It may be inoffensive and ubiquitous, but parsley gives me the irrits.
You can keep your flat and your curly versions. You can’t seduce me with your fancy Forest Green or Extra-Curled Dwarf.
I just don’t like it.
My disdain for the Ned Flanders of the herb world is partly because of childhood trauma and partly because the only flavour I can detect is a slight hint of wholesomeness.
But mostly it just annoys me.
It’s a lazy cook’s garnish used inappropriately on curries, and potatoes, and a wide variety of dishes where a different herb would have elevated the entire experience. Did you not have thyme?
Sometimes I feel like a terrific snob. At least the coriander haters might have a genetic excuse.
If people are that desperate to jazz up my lightly truffled oeufs cocotte, they should at least keep the sprig intact (even if it feels like lunchtime in a 1989 bain-marie). But, no, finely chopped is the default, and the result is impossible-to-remove flecks marring my perfectly grilled marron.
The word itself comes from the ancient Greek “petroselinon”, meaning “rock celery”. The Greeks believed parsley sprang from the blood of Achromous, the Herald of Death. They used to put it on tombs, long before they used it to ruin their papoutsakia.
I know there are times and places for parsley. A bold chimichurri on a charry steak, a gremolata slicing through the richness of an osso bucco, bright specks in a crab linguine.
Freud might have blamed my petty gripe on an incident from my childhood.
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When I was about 10, an eccentric relative (who usually served us brain and walnut sandwiches) served me up a large bowl of curly-leaf parsley with cabanossi and absolutely nothing else.
As someone whose love languages are fat and salt, the smoky sausage was gone in a flash, leaving me with a bowl of throat-tickling green.
I cracked the shits. She made me sit there until I’d finished the lot.
My siblings were enjoying their Golden North while tears streaked my face and the parsley sprang against my soft palette. It softly scratched my uvula.
I’m not a total wanker about it. If someone served me up some rock celery now I wouldn’t turn my nose up at it. It might twitch a little, though, which means I’m feeling an annoying tickle at the back of my throat.
