From the Anderwyke Yew to The Parsnip That Didn't Fall Far from The Tree
via the Magna Carta, Ann Boleyn, Symbols of Eternity, Honey, Hecate & Ivy Watkins
Hello Gentle Reader,
It’s wonderful to be writing to you again. I must admit that today’s letter will perhaps be a little more reflective than normal, it has been a strange few days. The death of the Queen has discombobulated me more more than I ever thought it would. I think it may be because she has always been such a constant; even if you are not a monarchist its feels like something big has changed. It has also made me reflect on my own losses: my nan would have been in her eighties if she was still with us but sadly she only made it to her fifties.
So, in order to address that horrid unsettled feeling I turned to my solace in nearly all things: history. Things might be in a state of change now but history helps to put all things in perspective, especially with a side of nature and folklore.
Did you know that although the UK has fewer woods than pretty much any other European country we have substantially more ancient trees? There are over 2,000 ancient Yew trees in Britain and only around 100 in the whole of the rest of Europe. There are also over 100 great Oaks in England but there are only 80 in the whole of the rest of Europe between Spain and Athens. Great in this sense means over 800 years old.
I did not know this either until I read it in Oak, Ash and Thorn by Peter Fiennes. Its such a wonderful book but I had to stop reading it to investigate these trees. I had a wonderful few hours and I mean to spend more time with these historic trees but I thought I’d pick one to share with you as you may not have time for the rabbit hole of trees that I fell into. Sorry for the mixed metaphor but I couldn’t help it.
I chose the Ankerwyke Yew. This incredible tree is a minimum of 1,400 years old but could be as old as 2,500. Yes, you read that right, 1,400 years old, minimum. This tree was there in 622 CE and may have been there in 478 BCE, even before the founding of Roman London. You can just go and visit it, if you fancy, but the National Trust are very strict about parking, although they have provided benches around the tree. You can find it on Magna Carta Lane.
Yes that Magna Carta, it is said by some that the Magna Carta was sealed here under this very tree and not across the river at Runnymede. According to A London Inheritance there is some justification for the theory that the tree could be "the last surviving witness to the sealing of the Magna Carta 800 years ago" as ’In the 13th century, the landscape would have been different as the area was probably rather marshy as it was within the flood plain of the Thames. The Ankerwycke Yew is on a slightly raised area of land (therefore dry) and with the proximity of the Priory perhaps both lend some credibility to this claim’
This isn’t the only historic event that is said to have happened under the branches of this tree, apparently it was also a silent witness in the courtship of Ann Boleyn by Henry VIII and possibly to his proposal. We’ll never know but if both tales are true then the giant trunk of this tree has seen two of the most change precipitating events in English history.
Yew trees are tricky and have a strong connection to both war and death. They were there preferred wood for longbows and ships as the wood does not rot in water. The wood also burns very hot so it was a useful fuel source for forges. The tree was sacred to the Druids and many groves of Yews were supposedly cut down by the Romans as part of their insistence on destroying Druidery.
They are also common graveyard trees and there are lots of theories why. One is that Christians viewed yews as holy: the heart of the tree is red, while its sap is white. These colours symbolise the blood and body of Christ. As a hardy evergreen tree able to survive on infertile soil, the yew also suggested rebirth and resurrection so they were the perfect tree to plant near churches. It is also believed that due to their very poisonous nature (all parts of the yew are poisonous) they discouraged cattle from being grazed in early graveyards so leaving graves undisturbed.
The yew tree however has been associated with death and the journey of the soul from this life to the next for thousands of years outside the Christian tradition. Yew was believed to purify the dead as they entered the underworld and it formed a big part of funeral processions. As a symbol of death that is also very much alive, it was also sacred to Hecate, the Goddess of Boundaries and the In-between spaces.
The poisonous nature of the Yew means that it has rarely been used in herbal remedies except for a highly dangerous cure for worms in children. Bee keepers were even warned about having hives too close to Yew trees as it was believed that the resulting honey would be poisonous. It was believed that ancient Irish warriors used it as part of the poison they used to tip their arrows. It was used to to some effect in the same way as digitalin to treat heart conditions. It was also given to horses in very small doses to increase the shine on their coats.
As an example of the good changes time can bring, Yew extracts, although full of toxins, are now being used as a cancer treatment as the taxanes they contain disrupt cell division. These taxanes are most concentrated in the needles of the English yew between the months of May and October, when they are extracted from the clippings and are a remarkably renewable resource.
The Yew does have some other folklore based positives too: there are certain British Yew trees that can promote fertility in both men and women dependent on which way you walk around them and a branch or wand of yew was also said to lead you to missing objects and property.
I hope the unimaginable history of this particular tree and the symbolism of yews in particular have helped you to settle slightly more comfortably into a world full of changes in the same way they have for me.
If my reflections have helped you at all I hope you will also grant me the indulgence of sharing a piece with you that I wrote about remembering someone you love through food, another constant amongst the chaos:
I’m going to start by laying out my stall early: my nan, Ivy Watkins, made the best roast parsnips ever, no argument. That’s bold, isn’t it, and I know you are thinking that I’m going to follow this up with the recipe so that you can try it and agree with me. You’d be wrong however. I don’t have it, although I wish I did; and I wish even more that I’d asked her for it when I was 11 (but I didn’t).
You don’t know when you are 12 that everything won’t go on as you know it. Most twelve-year olds don’t anyway. Maybe I should have already had an inkling: my world had been turned upside down several years before, and so much changed; but my nan was a constant through the chaos. Because she didn’t disappear then, and I hadn’t experienced death before, I thought that she and her roast parsnips would always be there.
Waiting for me in her small kitchen with the dubious wall heater and spinner machine which roamed across the kitchen unless you put weight on it. Whilst my nan was alive, that kitchen always felt like it had its arms wrapped around me, especially once my grandad had left it for the day. It became my Nan’s space then, a small kitchen full of fruit and vegetables in brown paper bags and entrancing smells and alchemical liquids, drops of which turned batter for fish an orange colour that must have been visible from space.
This was the place where she presented tiny saucers with sliced marathons, white chocolate mice, pink foam prawns and sherbert fountains whilst she told tales of her life before my granddad; when she was young and used to go to the pictures either with friends, respectful young men or on her own. Regardless of company, she was always armed with a box of Malteasers. This was the space where she told fortunes in the tea leaves, using the best china cups, and every future sounded fascinating.
There are so many food memories that connect me to my Nan and I wish I had a record of her recipes, but we are over three decades too late to ask her and so I had to try and recreate this one myself. The parsnips of my memory were partly crisp, partly chewy and the exact right amount of salty on the outside yet meltingly soft and sweet inside. I can’t recreate them, I’ve tried.
I’ve parboiled them first, I’ve not parboiled them first. I’ve tried coating them in oil and then putting them in a hot oven. I’ve preheated the oil in the oven. I’ve used olive oil, sunflower oil, goose fat and beef dripping. I’ve tried all the oils and all the methods in a mind-boggling variety of combinations. The closest I can come is with hot beef dripping and parboiling and so that’s the recipe I have for you. I’m inevitably missing something, but they’re very good; just not nan perfect.
I’ve made my imperfect recipe better by serving it with a gorgeously sharp, garlicky, herby green sauce that I created after researching a lot of historic recipes. So I suppose it’s part me and part her, which I understandably think is a charming combination.
I’d like you to promise me something though: if you make this recipe and enjoy it, please think kindly of an incredibly lovely woman called Ivy that you have never met. It might also help if you know that she made all her own clothes on an antique sewing machine, was an incredibly skilled demon-fast knitter, grew ridiculous amounts of runner beans every summer, knew how to get the best produce from reluctant stall holders all over the markets of Birmingham and the Black Country, and truly hated ants (flying, red or black: she despised them all).
I hope you can picture her telling those mischievous stories and telling those fabulous fortunes. I need you to do this because apart from me and my Mum, these memories are all that are left of her. My nan came from a generation and class of women who didn’t have much of a voice so I’d like to see if we can keep her in the universe even though she left us in 1989. Like the late, great Terry Pratchett, I firmly believe that a ‘a man is not dead whilst his name is still spoken.’
Ivy’s Roast Parsnips & Rachel’s Green Sauce or The Parsnip Didn’t Fall Far from the Tree
Ingredients
For the Parsnips
• Parsnips (1.5-2 per person)
• Beef Dripping (around 2 tbsp of fat per four parsnips)
For the Green Sauce
• a big bunch of flat leaf parsley/basil/mint (either all 1 herb or a mixture) (around 100g ish)
• 5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
• 1½ tbsp capers
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1.5 tsp mustard (choose one that suits what heat level you prefer)
• juice of 1 big ripe lemon or 3 tbsp vinegar
Directions
For the Roast Parsnips
Step 1. Preheat the oven to 200ºC.
Step 2. Add the fat to a roasting tin that will hold all the parsnips in one layer.
Step 3. Place in the hot oven to heat the fat.
Step 4. Peel parsnips and divide longways into 4 long chunks.Step 5. Place them in a saucepan with cold salted water and bring to the boil. Once the water is boiling, the parsnips will need around 3 minutes to parboil.
Step 6. Drain the parsnips in a colander once parboiled, taking care not to break them, you need them whole for the lovely caramelised chewy end.
Step 7. Toss the prepared parsnips in the roasting pan and fully coat them in the hot fat. Ensure you spread the vegetable chunks evenly in the roasting pan, so they all have a chance to go crispy.
Step 8. Roast for 35-40 minutes until golden and soft in the middle, regularly basting them in the hot fat throughout cooking.
For the Green Sauce
Step 1. Just before the parsnips are ready, chop the herbs & capers finely then mix in a bowl with the other ingredients. Serve in a bowl with the parsnips or drizzled over.
With that, I must bring this letter to a close, gentle reader. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch via the comments or via any of my social media profiles/my website . If you have enjoyed this and would like to read further such nonsense, please don’t hesitate to subscribe for free at the button below. You’d be very welcome and it would be a joy to write to you.