—Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Death on Credit
I’m writing to confess I have come
To like parsnips,
The beige taproot that sweetens
After a hard frost: aphrodisiac
The Romans thought;
Céline called his organ mon panais.
They came to Canada with the French
And British, a traditional
Accompaniment for the Christmas roast.
We stashed them under our potato skins.
You should be grateful, Mother frowned,
Other children go hungry.
Now, on winter markets in Provence,
Parsnips are coming back.
Our neighbour with his long memory
Exclaims: “Panais? Good for pigs!
During the Occupation
That’s all we had to eat!”
Online, however, recipes abound—
Poêlée de panais, or on cold nights
Soupe de panais with a sprig of thyme.
Mea culpa, Mother,
Back then, I didn’t know
Romance languages. Now I know
In French, our parsnips are panais,
From Latin pastinare:
“To dig and trench the ground,”
Slang for penis
In those old country languages
With their roots in Rome.