Know your ONIONS
Oh, Emma, you do sound bad, love.’
‘I’ll live.’ Jill’s daughter, sitting at the kitchen table, sniffed bravely. ‘Nothing a bowl of your famous onion soup won’t cure.’
‘You’ve got a lot of faith in its magical properties! These summer colds can be nasty.’
‘You look as if you’ve got one yourself, Mum!’
Jill wiped a tear from her red, stinging eyes. Over the years she’d tried all the tips the magazines and websites recommended – putting the onions in the freezer beforehand, slicing them under cold water, opening a window. But keen to get the soup on the go as quickly as possible and get a bowlful in front of her daughter, she was cutting corners today.
She turned on the gas and set the pan with its knob of butter and slug of oil on the flame. A typical 20-year-old, Emma was scrolling through her phone now, lost in her own world. Jill couldn’t help smiling to herself. She hadn’t been that far off Emma’s age when onions had first played a big part in her life.
They called them ‘Onion Johnnies’ – the men who used to come over from France in the summer with vans full of onions. They stored them in barns, where they lived, slept – and worked. There, they’d string the onions together, then get out their bikes, drape their produce over the handlebars and
