Plants in the umbelliferae family are easy to spot. They look like umbrellas, or parasols, with straight stems that, at a certain point, split into spokes that hold a lacy blossom cap. Identifying which member of the family you’ve spotted is another matter for most. It could be carrot, parsnip, celery, anise, coriander, cumin, fennel, parsley, dill, lovage, chervil, angelica or caraway, all of which have various wild and cultivated forms, some small, some gigantic. Last summer, a friend’s chervil was knee-high, while in Sicily we saw false fennel that could have been a parasol for a giant’s wedding. The lacy cap could also be poison hemlock, AKA poison parsley or devil’s bread, which is why picking feathery leaves or pulling roots of unidentified umbelliferae is not recommended.
The tiny blossoms on that lacy cap bloom before they shrivel, leaving a tiny fruit, at which point the umbrellas are less Victorian ladies’ and more 70s rattan furniture: spokes topped with beads. In the case of caraway, the fruit dries from golden yellow to a warm, brown crescent with five ridges – so, while we say caraway seeds, they are actually tiny seeded fruits. They have a complex flavour: aniseed, yes, something of cumin and pepper, too, and also wood with a bit of resin, which makes them warm and sweet. And generously good, roaming far and wide in the kitchen, in rye bread and buns, and with pork, duck, lentils, cabbage, cheese, eggs and apples. Writing all this is a bit disingenuous; I’m making myself out to be a constant caraway user, when in reality the jar of caraway gets pushed to the back of the cupboard as boxes of relaxing tea are added to it.
