The only acceptable use for a parsnip

5/10/2006

The next time you catch someone bragging about how they can barbecue anything and make it work, knock them down a peg with the parsnip.

A root vegetable hiding somewhere between the carrot and the rutabaga, the parsnip has a characteristic strong flavour that appeals to many people.

I am not one of those people.

Whether you boil it, bake it, or dip it in batter and fry it in hot fat, there is little that can be done to salvage the parsnip, and little reason to try. Its only truly acceptable usage is in making likker.

Likker should not be confused with liquor. Liquor is sold in stores for a lot of money. The people who make liquor generally know what they are doing. Likker, on the other hand, is any hooch or rotgut an amateur might try to concoct at home.

An old book I’ve had for years, with pages as yellow and brittle as a moonshiner’s teeth, describes the general process of making likker, and lists the parsnip as a friend of the ordeal.

To make likker, begin by filling a barrel with any vegetable matter that will “work”. This is where the parsnip comes in; or elderberries, or peaches, or apples, or potatoes. People who know what they are doing prefer cracked corn, but I’ve read even marmalade will “work” if you are feeling brave, or a little crazy. Most likker makers are a touch of both.

When your barrel is full, take it out to the barn, and set the barrel in horse manure. If you don’t have a barn, ask for some space with a neighbour. If you do have a barn, ask your neighbour anyway.

Heap the manure all around the barrel, and the heat will augment the working of the grain, or fruit, or parsnips. Watch the contents carefully, because left too long, it will start the chemical process of turning to vinegar. Nobody wants vinegar.

Except my grandfather. Grandpa said whisky was horse liniment and parsnips were health food. His idea of a wild Saturday was to watch Lawrence Welk on television and eat a bowl of granola.

He also drank a spoonful of vinegar twice a day, claiming it chased bugs from his system like a cat chases squirrels. I’m not sure it did anything, other than save the undertaker some work, since Gramps was halfway to being pickled when he died.

Once the “mash” has “worked itself out”, you can decide to make wine, or cook the gunk over a slow fire and run it through a still. In the end, if your parsnips haven’t let you down, your likker should have a kick like a constipated mule. Don’t be surprised if it ends up with a similar smell.

The book says oldtimers added a kick to their hooch by adding tobacco leaves, or a sprinkling of strong lye, to the finished product. Personally, I think no parsnip is worth that kind of trouble, and will be sticking to burgers and steaks this summer.