vii: Botanica Fabula
Woodruff got wealth beyond gold Amanda Edmiston It was a dew-clad, warm May morning. Around the ruins of the sixteenth century church my friends were to be married in, we were strewing herbs: Marjoram (Origanum majorana) for health and happiness; Rose petals (Rosa spp.) for love; Sweet Woodruff (Galium odorata) for wealth and prosperity. The sweet scent of the Roses filled the air, and little bursts of pink dust floated from the dried flowers we scattered. But it is the vanilla-scented coumarins rising from the Woodruff that will forever draw my mind back to that day. Later, sitting beneath the first blossoms of a lone Hawthorn tree (Crataegus monogyna) on the hillside beyond the churchyard, we sipped champagne infused with Woodruff and Strawberries (Fragaria × ananassa)— a nod to traditional German Maiwein. There, I wove words telling of the legendary bride who, many lifetimes ago, struck a deal with the fae to enchant her beloved. She is said to have dressed in faerie green, gifted to her by the faerie laird as she sat in the swirling waters of the nearby stream at midnight, and uttered charms to bring her the power to entrance. Eventually, her marriage was lost; she was forced to live in Elfland, beneath the tree, to repay her debts to the faerie laird. The Maiwein we sipped was intoxicating; so, too, was the confusingly sexy triethylamine that the Hawthorn exuded into the atmosphere. Perhaps it was the balminess of the late spring evening that compelled everyone to dance— or perhaps it was the presence of the fae within the hill. The Woodruff’s heady coumarins infused the air as we trampled its soft whorls of leaves and its scattered star-drop white petals beneath our feet. Twinkling heavenly bodies shone high above our heads. The next morning, having camped nearby, the bleary-eyed wedding party emerged. Our livers were aching— the toll for our over-zealous merriment. We made our way to long tables laden with breakfast: the exuberant golden-yellow tones of freshly fried samosas; the tall glasses of Turmericlaced Mango lassi. These were handed to the sleep-fractured guests. The Turmeric did its work. The anti-inflammatory, liver-easing mouthfuls slowly revived everyone, and I started to share with the small group at my table an ancient Indian tale I first heard many years ago. It was the story of how a liverish Rajah, suffering from a grumbling digestive system, sought an intelligent and kind son-in-law. Eventually, he was overjoyed to see his daughter marry the gardener’s son after he was gifted Turmeric, or Haldi— the Indian gold —to eat in every dish. It healed his liver complaints, and many of his multiple aches and pains; its giver also captured his daughter’s heart. 36
