Feral fennel a ‘one-trick pony’
At the front of my herb garden there is a flourishing patch of perennial fennel. It’s half a metre high and almost a metre wide.
It is the first thing I see when I head out our front door each morning and, if we’re not running so late for school that the dew has already dried, it sparkles with water droplets suspended by the bedazzled webs of diligent spiders.
There’s a good reason why my fennel is flourishing. Unlike the mint around it, which is routinely assaulted for mojito cocktails, I’d rather be sober than let a single sprig of fennel pass my lips. Does anyone actually like this ferny herb? Who can honestly say that the thought of munching on fennel makes their mouth water? There are so many more sociable herbs on the anise spectrum, such as chervil, dill, star anise, French tarragon, anise hyssop and glycyrrhiza glabra, better known as liquorice.
In the kitchen, fresh fennel is a bully boy, unlike basil, which brings out the best in any tomato, or rosemary, which elevates roast agria potatoes to comfort food nirvana.
Even Linnaeus gave fennel short shrift with his botanical naming conventions. It’s known scientifically as foeniculum vulgare, which makes it sound as harsh as it tastes.
I could blame childhood trauma for my aversion to fennel’s feral fragrance. Wild fennel has colonised many a country roadside and it grew waisthigh along the grazing strip between our dairy farm and our run-off block up the road.
My upper lip still involuntarily recoils at the memory of herding cattle through it, and how my skin stank all day after making its acquaintance.
I grow bronze fennel, which, unlike its verdant cousin, has a dishevelled, slightly gothic appearance and an unappealing texture. At least dill and chervil have the decency to mellow out on salmon gravlax or gently soften in salsa verde. Fennel is dentally unrepentant. It’s like chewing hair soaked in aniseed.
If I hate it so much, you might ask, why don’t I just pull it out? Good question. As a horticultural hoarder, I planted it on a whim last summer and have granted it a stay of execution on several grounds, the most obvious being that in order to get shot of it, I’d actually have to wrestle with the heinous stuff.
Like all umbelliferous (umbrellaflowered) herbs, when fennel runs to seed it’s actually quite delightful, with lacy blooms that attract honey bees and beneficial insects.
My plant is currently home to a bustling bordello of Asian harlequin ladybirds, who I hope will soon sink their fennel-scented fangs into the aphid hatchlings on our willows.
If you can abide its pungent perfume, slender-stemmed fennel seedheads are great fillers for cut flower bouquets. They are as dainty as spring gypsophila but provide summery starbursts of sunshine-yellow.
Collect the seeds to make herbal tea. Apparently it stops people farting, which explains why fennel was one of the original ingredients in the gripe water prescribed to windy babies.
Chewing on fennel seeds is also said to cure bad breath, though for the sake of your friends and family, I’d stick to peppermint toothpaste if I was you.
I’ve said my bit. By all means, you’re welcome to attempt to persuade me otherwise. Just don’t waste your words extolling the virtues of fat-bottomed Florence fennel, for sweet finocchio (foeniculum vulgare var. azoricum) is not the same thing.
Whereas leaf fennel is a one-trick pony, with only its overpowering taste to thump your tastebuds, bulb fennel complements its milder flavour with a satisfying crunch. Florence fennel’s blanched bottoms are as crisp as celery or a homegrown Granny Smith apple, fresh off the tree.
Feel free to accuse me of horticultural hypocrisy and culinary contradiction but I rather like Florence fennel, either baked in a saucy gratin or thinly shaved into salads with a stupefying drizzle of fresh lime juice.
Indeed, I’d go so far as to encourage you to grow your own. Sow it now, while the soil’s cool and moist. Choose