Warming Up To Fennel
I often see dill-like fronds shooting up along the Burke-Gilman bike trail, swaying in the wind as I swoosh by on my bicycle. For a moment, the sight of dill reminds me of the wondrous, creamy memory of chicken soup with rice, but then I remember that the fronds belong to a buried bulb of fennel and my happy memory dissipates. I have a subconscious aversion to fennel bulbs. Fennel bulbs smell of licorice and licorice reminds me of my ex-girlfriend. She once brought back black licorice from Denmark, and just like our relationship, the bitter, rubbery flavor lingers in my brain.
On a particularly gloomy winter night, however, I confronted my distaste as the lone jar on the bottom rack of my spice cabinet stared back at me. The olive oil impatiently shimmered and, left with no other choice, I deposited a few clumps of fennel seed into the pan. The jar reeked of licorice but as the seeds cooked, I noticed a new, earthy smell that almost tasted meaty. The scent recalled flavors of fennel sausage or pizza sauce, something nutty that yearned for an acid like tomatoes or lemon juice. The flavor added a new wrinkle to our normal sautéed spinach and now whenever I bring home the leafy greens, I often find the jar of fennel seeds in my other hand.
My re-education in fennel wasn’t over yet. I searched in the store for salad ingredients and found fennel bulbs to be half-off. I looked around at pricier options or out-of-season vegetables and placed the fennel in my bag. Worth a shot, I guessed, especially since the full bulb cost fifty cents. This time, I chopped and mixed it with kale, orange wedges, roasted hazelnuts, pickled red onions, and goat cheese. I winced with satisfaction when I took the first bite, the subtle, bitter flavor of the fennel slices balancing the sweet acidity of the oranges and onions. We ate variations of this salad repeatedly during the last months of winter and into spring, always making sure to pair fennel with oranges.
What about those swaying fronds? How could I cook those? The answer came at the beginning of spring, when I added the chopped fronds with peas and asparagus into a bubbling vat of risotto. This time the steamy scent of licorice made me smile as I knew a slightly bitter, herby flavor would offset the sweetness of the fresh peas and asparagus. I felt my icy predisposition to fennel thaw with each creamy bite. The sun shone through our dining room window and allowed me to see fennel for more than a distant, bitter memory.
There’s no quicker way to raise my temper than to tell me that one day I’ll think differently about something. But in this case, this spring I discovered the magic of cooking with fennel as a vegetable, an herb, and a seed. It allows me to describe the sweetness of other ingredients in that fennel is everything that sweet flavors are not. My dishes felt more cohesive as if they were telling a story with highs and lows and transitions that made sense. And now on the other side, I see the error of my previous ways. Whether or not you cook with fennel, I hope this spring allows you to reimagine one truth in your life, large or small. Who knows, you might end up cooking fennel too, or hopefully embracing a bitter flavor as something to be savored.
