Seven for a Secret

The Story of the Fennel

A brutal storm tore a main limb from our pine tree and the clearing up process obliged us to reorganize our wood pile. Shifting armfuls of half-seasoned birch logs, I was startled to discover a sleepy peacock butterfly. I had no idea they overwintered. Somehow, the notion that butterflies only lived for one day had remained with me since childhood and tinged my appreciation of them with sadness ever since. These days, I have more respect.

Years ago, I worked in my spare time as a costume and prop designer for the man I was in love with. A busy magician, he required many clever and beautiful things; secret pockets, sweeping cloaks, garments of invisibility, tricksy hats and a number of exquisite drawstring bags sewn of silk and velvet. Some left-over silk anchors my fennel bulb, ivory on the light side, silver green on the shady side.

I have quilted the silk to convey the sculpted ribs of the fennel bulb, which may be male or female (slim or round) and which is also called the apple. An appealing name for the crisp whiteness and aromatic crunch that make it so great in salads.

The fennel apple looks rather like the magician’s purse and is similarly loaded with potential. A magic trick has three stages: the Pledge; the Turn and the Prestige, running from the ordinary to the extraordinary to the astounding.

The pledge is just the promise of things to come, the stirring in the roots and the first pale green shoot lancing the dark soil in spring. Released from invisibility, it rises from the earth, fluffing out its fine fronds, the white bulb swelling at the border between us and the underworld.

As spring melts into summer, the turn comes with an extraordinary flourish of delicate golden blooms, each one constellated with tiny, five-petalled stars.

The prestige, the very best magic, comes as the flowers sway in the summer breeze, a froth of fragrant allure, and from out of thin air appears a stunning new bouquet; a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

Seven for a Secret is the title because only Nature knows how such magic really happens.

As for my own magician? “Reader, I married him.”