Sunday, February 26, 2017


I grew up in a garlic-free home.  Neither of my parents liked it, so we never had it.  Not in the house, not in the garden, not in the spaghetti, not in the meatloaf, not in the garlic to be found in the Dobell household.  I did hear legends of its overwhelming foul odour, which was said to be at least ten times worse than skunk.

Imagine my surprise when, out on my own and grocery shopping, I found these little things that looked sort of like little tiny onions, only different.  Very cheap, so I decided to try them.  Sliced and sauteed in butter, their pungent aroma pervaded the house and the flavour was startling.

I still didn't realize this was the dread garlic.  I shopped at an Asian market where English signs were infrequent at best.

My housemates were less than impressed, but, without knowing anything of the health benefits, I was probably the healthiest I had ever been.  Pregnant, too.

My delight in garlic survived that pregnancy, where "morning sickness" was something of a conservative estimate of the amount of sickness I was feeling.

I still love it.  Of all the things my parents grew, cooked, and ate, I can think of very few that garlic would not have improved.  Even vegetable marrow, which was one of the vilest things I was ever forced to eat.

I don't think even garlic could have improved my attitude toward rice pudding, though.


  1. It is also very easy to grow Ronni.

    1. Yes. I'm about to take the plunge and plant a clove or two.