Dried Rosemary

Let me tell you about Dried Rosemary, the way my grandmother never had to learn it, because hers grew by the door.

Look at it closely: tiny grey-green needles, stiff, almost like pine. Rub a little between your fingers — it should feel firm, almost brittle, and leave a sharp, resinous smell on your skin, a little like a forest after rain. If the smell is dusty or faint, the jar has been sitting on a shelf too long and has lost its soul.

Now, some people say Dried Rosemary is delicate, that you must add it at the end of cooking, like fresh basil. No! It is the opposite. Throw it in at the last minute and the needles stay hard, almost woody, crunching between your teeth, with a sharp scent that just sits on top of the dish instead of settling into it. Give it time in the pot with the meat or the potatoes, and the needles soften, the smell rounds out, and it stops announcing itself so loudly.

The mistake this belief causes: cooks hold rosemary back, add it in the final minutes, and end up fishing hard splinters out of their teeth instead of tasting the dish. Add it early. Let the pot do its work.