Escallion-in-a-jar: Notes from a Victory Garden

Escallion in a Jar, Victory Garden underway

Partly because of Hurricane Melissa, partly because I love the thrill of wonder, and partly because waves of sadness wash me from time to time, I decided to plant escallion in a jar and place it on the kitchen windowsill.

It’s a tiny project—almost laughably so—but one that has taken me months to actually do. The idea has been circling for ages, quietly insisting, patiently waiting. I’m not proud that something so simple took so long to materialise. Yes, my to-do list is long. And yes, since the fall, my mobility has been limited. Still, this felt doable.

I felt a flush of embarrassment when my mother visited, opened the fridge, and discovered bags of escallion waiting—some valiantly, others rotting away. Behind my adult composure, I pouted. So there, I thought, she’s found my skellion in the closet drawer of the fridge.

Come to think of it, “escallion” has quietly survived in Caribbean kitchens worldwide. Its varied names and spellings have drifted through French and English, across continents and centuries, yet it keeps showing up where it’s needed most: in a jar on a windowsill, in a broth as a medicinal ingredient alongside garlic, or in the hands of someone cooking an omelette, rice and peas, chop suey or jerk.

It’s a culinary triumph and a kind of linguistic resilience. Somehow, even words can find a way to endure, just like roots.

It took a truly humongous effort to make a date with myself last Sunday—to take all the seasonings from the fridge, clean them, and sort them out. I blended them and poured the marinade into a jar so it would be readily available for cooking in the days to come. I learned this from the Guyanese…but that’s another story.

My Escallion Expression

The few escallion stalks I set aside for planting were then given their own attention. I chose the ones that were deeper green, those that looked as if they still had roots or tiny buds at the bulb. I had already cut off most of the green tops for the marinade.

Now, with care, I took a skewer and a few toothpicks and pierced them through so the stalks could hang suspended in the jar. This was my way of coaxing them back to life, even with the necessary wounding.

I neatly placed them in the jar and poured in water. I searched for the “just right” spot, settled it, and walked away. Questions trailed behind me:

• When would the roots come?

• Would every stalk send out roots?

After all, we may plant, but we can never control what is actually produced, don’t it?

Each day, I examined the jar without touching it. The water was no longer as clear. Experience had taught me not to disturb them—no lifting, no peering too closely. Somehow, faith is required to allow things to flourish. To trust the process. To let germination happen unseen.

Last night, for the first time, I lifted the jar. I counted two tiny sprigs. Then I noticed another—just a dot, or a dash—emerging from a different stalk. I felt thankful. Excited. So soon! I thought. So soon!

Roots!

Earlier that very day, I had been in conversation with a good friend who asked if I thought he was progressing. I told him, “I don’t look at you every day, so I can’t always tell. If you stare at growth, you’re unlikely to see it. Instead, I watch for the consistency of your actions—and I choose to believe until I actually see it.”

So, can you understand how I felt when I saw those little sprigs—just three days after planting?

The next day, my amazement soared. Guess why.

That afternoon, as I passed by the kitchen sink, I saw it—many more roots. And the few I had noticed the night before were now significantly longer. Wow. Just… wow. Wow! Wo-wow-ow!

I lifted the jar to show my friend, and in that moment I was reminded that this is often how growth works—spurts, arriving in phases, not all at once, not on demand.

“So what do you think is going to happen to the green part of the escallion?” I asked my daughter.

• – Will it stretch and keep getting longer?

• – Will it produce new leaves?

• – What do you think will happen?

Without giving anything away, I’ll simply say that as I washed the dishes, I found myself observing the tips and tops of the escallion. I quietly accepted that the beigey-brown ends of the hollow green leaves were a good sign too. I also noticed the outer skin peeling away just above the waterline, loosening and slipping off on its own. Somehow, there is harmony in living and dying at the same time.

So now, even as I write with excitement about this emerging Victory Garden, I gently acknowledge that parts of me are also dying even as new roots and shoots begin to form.

And that’s okay.

That’s quite okay.

Till we meet again, walk good yah, me Fren. Walk good!

Escallion Artistry by Gail, © 2026

P.S. As I prepared to publish this blog we found out that my Mom-in-Love, Inez Elizabeth Fraser (nee Todd) passed away. Talk about tips and tops and shedding generational layers another time yaah.