Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit like an onion. Quite honestly, like an onion, some people are crazy about me and want me with everything, some use me to add a little bite to their bland diet, and some avoid me at all costs. I am aware of the ones that think if they dice me down small enough and use slow heat, I will disintegrate into a hint of savory sweetness.
Being a Washingtonian born and raised, if I am an onion, you would expect me to be a Walla Walla Sweet; mild, juicy and more a dessert than an entrée. I doubt that is true. I think of myself more like a purple onion, complex in taste, versatile, and easily a chameleon but rarely a show stopper. There are times that I long to be a green onion, long and lean, young and fresh, but I’m afraid those days are behind me. Truthfully, I’m probably more like the cippolini, short, squatty, and petite; best served glazed with balsamic vinegar.
Like an onion, my outer skin is paper thin. At first glance, I appear fragile, but behind that false exterior are pearly layers hiding my strengths and my weaknesses. If you attempt to chop or cut me, I make even the most stoic cry. The taste of me lingers in your mouth, on your hands, and scents your breath. No matter how many think they know me, very few look beyond those iridescent outer layers. Everything I am grew out of the dirt, moistened by the morning rain, and when I am piled in the depths of the cellar, I feel safe and warm when held close in the dark.