Chicory
(This 750th Buffalo Sunday News
column was first published on August 14, 2005.)
I consider chicory very attractive, even though it
has only those boutonniere blossoms going for it. The poet Margaret Deland
captured their quality when she wrote of them as "dear blue eyes."
Close up I admit that the rest of the plant is quite
ugly. The only dandelion-like leaves form a basal rosette and even those have
mostly wilted by this time of year. Without leaves the stems are then, as one
author described them, "naked and gawky." The plant is, like
dandelions and coltsfoot, another alien and like them it grows in uninviting places,
along roadsides and in abandoned fields.
But I still urge you to like this plant. You don't
have to look at it close up; instead simply enjoy those flowers whose soft hue
is like that of the bluejay.
Two legends are associated with chicory. In one the
plant was once a beautiful maiden who refused the advances of the sun. Old Sol,
in retaliation, turned her into this flower, forcing her to stare at him and
making her fade each day before his power.
I didn't appreciate the last part of that story until
I set out one afternoon to take the accompanying photograph. The blossoms had
disappeared and I had to return the next morning to find them again on display.
In fact, Linnaeus considered this plant one of his timekeepers, opening its
flowers at 5:30 a.m. and closing them in mid-morning. Translating those times
from the latitude of Sweden to western New York, here it blossoms from about
7:30 a.m. to noon.
The other legend relates to one of chicory's
alternate names, blue sailors. In this story the beautiful maiden fell in love
with a sailor who left her for the sea. She waited patiently for his return
until finally, knowing that her lover had drowned, the gods took pity on her
and turned her into this plant still wearing her sailor-blue blossoms.
Today we think of chicory as a weed but it was not
always so. Thomas Jefferson had specimens sent to him from Italy and he
recommended the plant as cattle fodder to his friend, George Washington.
Indeed, it is grown as a hay crop in Europe where some claim that it serves better
than alfalfa. Sheep especially love to eat it.
And so do some of us. The very young leaves serve
well in salads just as do those of chicory's close relation endive. Because the
chicory leaves soon turn bitter, herbalists keep the plants in the dark. The
plants then produce white leaves, called "witloof" by Belgian
growers, which they export as a salad specialty. Young leaves and roots are
also boiled and eaten like spinach and carrots. And once the plant was
established here, Native Americans soon chewed the young roots like gum.
But we older folks know chicory better as a
coffee-substitute, additive or flavoring. During both World Wars when coffee
was unavailable, dried chicory root was often substituted. And commercial
coffee-makers sometimes adulterate (or they might claim enhance) their various
brews with chicory, especially when the world coffee price rises. Some people
even prefer the stronger and even more bitter taste of chicory.
Unlike coffee, chicory is caffein-free and is
considered by some to undo the stimulating effects of coffee. Jack Sanders
points out that a new word "chicoraceous" was coined to refer to
coffee tasting too much of chicory.
Then, of course, there is the litany of medicinal
uses of this plant. I will cite only one list. In the 17th century Italian
physician Pierandrea Mattioli prepared a confection by chopping chicory
flowers, adding sugar, pounding the mix with a mortar and letting the result
liquefy in the sun. He wrote that his candy "strengthens the heart; opens,
cleans and strengthens the liver; banishes heartburn; stops fevers and
incipient dropsy; and cools all internal organs. In brief," he concluded,
"this sugar serves all infirmities."-- Gerry Rising