EPTI have a grand and sprawling garden behind my house, complete with veggie patch and herb garden. Wandering among the tomatoes, bidding good morning to the vines which run so carelessly under the eves, I breath and remind myself that life's troubles are but dirty little things. Here I am, standing among some of the Earth's most softly-spoken treasures: fruits and leaves and trees, all budding quietly without pretension, and for no one but themselves.
And then there are those who do so with even less recognition, less thanks, and less praise. The roots, the carrots, the onions, the unbeetables. Too often are they neglected in favour of the grape, or the peach: those more conspicuous and affecting fruits. No one gets drunk on the onion, and no one questions whether he may dare eat a carrot. But still we use these roots every day to lend spice or substance to our meals.
This little poem then is an attempt to pay respect to one of our subterranean friends. I can assure him that, after perhaps so indecent an exposure, we will let him to his own darkly secret devices once again.
Ginger
In ancient times the Chinese met,
Full beautiful and full fair,
The holy spice, Confucius praised,
All Asia it ensnared.
And so to Africa you went,
Then fettered o’er the ocean,
With naught but the company
Of bitter friends so broken.
Perhaps embittered then with blood
And sweat to match their grief,
Revenged then their weary toil:
Enslaved the palate neat.
The matchless Bard once thought it fit,
To trust in you a warning,
A jester’s plea, that ginger be
Too zesty for the morning.
But still I come for thee dear child,
For we are just begun.
So modest in the dark,
Yet tangy on the tongue.
![[image loading]](http://i.imgur.com/PW2RD.jpg)
![[image loading]](http://jimwatkinsonline.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/ginger_cartman.jpg)
