Anise

Come closer, and let me tell you about anise, my friend.

Look at these little ribbed seeds, greenish-brown, dry as autumn grass. Crush one between your fingers to release that sweet, warm smell, almost like licorice, almost like fennel, but not quite either. That smell is the whole point of anise. It sits in tiny oil pockets inside the seed, and it stays asleep until you wake it up — with heat, with a knife, with your teeth. A whole seed on the shelf tells you nothing. Crack it, smell it, and if the sweetness is gone and it smells dull, like old hay, throw the jar away; it has nothing left to give your food.

Some people say anise and star anise are the same thing, just different shapes. No! One is a small seed from a flowering herb, the other a hard brown star from a tree, and their flavors only resemble each other from a distance, like cousins, not twins. Confuse them in a recipe and you will either overpower a delicate dessert or leave a soup thin and flat, missing the depth star anise was meant to bring.

Buy whole seeds and grind them yourself, only as much as the pot needs today.