Chicory Quotes

“Why, she's as mild as a flower! She ain't hurt nobody! Now git in the kitchen and git some chicory!”
― Toni Orrill

“Chicory
(Cichorium intybus)


The ancient Egyptians considered chicory a magical plant, capable of removing all obstacles as well as opening locks, boxes, and doors. They anointed their bodies with chicory juice from the root of the plant in order to gain the powers of invisibility and special favors from important people. They believed chicory magic was much more potent if the plant was cut with a solid-gold knife, in total silence, at midnight. And if none of that worked, they ground and roasted the root and blended it with their favorite coffee to taste.
A very versatile plant indeed.”
― Margot Berwin, Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire

“He opened his hand, and inside was a tiny lavender-colored flower with a small stem.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Mr. Exley left us a present. Cichorium intybus. Chicory. The plant of freedom and one of the nine plants. He used it to get out of the basement, and then he left us a cutting as a courtesy. Your Mr. Exley has a good sense of humor."
"He's not my Mr. Exley."
"Unimportant. This little petal tells us how he got out of here."
"He broke a deadbolt with a flower petal?"
"In a sense, yes. Cichorium intybus is a perennial related to the dandelion. It's cultivated in England and Ireland and from Nova Scotia to Florida and west to the plains. It is not cultivated here, in South America. He brought it with him!"
"For what?"
"For its magical properties. The plant has a long, thick taproot filled with a bitter milky-white juice. The ancient Egyptians believed that if the juice is rubbed on the body it promotes invisibility, and removal of obstacles. The Mayans called it the plant of freedom, for the same reason.”
― Margot Berwin, Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire

“Who knew winter meant vegetables? Chef. No asparagus shipped in from Peru, no avocados from Mexico, no eggplants from Asia. What I assumed would be a season of root vegetables and onions was actually the season of chicories. Chef had his sources, which he guarded. Scott walked through the restaurant in the morning with unmarked brown paper bags, sometimes crates.
He told me that the chicories would really brighten when the first freezes came. It sweetened their natural bitterness. I could barely keep track of them. The curly tangle of frisée didn't seem the same species as the heliotrope balls of radicchio, or the whitened lobes of endive. Their familial trait was a bite---I thought of them as lettuces that bit back. Scott agreed. He said we should be hard on them. Eggs, anchovies, cream, a streak of citrus.
"Don't trust the French with your vegetables," Scott said. "The Italians know how to let something breathe.”
― Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter