I Know My Onions

I’ve always been partial to a cheese and onion sandwich, others be damned. But only recently have I discovered how incredibly prescient I’ve been—mystical even. 

I never knew, for example, you could tell the future through an onion – red or Spanish— not entirely sure; it has though, a respectable name: Cromniomancy.  For those anxious to wed, it’s something you might test. On Christmas Eve (my birthday) lay an onion on an altar and according to the laws of Cromniomancy it will tell you your wedding date. You will, though, need a cooperative or short-sighted priest. 

It was the ‘sphere within a sphere’ properties of an onion that made it a much-revered symbol of spirituality and eternity; ancient Egyptians swore their most sacred oaths on an onion. Rameses IV had onions placed in his eye sockets at death—an ‘It’s my funeral, and I’ll cry if I want to’ kind of vibe. 

In lieu of steroids, ancient Greek athletes rubbed themselves with onions and ate them by the pound; and as for St Cuthbert, where do we start?

In his final days as a hermit on Farne island, Cuthbert lived on a weekly ration of five raw onions and water whilst fighting off demons, no doubt tempting him with a good cheese. One curious point however is that when Cuthbert was exhumed during the Reformation, his body was found in almost perfect condition—a sure mark of sainthood, onions or both.

I have no idea of the state of Ernest Hemingway’s body, who spent a lifetime eating onion and peanut butter sandwiches, he called ‘Mount Everest Specials.’ But, if sometime in the future, I’m caught in a dark cupboard munching my way through a jar of pickled onions, it will be me seeking an incorruptible body, perhaps even sainthood, though unlike Rameses IV, there will be no onions in my eyes. I have no intention of crying my way into Heaven.