By the roadside bare and hot

Gracing each unlovely spot,

Lo! before our weary eyes

Shines the blue of summer skies.

— Amos Russel Wells

Chicory blue.

The blue of a clear northerly sky on a bright August morning, and Great Lake Superior on a gleaming summer day; a mid-depth hue, lacking any hint of either green shallows or purple depths.

The blue of my father’s eye and daughter’s—though due to genetic whimsy, I ended up with Mom’s brown.

A delightful shade. A blue of strength, honesty, and merriment…at least chicory’s blooms always seem cheery to me.

Chicory is as much a part of midsummer as the sunshine, heat, and whirring cicada. How could anyone think of describing this time of year without including the ubiquitous chicory?

Yet it is probably this very commonness that often causes us to overlook chicory’s beauty. Some even go so far as to call it a weed.

Nonsense! Chicory may be widespread, but it isn’t prosaic. There’s nothing dull about chicory. And it’s too useful as a plant, and too lovely as a wildflower to be maligned as a weed.

You’ll find chicory growing along rural roadsides and back-alley berms, from city to country and coast to coast. The familiar blue flowers add a welcome touch of elegant coolness to summer’s otherwise fiery blooms of yellows and reds and oranges.

Naturalized rather than native, chicory thrives because it’s hardy, with a long taproot and a willingness to make the best of a bad situation. Give chicory the most inconsequential growing spot—a mere crack in the sidewalk, the slightest hint of earth, and an occasional drop of water—and it will thrive.

Chicory readily adorns wastelands and fallow corners, cloaking otherwise infertile locations with a ragged profusion of attractive blue blossoms…thus creating beauty out of barrenness.

For that reason alone, chicory should be considered a welcome addition to the landscape.

Every summer, a clump of sprightly blue chicory springs up around my roadside mailbox post. I’m annually enchanted by the reappearance of this unkempt bouquet. Their footing is a mix of gravel, crumbled blacktop, road detritus, and sandy clay. Harsh hardpan even a dandelion would avoid.

My grandmother called chicory “blue sailors.” This name is based on an old European legend about a comely young girl who fell in love with a sailor. When the sailor left her and went to sea, the girl sat patiently by the side of the road, waiting in vain for his return.

Finally, the gods took pity on the girl and turned her into a chicory plant, which still wears its sailor-blue blossoms and sits patiently beside the road. This is also why one of the German names for this plant means watcher of the road.

Other names for chicory are succory, bunk, French endive, witloof, ragged sailors, cornflower, blue daisy, blue dandelion, bachelor’s buttons, and coffeeweed.

Chicory is a member of the Asteraceae family. Composites that include daisies, asters, sunflowers, and others among their 32,000 species. Its scientific name is Cichorium intybus, though scholars can’t agree on the exact etymology. Some authorities claim the Latin Cichorium is based on the Arabic or Egyptian word chikouryeh, which simply reflects their name for the plant. The counter-claim says it stems from a Greek word for root or salad vegetable.

Regardless, there’s no doubt that chicory has been well-known and widely written about for thousands of years.

The Greek philosopher Theophrastus, who died in 287 B.C. and studied under both Plato and Aristotle, related how chicory had been in use by the ancients for centuries.

Pedanius Dioscorides, a Greek physician who lived between about 40 and 90 A.D., and was the botanist for Nero’s armies, wrote of chicory and its uses in his De Materia Medica (On Medical Matters) one of the first published pharmacologies free from superstition.

Additionally, the writings of Horace, Virgil, Ovid, Homer, and Pliny all contain references to chicory.

Chicory is thought to have come originally from the Mediterranean region, though it has been widespread throughout Europe for centuries. Chicory probably arrived in America with the earliest settlers as an inclusion of their fodder or hay plantings.

For thousands of years, chicory—both wild as well as cultivated—has been used for cooking, drinking, and in various herbal concoctions.

As a salad green, chicory is employed much like its relatives, dandelion, wild lettuce, and endive. The chicory leaf is tastiest only when the plant is young since maturity brings bitterness.

The French dig up chicory roots in the fall and store them in dark cellars, forcing pale shoots during the winter. The resulting salad is called barbe de capucin or beard of the monk.

Perhaps we Americans best know chicory when used as a coffee substitute or as part of a coffee blend. Chicory coffee is especially favored along the Gulf Coast, from the Florida panhandle to the swamplands of east Texas. When you hear someone talking about Louisiana coffee, they’re referring to coffee laced with a measure of chicory in their blend.

Chicory coffee was first routinely used in America by Southern troops during the Civil War. The Union Naval blockade made it difficult to obtain real coffee, so various substitutes were tried. By all reports, the chicory replacement seemed to be the best of the lot.

To make chicory coffee or chicory-blend coffee, dig a supply of roots. Fall is the best season, though you can dig them during the summer. After scrubbing and washing thoroughly, dry the chicory roots, then roast in a low oven until they’re brittle and the color of dark coffee. Once roasted, the roots can be ground in a coffee mill and added to your favorite coffee blend—though it’s a good idea to start out at about a one-to-four (chicory to coffee) ratio since chicory is stronger than coffee.

The old herbalists employed various chicory compounds to treat everything from jaundice to constipation. The plant’s milky sap was employed in tonics. Crushed leaves made a good poultice for swellings and inflammation.

Oddly, a strong blue dye can be made from chicory leaves, while a dye derived from the flowers themselves is bright yellow.

The chicory’s festive blue flowers are usually morning bloomers, opening early and closing not long after noon. Because of this regularity, Swedish botanist Carolus Linnaeus, whose botanical naming system we employ today, used chicory in his floral clock at Upsala.

Chicory has a long and illustrious history, indeed both in this country and throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. A lineage few plants can match.

To overlook this attractive and useful plant because of its commonality is to disregard that record.

Chicory is truly summer’s blue jewel.

Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].