Dill in a glass of water — a bunch by the hob, not a bag in the drawer

Why I do not leave them in the bag

The plastic bag from the shop holds yesterday’s damp and warmth. Dill gets crushed there, leaves wet, stems already snapped. By morning the bag smells of damp, not of herb. I cut the pack open with scissors at the sink and bin the yellow and black sprigs at once — not ‘later, when I cook’. The rest I rinse briefly in cold water and shake over the sink. I do not soak them for an hour: water washes away the smell I want for borscht and eggs.

A glass by the hob, not a vase for guests

I take an ordinary drinking glass — the one we use for tea. Two or three fingers of cold tap water. I trim the stems a centimetre with a knife, like flowers, without ceremony. Leaves above the water, stems in it: a leaf sitting in water darkens fast and spoils the bunch. The glass lives next to the salt and the oil, not on a bright sill and not deep in the fridge ‘to do it properly’. I need to see the herbs while I stir the onion. If I cannot see them, I forget, and three days later the bunch is limp again. I change the water when it clouds or smells of pond — usually every day or two. Trim the stems once more — and it stands again.

Where the bunch goes in a week

Into borscht — a handful at the end, when I am almost switching off. Into eggs — finely, straight into the edge of the pan. Onto boiled potatoes — oil and dill, and the children eat without coaxing. Into salad — if the cucumber is still alive. Tough stems I do not bin at once: into the pot with a chicken carcass for stock, then I fish them out. This is not a ‘superfood’ and not a vitamin target. It is the smell of summer in a British kitchen in September, when the weather outside is already wet.

Short notes from this hob

• Out of the bag — straight into a glass; bin the yellow
• Water — two or three fingers; leaves above the water
• Glass beside the hob, so you see it
• Change the water when it clouds; trim the stems
• Into soup — at the end; stems into stock, then fish them out

What I do not do

I do not promise the bunch will live a month as in an advert. We are a family of six — the herbs go in days, not weeks. I do not wrap the glass in a bag as a ‘greenhouse’: in my kitchen it sweats and smells odd. I do not microwave-dry dill for a ‘winter stash’ while a fresh bunch is still standing. And I do not shame myself if I bought two bunches and one still wilted: the nose decides — into the bin, no lecture.

From this same kitchen

I already wrote about dates and the eye in how to tell with your eyes that food is still alive, and in how to store so you are not binning it. Herbs from the glass sit well in borscht and plain salads. The rest of the kitchen notes sit beside them. Photo: Karolina Grabowska, Pexels.