in their homes to
make sure they were not sick or injured, hungry, and most importantly....alone
or unhappy. You see, Grandma and Papa were a solid team and absolutely nobody in
their neighborhood went without a meal, a friendly face, or a kind word for any
reason.
Tucked in Papa's wheelbarrow where containers of
Grandma's cooking were stashed around me, we would head-off for the small,
durable brick homes that dotted this neighborhood of Mishawaka, Indiana. Papa
often packed some of his own tools in the wheelbarrow just in case someone
needed something mended or fixed.
Together, we would knock on as many as thirty doors and
wait to be let in to say hello and offer food or help. You see, their neighbors
were, for the most part, from the 'old country,' too, and I only wish now that I
had paid more attention to their jovial conversations. I would love to be able
to speak their language today!
As often as Grandma cooked with onions, many of these
people preferred cooking with garlic, as they had back home. Their newer, well insulated brick homes in the States were just that and, without
opening windows for days on end....the enclosed kitchens (rooms) reeked of stale
and recent garlic odors.
Old Mrs. Stasevich would always give me a huge hug of
affection when we entered her back door and, with my nose pressed tightly against her
ample bosom covered by a floral, bib apron, the overpowering smell of garlic
generously poured from her breath, skin, and the rose-covered cloth. There were no
roses, however, to be smelled here!
After visiting with Mrs. Stasevich, we saw Mr. Babikov
and presented him with dinner. Later, Papa fixed the kitchen sink of old, Mrs.
Mosalev whose red, brick home was close to our last stop for the day and she
gave me enough wrapped, hard candies to take home for my brother, as well.
Please don't misunderstand me. I was overjoyed to be
treated warmly by so many 'Grandma and Papa' figures as we traveled from house
to house. My four-year-old mind and heart recognized and valued the loving
nature of these kind souls who often thanked Papa for bringing me around because
they were missing their own grandchildren at that moment. You could say that I
was kind of a charm for most of them and, in turn, was certainly spoiled because
of it.
And, you might think that because of this charmed life I
would consider the smell of garlic as a positive and memorable scenario. It was
memorable, and I could never get over having to smell so much garlic in so many
places almost every day of my young life. I never told Papa this. I never
mentioned it to Grandma or my parents, either.
As I grow older myself, I remember with so much joy my
wheelbarrow excursions and understand that there must be something said about
the apparent longevity of all of these kind, older people who went about their daily
lives within their snug, little homes cooking merrily in their kitchens with so
much garlic.
I wish I could have enjoyed learning to love garlic as a child.
Just as I wish, as children, we had been taught to speak the old world language
of my dear Grandparents and all of their neighbors and friends.
In honor of that exceptional childhood spent around so
many hard working, generous, and kind individuals, I gladly step aside from my
solitary, tiny island today and cheer National Garlic Day, April 19, 2017, and pay respect to those families who migrated to this country seeking a better
life for themselves, their children, and their grandchildren.
You see....no man is, truly, an island. And, no man
stands alone. Even something you can dislike as much as I do garlic, can bring you
together with others in so many remarkable and unforgettable ways.
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| A FRENCH MARKET SELLING MOUNDS OF GARLIC Photo: The Good Life France |
Copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline E. Hughes
All rights reserved
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