I cut the rosemary this morning, the lack of love and attention these past few weeks plainly written in its leggy tendrils, reaching too far for the sun, like arms longing for something to hug.
Rosemary, the herb of remembrance.
What do I remember when the piney, resinous odor of rosemary sticks to my fingers and leaves a lingering perfume on everything I touch?
I remember Morocco, where I lived in a very modern house, its kitchen festooned with orange and black tiles, to me a kaleidoscope of color like perpetual Halloween.
Every time I walked to the front gate, its rusted hinges squeaking like tiny mice hidden in hollow walls, the piney smell of rosemary enveloped me. Thick, bristly and rigidly trimmed in a way that reminded me of photos of my crew-cutted father, this rosemary grew along the sidewalk, silent as sentinels. My long skirts always brushed against the tiny tongue-like leaves. And so the scent of home followed me as I meandered through the labyrinth of Rabat’s open-air market where I bought fresh red meat and just-caught wide-eyed fish and ripe juicy melons for my endless kitchen experiments.
Rosemary, the herb of remembrance.
I remember grilled pork loin studded with garlic and strewn with broken rosemary branches, the taste of earth and smoke mingling with the lavender-scented summer air of southern France, the drops of red wine on my lips and the rough linen napkins, white as the pigeons that bobbled at my feet. The sound of dogs barking rang in my ears, just as church bells tolled for Compline in the nearby monastery.
Rosemary, the herb of remembrance.
Yes. I remember this. And more.
- Photo credit: C. Bertelsen
*Traditional English saying. Medieval couples planted rosemary near the entrance to their houses. So prevalent was this belief that men often uprooted the flourishing bushes lest anyone think they were hen-pecked and dominated by their wives!
© 2012 C. Bertelsen
CYNTHIA D. BERTELSEN 
I’ve always said, rosemary and basil are the two herbs I’d take to a desert island.
How interesting. One of the ladies who worked for us spoke English very well because she’d worked for Americans in Port Lyautey.
All good, Nancy. Don’t forget a pinch or two of rosemary in bread takes it to a whole ‘nother level.
Cynthia, my father was a naval aviator stationed at NAS Port Lyautey. My memories are few but rather vivid – sandstorms, octopi drying on lines, the old crenellated walls of Rabat. I use my mustard pots as pen and pencil holders. There is just enough of the label left on one to identify the mustard as Pommery Moutarde de Meaux.
Rosemary soaked and laid on the grill — rosemary-and olive oil-marinated chicken breasts atop — so good. It speaks of the earth to me.
Kitty, I love rosemary, too!
Tammy, I don’t have any experience wearing period garb, but your words provide a nice image.
Shauna, glad you liked the post. Thank you for telling me!
Curt, oh boy, Port Lyautey! What do you remember? I knew it as Kenitra – we used to picnic nearby there. Loved Morocco, probably the best place we lived while overseas. Yes, the pot is a mustard pot – I like them a lot.
Rosemary is also said to be a symbol of friendship. I hug my rosemary bush so I can float in its aroma throughout the day. My dog also carries the scent of rosemary whenever she hunts for lizards deep into the shrub. And the scent of rosemary permeates many a Moroccan garden where carefully trimmed shrubs line garden walks. I love rosemary!
Loved this post! Long dresses swishing past the rosemary and thyme are one of the great pleasures of wearing period garb.
Loved your guest post, Cynthia.
Lovely, wistful post, Cynthia! Awakened some rather dim (earliest?) childhood memories of my family’s time in Port Lyautey and Rabat. Plus, I have three pots just like the one in your photo. They are quite handy. I think mustard was sold in them years back.