Reminiscing on the Vidalia onion
I’m a New York City foodie these days, but if I ever seem suspiciously warm or relaxed (or kooky), you’ll nod with understanding when I reveal that I grew up in Florida.
The Sunshine State is just a smidgen away from the southeastern Georgia Vidalia region.
As a child shopping at Publix Super Markets with her mom, I thought Vidalia onions were practically the only onions to buy.
Even then, I knew they were sweeter and didn’t make my mom cry as much as she did when chopping red onions for those iceberg salads of the 1980s.
And who wants her mom to cry?
I knew Vidalias were the huge onions shaped like a slightly flattened planet — not totally round like other onions.
My grandmother, who we called Nana, told me with sparkling eyes that she used to eat the onion raw during the Great Depression. She’d smack her lips and smile in amusement as I gawked at her.
This was the onion that my mom minced to get some sweet-savory crunch in her notoriously big burger patties.
As a young adult learning to cook in my first apartment while attending University of Florida, I sliced Vidalias and bell peppers into strips for easy stir-frys with chicken, steak or shrimp over rice.
Over time, I grew into my journalism career as a food writer-editor and my food knowledge blossomed like that Bloomin’ fried onion with creamy dip at Outback Steakhouse.
The Vidalia was part of the mirepoix — diced onions, carrots and celery — forming the base of many a good meal, like a classic soup with chicken, noodles and vegetables. It also danced with green bell pepper and celery for what Cajuns call the Holy Trinity — the base for all those aromatic gumbos and jambalayas in Louisiana.
The onion itself is juicier, milder, sweeter and a bit more sensitive to rough handling.
Through my research for this Vidalia onion editorial section, I learned that this trademarked onion, the official vegetable of the state of Georgia, wasn’t available in far-flung states until 2018. Gasp!
Merely two years ago, the Vidalia wasn’t available in every U.S. state and most of Canada, according to the Vidalia Onion Committee. It’s not a staple for many other people, like it was for me.
I love that it must originate from select growers in a select region during only a select window of time, or else you can’t call it a Vidalia onion. That gives it a sense of place and time. In an era when everything seems available anytime, that makes this piece of produce special.
You know it’s spring or summer when a Vidalia onion hits the grill with a sizzle.
I may be a Northeasterner now, but I don’t forget my roots. Aroma is the sense most closely tied with memories, and that sweet scent of the Vidalia is firmly implanted in my culinary catalog.
Amy Sowder is The Packer’s Northeast editor. E-mail her at asowder@farmjournal.com.
