“‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘Everything tastes of liquorice.
Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for [. . .]‘”–Ernest Hemingway, Hills Like White Elephants
I couldn’t stop thinking about the sorrel. I mean, the guy at the first drop off clearly said it was sorrel. Or I mis-heard, which is possible.
We’ve had sorrel before. Although, we’re no experts. I made it pickled with garlic pork chops that one Summer we were living together in England. And we liked it enough to eat it. We’ve never been inclined, though, to make it again.
But whatever this was. This mystery green leafy thing that turned up in our box. This thing we did not like.
This thing tasted like black licorice.
No it was not fennel. And no, it was not tarragon. (And no, it was not, in fact, black licorice.)
So, what was it? What is that thing that’s laying right across, just under the blooms, of the chives in the first week one booty picture?
I just might never know.
I thought it was tarragon. Wikipedia says tarragon tastes like anise.
Hate anise.