Grandpa’s Horehound Treat
Why is it that in every touristy mountain town, there is always at least one candy store? I don’t mean just a corner store that sells a lot of candy, but an entire store where they make thirty varieties of fudge, sponge toffee and Smarty-coated candied apples. There is also a huge glass case filled with penny candies: candied corn and red-hot dollars, licorice strings in red, black, green and purple, jawbreakers and caramels, papery flying saucers and chocolate cigarettes (I can still recall the feel of the paper on my tongue), wax bottles and wax lips, humbugs and horehound.
Of course, you really can’t call these “penny candies” any longer. I have had a hard time convincing my kids that we once were able to get a whole bagful for a dime.
On our last day-trip to Bragg Creek, a small town nestled in the mountains south of Calgary, Jordan and I made the compulsory stop into one of these shops. I would normally just admire the brightly coloured bins while Jordan made his selections. But this time, on a sudden nostalgic impulse, I asked the young man behind the counter for a few chunks of horehound. He looked at me as if I was crazy.
“Have you ever tasted horehound before? I’m only asking because a lot of people ask for it and then complain because it tastes so horrible.”
I assured him, trying not to sound too patronizing, that I had been eating horehound before he was even born. I had just started into my “When I was a little girl” story, when Jordan grabbed my bag of candy and my arm and pulled me out of the store.
When I was a little girl, long before that young whippersnapper had even been born, I ate horehound candy. My grandfather, then retired from the New York Central Railroad, used to go on trips to visit his cronies in Buffalo. Whenever he returned, he would bring my brother and me each a small brown bag of penny candy. There were always some humbugs and a few chunks of horehound in there.
I loved horehound. My brother wasn’t as tickled with it as I was, but I loved it. I always called it rhubarb candy because of its bitter flavour, but even at the age of seven I could appreciate that bittersweet taste.
Jordan & I got back in our car and I pulled out a small chunk of the amber candy. I smelled it first and then put it on my tongue. I was immediately taken back to our backyard in St. Thomas, where Grandpa was handing me my little bag of treats.
I don’t think that I have had horehound for more than 30 years; you just don’t find it many places anymore. I suppose that this is because it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But for those who do enjoy it, it can become an addiction. It definitely is a flavour that brings out strong opinion: you either can’t get enough of it or you can’t spit it out fast enough. I gave my boys a taste, but they both thought that I was trying to kill them. Obviously, horehound is not going to be one of those happy memory triggers for them in years to come.
Horehound (Marrubium vulgare) originated in Europe, but it is now found growing wild in many countries including Canada and the U.S. I didn’t feel like a field trip, so I picked up some dried horehound leaves and flowers in my health food store’s bulk section.
The stuff looks ghastly; like something you might stuff a pillow with. Horehound is from the mint family and can be used as either a tea (made with lots of honey) or made into rock candy. Horehound has been used since ancient Greek times to treat coughs, bronchial congestion and asthma. The active ingredient, marrubiin, is an expectorant. In a strong dosage, it is also an effective purgative and has been used to treat poisoning. It has also been used to ward off evil spirits and cure mad dog bites. Quite the handy little herb!
As for the rather unusual name, there are varied accounts of its origin. It is possible that the “hore” part stems from the word “hoar,” referring to the white whiskers that cover the leaves giving them a woolly appearance. Or possibly it was named after the Egyptian god Horus. The “hound” part could have something to do with the mad dog connection. Etymology is often an inexact science.
Grandpa had another favourite treat for my brother and me. If we even hinted at having a cough, he would take a teaspoon full of sugar and saturate it with this disgusting elixir called Electric Oil and then put this concoction on our tongue, making us keep it in our mouth until it slowly melted and trickled down our throat. This was totally unfair. Grandpa smoked these huge cigars all day and it was impossible to go into his house without coughing. I often wonder if this was his way of keeping us from dropping by on a Saturday afternoon while he was listening to his ball games on the radio.
I made myself some horehound tea, and I couldn’t spit it out fast enough!