Dipso du Jardin

Who can identify this plant? I’m restraining myself from issuing a roll-call of those who might (or should) be able to do so.

Give up? Les français call this l’absente. Les anglais call it wormwood. The world calls the drink brewed from its root – yes! – Absinthe! – and shudders with an odd mixture of apprehension and maniacal excitement at the very thought of the green fairy’s tipple extraordinaire. Had I been born a wench in Rouen in 1875, there is no doubt that I would have turned to absinthe just after running away from the evil Marquis’ scullery, hotfooting it to Paris and starting modelling for Renoir or Toulouse-Lautrec. Had I been born a wordy, rebellious, precocious bourgeoise in Paris in 1845, I would have, to the distress of maman et papa, become hooked on the stuff as I tried to emulate young Rimbaud. God knows, I probably would have had to smoke hashish to keep up that act. And then? Downhill. Thank heavens for 1977.

In the vegetable garden which occupied my attention for such a prolonged period, l’absente grows wild. Myriam allows it to grow because the silvery leaves are so very beautiful in a flower arrangement. So wild was the path of the wormwood this summer that I was charged with digging up many stands of the silvery stuff. I made a feeble comment about cooking up some absinthe sauvage but the mirth which greeted my proposal was of the sort which made it very clear that there was not going to be any homebrewed absinthe. What did I do? Some will be shocked and disappointed to learn that with a heavy heart, I dug up the wormwood.

Here are some wormwood roots, which are what you need to make absinthe. If memory serves me correctly, the internet is a great source of guidance to those who wish to make absinthe de la maison. Vodka is required.

I have greatly enjoyed the gentle absinthe available in Australia, purged as it is of psychotic and hallucinogenic ingredients. The Symboliste poet lurking in the lower cerebellum is coaxed out hiding – one blusters with dreamy Baudelairean eloquence and yet one’s inner psychopath stays under lock and key. My one experience drinking the real deal absinthe in the Czech Republic, on the other hand, had somewhat dire consequences: a lengthy argument of the blazing variety devoted to the relative merits of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, conducted over several hours in a public square, several lost hours, mysterious bruises, a sore throat, and, of course, an almighty hangover dredged from one of the more fetid levels of hell. Just in case my dear grandfather is shaking his head in concern and wonder at such depravity in one just past the heyday of her youth, I note that I do not know anyone who has consumed absinthe in the Czech Republic. without such dire consequences. I will hopefully be happily in the C. R. in the next few months and this will give me the opportunity to consider whether I want to sample the fearsome genuine article once more, albeit with care. As a dilettante scholar of literary Modernism, I do consider it my professional duty to investigate such matters. Fear not, I shall treat the green fairy with extreme prejudice.