Tag Archives: Military History

History of Everyday Objects Undusted: Sponges

Today, let’s dive into the topic of sponges.

Natural sponges are sessile (immobile) marine invertebrates of the animal phylum Porifera (pore-bearing). They lack complex nervous, digestive, and circulatory systems but rely on constant water flow through their bodies to take in nutrients and oxygen, and to remove waste. There are nearly ten thousand known species; some feed on planktonic bacteria; others host symbiotic organisms to thrive, and some have even developed predatory survival strategies in nutrient-poor environments.

Natural sponges have been used by humans for thousands of years; archaeological excavations have found evidence of sponges used to plaster and paint the queen’s walls at Knossos (the Minoan culture of Crete, c. 1700 to 1400 BC). They have been found on Greek pottery from around 760 BC in depictions of thermal scenes or as status symbols. Oppianus Cilicius (2nd C BC) was the first to write about those fishing for sponges, including details about the spongers’ lifestyles and diets, and the dangers they faced from shark attacks (for an interesting video on the topic of modern spongers, click here). Aristotle (384–322 BC) described the “elephant nose-like tube” used by the sponge divers to breathe. In the Iliad and Odyssey, Homer makes reference to sponges as hygienic utensils. Pliny the Elder (AD 23-79), among others, described the uses of sponges in agriculture and cooking. Cicero (106-43 BC) referred to their use in washing or cleaning. Roman legionaries were supplied with sponges to stuff into their helmets, for personal hygiene, and for drinking (their ancient solution to a water bottle); let’s hope that those were three different sponges allotted. This explains the presence of a sponge at the cross in Matthew 27:48/Mark 15:36/John 19:29.

The first use of a sponge with inhaled surgical anaesthesia is recorded in AD 1025 by the Persian physician Ibn Sina, who used a concoction of potent (=poisonous) sedatives of opium, mandrake and hemlock. Medieval European physicians sometimes used crude herbal mixtures or opium sponges to administer a type of anaesthetic, but it was a far cry from what we know today; at best, it got the patient drunk or high enough not to scream as loudly.  Ether vapour as an anaesthetic didn’t make its way into use in Europe until 1846, at the London University College’s theatre.

By the mid-twentieth century, overfishing brought both the sponges and the industry close to extinction. Overharvesting strained the sponge populations around the Mediterranean and the Caribbean; other stresses include storms (which can suffocate them with sand and debris, or rip them loose from their anchors) and climate change (disease outbreaks occur more frequently in warming ocean temperatures). The depleted population also puts stress on the entire environmental chain: Sponge feeders, such as parrotfish or angelfish, move on; without their presence, rapid-growing sponge species smother reef-building corals, which in turn reduces breeding, hiding, and feeding places for other marine species. Changes in harvesting policies and practices in some regions may mitigate these issues: By cutting the sponges loose rather than ripping them out, sponges have a chance to regenerate. But as more people in the First World become concerned with using natural products, marine sponges will continue to be (over-)harvested.

Sponges today are usually synthetic, invented in 1937 by the German scientist Otto Bayer, who (in the good ol’ fashioned way a lot of discoveries have been made) accidentally created polyurethane foam. By the 1940s, the DuPont company had begun mass-producing sponges made from wood pulp, hemp fibres, and sodium sulphate. By the late 1950s, dual-purpose sponges were introduced.

An alternative to both the marine- and synthetic sponges is the Loofah (Luffa) gourd: Besides being a food in the earlier stages of its cycle, when these gourds are left on the vine to dry out, they become a fibrous, natural sponge. For a short video on how to harvest and use a luffa gourd sponge, just click here. If I had a garden, I would certainly try to grow these!

What kinds of sponges do you have in your home? I hope this helps you appreciate the humble sponge, whichever form you use.

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Etymology Undusted: Brittonic Remnants

While many English words can be traced back to an event, such as the French absorbed into the language after 1066, some words we use today can be traced much further back to the formation of the language.

English itself is a West Germanic language of the Indo-European language family. During the period of Roman Britain (AD 43 to AD 410), what we know as Britain today spoke Brittonic dialects and languages, influenced by the Celtic migration from the Continent around 1300-800 BC; during the Roman occupation, many words from Latin were assimilated, and English as a language began to emerge around 450 AD. Old English would be unintelligible to most English speakers today; I won’t go into the history of the Great Vowel Shift again, which fundamentally changed the sound of the language, but suffice to say, we still use many Old English words today. Famously, Winston Churchill used many Old English words in his “We shall never surrender” speech, delivered just after the evacuation from Dunkirk was successfully completed. Old English words tend to be short, giving the speech more emphasis; click on this link for a clip from the film Darkest Hour, portraying the speech. As one man in the clip says, he mobilised the English language and sent it into battle.

Even though English as a language has adapted, evolved and adopted words from around the globe since its inception, there are ancient words from Brittonic which we still use today. Here are a few:

Ass, crag, doe, wan, combe (valley), peat, hog, gull, brock, bin, coracle, flannel, and bannock. Possible words (etymology is unclear, but these are suspected to be Celtic British) include basket, sark (a shirt or smock in Scotland and northern England), wan, and dun.

Among the place names from Brittonic are Avon, Derwent, York, Leeds, and London. The elements of Aber-, Caer-, Pen-, and Dun– are typical Brittonic place-name derivatives; these include: Aberdeen, Aberfeldy, Cardiff, Carlisle, Penzance, Dumbarton, Dundee, and Dumfries.

Some of these words are more common, for instance, in Scotland than in America, but they are still words used today. As you can imagine, the farther back we go in history, the more we’ll realise that earlier words have been usurped by “modern” ones – even if “modern” refers to a thousand years ago. What we know today only as “eggs” once had a variety of spellings: æg, ei, ey, eai, egge, eyern, eyeren, eggys, eggja. All of these were in use until William Caxton (c. 1422 – c. 1491) decided on eggs (thank you!). Only because of him do we spell it thus, and not æg or anything else.

I realise that all of this is an over-simplification, but it would be impossible to do justice to a language that has been developing for well over a thousand years, no matter how many books have been written on the subject. Hopefully, this little insight gives you a deeper appreciation for the fact that your spouse can write “eggs” on the shopping list and that you understand the term!

(AI Gen Image)

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Etymology Undusted: Things

Probably as long as people have been communicating, mouths have moved faster than brains. When that happens, we’ve come up with some entertaining ways of naming something or someone we can’t immediately recall the precise word or name for. Sometimes a placeholder name or phrase might be inserted until the proper word or name comes to mind or is discovered, such as John Doe or Jane Doe, or Lorem ipsum; sometimes that placeholder name is all that’s needed to give enough context. However, unspecified objects or persons can lead to confusion or can invite the listener/reader to fill in the blank with their own (mis)interpretations or (wrong) conclusions. Official use of such placeholder names can be a dangerous doohinkus, as you can imagine: Naming all as-of-yet unnamed newborns Babygirl or Babyboy could lead to mix-ups, or wrong medications. In 2009, the US Army unfortunately sent out 7,000 letters to families of fallen soldiers in Iraq, addressing them as “John Doe” – you can imagine the backlash and PR nightmare, not to mention the emotional trauma that blunder caused.  So don’t use these words in official correspondence or medical practice, but otherwise, have fun with them!

Doohinkus

Doohickus

Doohickey

Doodinkus

Thingumabob

Wotsit

Whatzit

Thingie

Thingamy

Thingamajig/Thingamajiggy

Dingsboms

Doodad

Doojigger

Gizmo

Frobnitz

Dinglehopper

Flapdoodle

Dingus

Doofer

Whatchamacallit/Whatchamahoozie

Dealy

Whoozit/whosit

Whosiewhatsit

Whatsername/Whatzisname

Rigamajig

Kajigger

Bizzo

Can you think of any others? Please share them in the comments below!

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History Undusted: The Folly of King Alfred the Great

Recently, my mother sent me a link on Facebook and asked me to write an article about it; it’s definitely an interesting topic – so thanks, Mom!

First of all, for those of you who don’t know what a folly is:

In architectural terms, a folly is a building that is either constructed as decoration which suggests another purpose or is a practical garden building that transcends its purpose with extravagant features. An example of the former term would be buildings that were designed from the outset to look like ancient ruins, such as Wimpole’s Folly in Cambridgeshire, England; an example of the latter would be buildings like the Dunmore Pineapple in Stirlingshire, Scotland (I’ve been to this site a few times and was once able to go inside the pineapple). Designed to look like a giant pineapple, it was actually a working hothouse; that’s perhaps another story to tell. As for today’s topic, the folly of King Alfred would fall into the former definition.

Second of all, who was King Alfred, and why does he bear the sobriquet Great?

Statue of Alfred the Great at Wantage, Oxfordshire

Born in 849 AD, Alfred the Great was King of the West Saxons from 871 to 886, and then King of the Anglo-Saxons from 886 to 899. He lived in a time when Viking invasions and warring tribes were common. Both of his parents died when he was young, and his three older brothers reigned before he eventually came to the throne. The battles, invasions and wars are too numerous to mention; to be a king meant to be at war. At the age of 21, he was already the King of the Wessex and a battle veteran. In early 878, the Danes struck like lightening, taking Chippenham (on the map below, you’ll see that it was in the heart of Alfred’s territories); inhabitants surrendered or fled, and it reduced Alfred and his men to hit and run means of getting provisions; they withdrew into the tidal marshes of Somerset (the area on the other side of the River Severn, just below Wales on the map below). Alfred reevaluated his strategy and learned from his enemy: He and his men began a guerilla war against the Danes, and by May, he’d defeated them in the Battle of Edington. Knowing that he would never be able to drive out such a powerful enemy, he made a treaty with them, establishing borders and what became known as the Danelaw territory; King Guthrum of the Danes converted to Christianity, with Alfred as his godfather and soon son-in-law as he sealed the treaty by marrying one of Guthrum’s daughters, Aethelflaed.

The Great comes from the fact that he united many of the disparate tribes; he recognized the deterioration in learning caused by years of disrupting wars and the Viking’s destruction of the monasteries, which were centres of learning and literacy. He recognized the fact that without widespread literacy, a king cannot rule – a people who were not united by a written language would be more vulnerable; but united through a common tongue, they would have a sense of loyalty and continuity in turbulent times. They would be able to adhere to laws, reach legal decisions, and be called to arms more readily if they could read a common language. He set out to make the English proud of being English and thus be prepared to fight for it.

By stopping the Viking advance against all odds, and consolidating his territories, he set the stage for future kings. His accomplishments in Wessex became the seed that eventually gave fruition to a united Anglo-Saxon England, which is why he alone among all kings or queens of England bears the sobriquet Great.

King Alfred’s Folly:

King Alfred’s Folly – Credit, Flickr, Andrew Bone

King Alfred’s Tower was built between 1769 and 1772. To put those dates into perspective, here are a few events from the year that construction began: 13-year-old Mozart, under his father’s control, was just finishing his third concert tour of Italy; James Watt improved his design for a steam engine that would spark the Industrial Revolution; King Charles III of Spain sent missionaries to California, founding San Diego, Santa Barbara, San Francisco and Monterey; Daniel Boone set out to explore what would become Kentucky; and finally, in August of that year, Napoleon Bonapart was born in Corsica.

The tower itself was built near the site of Egbert’s Stone, which is said to mark the mustering site for the troops of the Battle of Edington; the tower was intended to commemorate the end of the Seven Years’ War and the ascension of King George III to the throne of England. It was designed in the Palladian style (a European architectural style) by the architect Henry Flitcroft, at the commission of Banker Henry Hoare. While the reasons for commissioning the tower might be altruistic of Hoare, its site and magnificence might have had something to do with the fact that the tower was an eye-catcher for those touring the parks at his private estate, Stourhead.

Standing at over 40 metres high (131 feet) and a circumference of 51 metres (167 feet), it is completely hollow; it is a triangular structure with a round “tower” at each corner, though only one of them has a use – a spiral staircase of 205 steps, with no landing places along the dizzying ascent or descent. The only safety is a rope “railing” anchored occasionally along the central pillar of the staircase; passing others up or down can be a tight squeeze, and it is not a climb for the faint-hearted. Once reaching the top, you’ll find a crenelated parapet that surrounds a viewing platform offering a great view of the surrounding region; the centre of the platform is surrounded by a guard rail as it is a gaping hole straight down to the ground level; it’s covered with a mesh netting to prevent birds from using the tower as a dovecote.

In 1944, the tower was damaged when a Canadian single-engine plane crashed into it in the fog, killing all five aboard. In the 1980s, it finally underwent repairs and restoration; the statue of King Alfred above the main entrance was also repaired at that time, restoring a missing right forearm. A stone tablet (also in need of restoration) between the door and statue reads:

ALFRED THE GREAT
AD 879 on this Summit
Erected his Standard
Against Danish Invaders
To him We owe The Origin of Juries
The Establishment of a Militia
The Creation of a Naval Force
ALFRED The Light of a Benighted Age
Was a Philosopher and a Christian
The Father of his People
The Founder of the English
MONARCHY and LIBERTY

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History Undusted: The Age of Revolutions

This past summer, my husband and I rented a motorhome and travelled around Switzerland; we tend to prefer nature or museums to overly-touristy attractions. One of the places we visited was Spiez Castle. Before I tell you about that, however, a little historical backdrop is necessary, so buckle up and enjoy the ride!

Everyone’s heard of the French Revolution, which began in May 1789: It was a struggle to become free from the heavy yoke of an elitist monarchical regime, quasi out of the frying pan and into the fire of the Reign of Terror – during which many of the original rebels, in a twist of morbid irony, also had their heads removed by Monsieur Guillotine; it ended in November 1799 with the abolition of the Ancien Régime and the creation of constitutional monarchy (not far from where they started) and the French Consulate (which lasted nearly 5 years until the start of the Napoleonic Empire in May 1804).

But what many people might not know is that the French Revolution was internationally both influenced and influential. Modern “small world” effects are not modern at all; even in ancient times, people had international news: Travelling merchants and traders, messengers, signal towers (such as those the Romans used along the British frontiers), and even smoke signals, all conveyed news. When the French Revolution began, there was already a growing political dissent spreading throughout Western Europe; the English “coffeehouse culture” enabled men to gather in small groups and discuss business and politics; this concept travelled to America, and the discontent culminated in the American Revolution, starting in April of 1775. The French people watched and learned. The British government naturally became wary – they were losing the American colonies to the Revolutionary War, which they finally lost in September 1783. The Americans were supported during that time by France and Spain (the two main long-term enemies of Britain), so the British were hemmed in by threats to their own social order from both the east and the west, and they had well-founded fears of the discontent sparking revolt in the dry tinder of their own oppressed ranks.

And now we come to Switzerland: To understand the Swiss backstory in a nutshell, which does no justice to a history that began in the Palaeolithic Age or further back, let me sum it up: The Old Swiss Confederacy was an alliance between independent small states, starting on 1 August 1291 with the “Rütlischwur”(an oath of allegiance between the cantons of Uri, Schwyz and Unterwalden), which date is considered by the Swiss to be the birth of the nation (though history is more complicated). As the French Revolution was beginning to wind down, Napoleon Bonaparte, then a French general, pressed the French Directory (the then-current French governing committee) to invade Switzerland. The atmosphere within the Old Swiss Confederacy was tense, fearing that the French Revolution would spill over with or without direct French military involvement. At the invitation of a French-speaking faction in Vaud (then part of Canton Berne), 12,000 French troops invaded through Vaud on 28 January 1798, and for the next four months, battles were waged between the French and the Swiss “Loyal Legions”. It ended in May with the swift collapse of the Swiss Old Confederacy.  

The Battle of Neuenegg, 1798 – Graphics Collection, Central Library, Zürich

However, the French Directory needed a solid neighbour, a buffer zone along their eastern borders, not a loosely associated collection of small states; they tried to steer toward a re-establishment of national unity with a Paris-drawn constitution, but on April 1798, Swiss cantonal leaders proclaimed the Helvetic Republic, with new legal structures that abolished feudal rights within individual cantons in favour of a national unity. A few battles later, and coalition armies waging war in and around Switzerland against France, eventually left Switzerland as a sovereign, neutral nation; it has remained so ever since, despite two world wars.

An etymological side note on the Latin name of the Swiss Confederation (Switzerland), Confoederatio Helvetica: Helvetia is the female personification of Switzerland, found on nearly every coin, much like Lady Liberty of America. The name derives from Helvetii, a Celtic tribe that inhabited the Swiss Plateau since before the Roman Era. The earliest reference of the name is dated to ca. 300 BC, written in Etruscan on a vessel from Mantua (located in Lombardy, Italy). By the time the Romans arrived, they were well-established tribes governed by noblemen; the Roman historians tended to refer to anyone not Roman as “barbarian”, which tends to skew modern understanding of the peoples they conquered; it was perhaps their way of justifying invasions against peaceful, intact civilisations. Naming no names, but R—– is repeating that same shameful tactic today; there’s nothing new under the sun.

It’s easy to overlook the complexities of historical events or view them from only one nation’s side; after all, as Mark Twain once wrote, “The very ink with which all history is written is merely fluid prejudice.” History’s angle is in the hands of those who wrote it – if they were Roman, everyone else was barbarian; if they were English, the Scottish / Irish / Indians were backwaters in need of a guiding stick, and so on.

So, now that you know a bit more about the history in and around Switzerland, I’ll highlight Spiez Castle next!

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History Undusted: Forgotten Battles of the Aleutian Islands

I might be odd for a woman, but I love history; in particular the history of World War 2. But as much as I’ve read about it, and as many documentaries and films as I’ve watched on the topic, I had never heard about this episode until I read a comment from a YouTube video which told about how that person’s grandfather had served in the only US territory to be occupied by the Japanese during the war: The Aleutian Islands.

Anyone who knows a bit about World War 2 probably knows about Midway – a pivotal point in the Pacific arena. But at the same time Japan was targeting that US island base in the middle of the Pacific, they also had their sites set on the Bering Strait; specifically, the six island groups of the Aleutian Islands. In June 1942, they attacked and occupied the US territory islands of Kiska and Attu. Anyone would be excused for thinking that these inhospitable, frozen, volcanic mountains rising out of the sea were insignificant, but they were a strategic launching point for keeping the Japanese at bay in the Pacific, and as a gateway for supplies to the Allied troops. If the Japanese managed to maintain their hold on those islands, it would strengthen the defence of their northern territories, and it was also feared that they would use the islands as springboards from which to attack the US West coast or invade through Alaska and into Canada and the northwestern mainland territory of the US. The battles there are considered the “forgotten battles” because, although there was public outrage in the US at the time, they were soon largely overshadowed in the press by Midway and by the Guadalcanal campaigns. But the number of casualties there was comparable to that of Pearl Harbor, and the Attu battle was better known in Japan than in America: It was a major propaganda coup for the Imperial Army.

To watch a 1943 documentary about the Aleutian Islands and their strategic significance, called “Forgotten Battle of the Aleutian Islands“, just click on the link (~45 min.). It not only gives a glimpse into the geography and military aspect, but the human aspect, showing the soldiers in their daily off-duty activities and their duties; it gives you a sense of what they were like, where they came from, and what they did. For a shorter summary (~12 min), click here.

The Aleutian Islands, showing Russia to the west and Alaska to the east.

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Famous Last Words: Major General John Sedgwick

Killed in the 1864 Battle of Spotsylvania by a sharpshooter, his ironic last words were:

“They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.”

Major General John Sedgwick; source, Wikipedia

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History Undusted: The Dying Art of Sailors’ Shanties

Because the days of Sail are mostly long gone except for re-enactment vessels and small private vessels such as yachts, a great tradition is being lost to the winds of time:  The Sea Shanty.  Shanties were songs sung by sailors; they were sung not only for the entertainment factor, but the rhythms kept the crews in time as they hauled in anchors, drew up sails, tightened ropes, scrubbed the deck, and any number of other duties aboard their ship.  Specific shanties were used for the short haul, the Halyard, Windlass, Capstan, or the Foresheet, because those shanties had the best rhythm to get a particular job done.  Musicians try to keep the songs alive today, but they are a ghost of what they once were, and what they once meant and represented; they were the life blood of any Ship of the Line.

For sheet music, check out The Shanty Book, Part I, Sailor Shanties, by Richard Runiciman Terry.

For an interesting article on shanties, including various video clips with live performances to hear the rhythms and flavour of the shanties, please click here.  Take a few moments to enjoy the songs!  Some of the videos are the songs sung to a series of historical images to do with sailing, so they’re a two fer!

Originally posted on History Undusted, 20 September 2015

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History Undusted: If World War I were a Bar Fight

History can be confusing sometimes, especially if it’s distant – beyond our own experience. Who’s who, who did what, and what the consequences were can all seem a bit vague. The analogy below, put into a relatable context, may help you visualize an important bit of world history; I don’t know who came up with the original piece, but it’s brilliant! I’ve made several additions here and there, but otherwise, it’s someone else’s work – if anyone knows who originally came up with this analogy, please let me know so that I can give credit where credit is due!

If World War I were a Bar Fight

Bar Fight, World War 1

Germany, Austria and Italy are standing together in the middle of a pub when Serbia bumps into Austria and spills Austria’s pint. Austria demands Serbia buy it a whole new suit because of the new beer stains on its trouser leg. Germany expresses its support of Austria’s point of view.

Britain recommends that everyone calm down a bit.

Serbia points out that it can’t afford a whole new suit, but offers to pay for the cleaning of Austria’s trousers. Russia and Serbia look at Austria. Austria asks Serbia who they’re looking at. Russia suggests that Austria should leave its little brother alone. Austria inquires as to whose army will help Russia make them do so.

Germany appeals to Britain that France has been eyeing Britain, and that it’s unwise for Britain not to intervene. Britain replies that France can look at whoever it wants to, and that Britain has been watching Germany too, and what is Germany going to do about it? Germany tells Russia to stop looking at Austria, or Germany will render Russia incapable of such action anymore. Britain and France ask Germany whether it’s looking at Belgium.

Turkey and Germany go off into a corner and whisper.  When they come back, Turkey makes a show of not looking at anyone.

Germany rolls up its sleeves, looks at France, and punches Belgium and Luxembourg, who had been minding their own business at the end of the bar. France and Britain punch Germany; Austria punches Bosnia and Herzegovina (which Russia and Serbia took personally); Germany punches Britain and France with one fist and Russia with the other. Russia throws a punch at Germany, but misses and nearly falls over.

Japan calls from the other side of the room that it’s on Britain’s side, but stays there.

Italy surprises everyone by punching Austria. Australia punches Turkey and gets punched back.  There are no hard feelings, however,  because Britain made Australia do it.

France gets thrown through a plate-glass window, but gets back up and carries on fighting.  Russia gets thrown through another one, gets knocked out, suffers brain damage, and wakes up with a complete personality change.

Italy throws a punch at Austria and misses, but Austria falls over anyway.  Italy raises both fists in the air and runs around the room chanting. America waits until Germany is about to fall over from sustained punching from Britain and France, then walks over and smashes it with a barstool and pretends it won the fight all by itself.

By now all the chairs are broken and the big mirror over the bar is shattered.  Britain, France and America agree that Germany threw the first punch, so the whole thing is Germany’s fault.  While Germany is still unconscious, they go through its pockets, steal its wallet, and buy drinks for all their friends.

Everyone went home, leaving Germany to pout on the floor planning on how to get even.

 

 

Originally posted on History Undusted, September 2015

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History Undusted: The Colour of Carrots

Unless you’ve been living under a rock all your life, chances are you’ve eaten carrots. Orange through and through, they can be eaten sweet, as in a carrot cake, or savoury with dips or in a stew. But where did they come from? Have they always been orange? The short answers are Central Asia, and nope.

Carrots - Carrot-Museum-co-uk

Carrots, which likely originated in the Himalayas and the Hindu Kush ranges and spread along the Silk Road, were white/ivory wild roots gleaned for their leaves and seeds – much like their genetic relatives of coriander and parsley, and it may be that the products of these plants were used medicinally, like many other plants and herbs.

They were first cultivated as a food crop in the Iranian Plateau and Persia, and even today the centre of diversity remains in the region, in Afghanistan. Long before they were cultivated, the wild varieties had become widespread throughout Europe, as far back as 5,000 years ago, though fossilized pollen has been identified as belonging to the carrot family in the Eocene period (55 to 34 million years ago).

These little roots have approximately 32,000 genes, which is more than you and I do; and just two of those genes are recessive, creating a build-up of alpha- and beta-carotene. Over a thousand years ago, purple and yellow varieties began to appear, and around 600 years ago, the orange variety began to dominate the market, appearing in Spain and Germany around the 15th or 16th century.

One apocryphal theory is that the orange coloured carrots were cultivated by the Dutch in honour of William of Orange, a 16th century commander who fought against the Habsburg dynasty; even if this legend isn’t true, the orange carrot did become associated with William of Orange, and during the 18th century, the noticeable display at market stalls was considered to be a provocative political gesture in support of William’s descendant, who had been driven from the English throne. The distaste for the political figure didn’t stem the taste for the root, however, and they grew in popularity. Most modern orange carrots descend from a strain grown in Hoorn, Holland; today’s carrots, more vivid orange, contain 50% more carotene than those of 1970. Modern carrot breeders continue to refine the carrot, improving flavour, colour and texture, as well as reducing bitterness and enhancing sweetness.

Though other varieties of carrots are making a comeback, the beta-carotene and vitamin A which causes the deep orange was thought to improve eyesight (that is a misnomer). This led to a diversion tactic of the British during World War 2: They claimed that eating carrots improved night-vision and that their pilots ate carrots to have that advantage; it was misinformation spread to hide the Royal Air Force’s development of radar technology from the Germans. Aside from the propaganda ploy by the military, carrots were a staple in the diets of the British, who used the humble root as a sweetener and a vegetable staple, and was promoted for health benefits. Food rationing tightened the Brits’ belts, but the carrot came to the rescue; it was a common, home-grown staple, and could be used as a substitute for restricted items as it was not subject to rationing. Carrot was even used as a secret code word, broadcast by the BBC in French to the French Resistance, to warn of the impending D-Day landing in Normandy: On the 4th of June 1944, several messages that seemed nonsensical to listeners were broadcast, including, “les carottes sont cuites, je répète, les carottes sont cuites!” (“The carrots are cooked, I repeat, the carrots are cooked!”) This gave the resistance fighters the signal to carry out their plans to sabotage railway and telephone lines. Carrots were the last vegetables added to a stew; if they were already cooked, it meant that the plans were set – no going back. Normandy landings began the next day, 5 June, which led to the liberation of France and the ultimate defeat of the Nazis.

The word carrot was first recorded in English around 1530 and was borrowed from Middle French carotte, originally from the Indo-European root *ker– (horn), probably due to its horn-like shape. At the time, carrots (white) were visually similar to parsnips, the two being collectively called moru (from the Proto-Indo-European word mork (edible root)); the German for carrot is Möhre).

For more information than most people could possibly use in their lifetime, check out this link to The Carrot Museum, my main source of information for this article (along with the Economist).

The next time you sit down to a good vegetable stew or a plate of crudité and dips, think of the grand history of the humble carrot.

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