| Can we talk turkey? My mother’s reputation as the World’s Worst Cook means the preparation of the Thanksgiving feast falls on me. And I pride myself on having overcome this genetic predisposition to culinary disasters.
But an overdose of sage one year reminded me that the price of smugness is high. I learned the hard way that, as with a little knowledge, a little too much sage can be downright dangerous. It packs a tastebud wallop that increases when the leaves are dried. So when it’s time for stuffing, less sage is better than more.
The sages comprise an enormous genus of more than 700 species and innumerable cultivars. But come turkey time, the spotlight shines on common sage (Salvia officinalis)—the hardy, 2-foot-tall perennial sub-shrub that’s native to the Mediterranean region—with its robust flavor of pine, camphor, and citrus.
It takes little imagination to see that common sage’s puckered, gray-green leaves, which range in length from 1 to 2 inches, resemble tongues. Indeed, its name in Greek means ''camel’s tongue.'' But the genus name Salvia is derived from the Latin, salvere, which means ''to save or heal.'' In ancient times, sage was valued for its many medicinal attributes, not the least of which was as a cure for the ''stinging and biting of serpents.”
The 16th-century English herbalist Gerard listed several presumed benefits: “Sage is singularly good for the head and brain, it quickeneth the senses and memory, strengtheneth the sinews, and taketh away shakey trembling of the members.”
The leaves have also been dried and smoked in pipes as a treatment for asthma, while sage’s volatile oils are valuable for perfumes, soaps, and cosmetics. But it is as a hot infusion, or tea (steep 1/2 teaspoon of dried leaves in a cup of hot water), that sage serves most admirably—as a soothing remedy for colds and sore gums or throats, and as a digestive aid, particularly for fatty foods. Applied to the scalp, a sage tea darkens hair, while a chilled infusion is a stimulating aftershave, especially when mixed with lavender or rosemary.
Sage was so valued that, in a remarkable case of coals to Newcastle, the dried leaves for making tea were shipped by the Dutch to China in the 17th century. The rate of exchange was 4 pounds of China’s choicest brews for each pound of sage. In the New World, Native Americans mixed native sage with bear grease to cure skin sores. The Shakers began selling dried leaves of common sage in 1821, and it soon became their best-selling herb.
Its medicinal qualities have earned sage a reputation for prolonging life. Or, as summarized by an English proverb, “He that would live for aye, Must eat Sage in May.” Of course, this adage does not apply to turkeys.
CULTIVATING SAGE
It’s said that sage prospers where the wife rules, which must be in a lot of homes, since the herb is grown throughout the world. For culinary purposes, common sage (Salvia officinalis) is the one to use. The taste is best if the leaves are harvested before the lavender-hued flower spikes develop.
Sage flourishes in well-drained, slightly alkaline soil, and, once established, is tolerant of drought. Full sun is usually recommended, but I grow a respectable (if somewhat slouchy) crop in my partially shaded Manhattan backyard.
Seeds are best sown in late spring. But since it can take two years to grow a kitchen-size plant, save your energy for something rare, and instead purchase transplants. Culinary sage is best renewed every four years or so, by division or layering—pegging down branches of old plants and covering them with 3/4' inch of soil. For harmonious decoration, combine common sage with some of its more colorful cousins: tricolor sage, S.o. 'Tricolor'; purple sage, S.o. 'Purpurascens'; or yellow sage, S.o. 'Aurea.' |
