There are herbs you cook with, and then there is lovage. To Romanians, this plant is not just another green frill on the market stall; it is the soul of the kitchen, the perfume of childhood, and a quiet guardian of tradition. The world knows its cousins—parsley, celery, dill—but lovage stands apart, bolder and sharper, a herb that does not whisper but sings.
The first time you smell lovage, it is unforgettable. A deep, almost mysterious fragrance—celery-like, but wilder, with a bite that seems both earthy and fresh. In Romania, it is the unmistakable scent of sour soups: ciorbă, crowned with lovage, is as much a national symbol as Dracula’s castle or the painted monasteries. Without it, a soup feels unfinished, like a song missing its last note. Ask any Romanian grandmother, and she will tell you that a pot of broth without lovage is simply not respectable.
Yet lovage is not just a cook’s secret. It has been medicine, charm, and myth. Medieval herbals praised it for calming the digestive system and stimulating the appetite. In old villages, its leaves were sometimes braided into midsummer wreaths or tucked under pillows as protection against spirits. Its very name hints at romance—“love-age”—and folk stories claim it was brewed in teas or baths to kindle affection. Some even called it the “herb of love,” though most Romanians would say it is simply the herb of home.
The beauty of lovage is in its resilience. It grows tall, lush, almost ornamental, with glossy leaves that rise confidently from the earth. Plant it once in the garden, and it returns faithfully each year, as if it has sworn allegiance to your kitchen. It needs little tending, only water and space, and it rewards you with handfuls of green glory. In a world where delicate herbs wilt at the first hint of neglect, lovage endures like an old friend—always waiting, always ready to be plucked.
Culinary tradition has made the herb inseparable from Romania, but it has cousins scattered across Europe. In Germany, it is sometimes called Maggikraut—the “Maggi herb”—because its flavor recalls the famous seasoning. In France and England, it lingers in forgotten recipes, once popular in medieval banquets but now a rarity. But in Romania, it never went out of style. It clings to identity, passed from garden to garden, whispered in kitchen talk, snipped fresh into pots on winter days when the house fills with steam and the world outside seems too gray.
Part of the herb’s charm is its generosity. Nothing goes to waste. The leaves are sliced into soups and stews. The stems can be used for stocks. Even the seeds, aromatic and strong, were once candied or distilled into cordials. To cook with lovage is to enter a conversation with centuries of resourceful cooks who refused to let flavor slip away.
And yet, despite its virtues, lovage is a quiet star. It does not parade itself like basil or mint in glossy magazines. You will rarely find it packaged in supermarket aisles outside Eastern Europe. To many, it remains a mysterious green secret, known only to those who carry its memory from their homeland. Perhaps that is why Romanians speak of it with such affection: to love lovage is to belong to a lineage of kitchens, to remember gardens heavy with summer, to hear your grandmother’s voice saying, “Add more, child, don’t be stingy.”
For me, lovage is proof that an herb can be more than a seasoning. It can be a story, a memory, or an identity. It can be the taste of home carried across borders and decades, tucked into luggage as seeds, planted again in foreign soil to keep the homeland alive. It is an herb that demands loyalty, and once you have fallen for it, you are loyal forever.
Let basil be the darling of Instagram, and mint be the flirt of cocktails. Lovage does not need to be fashionable. It is eternal, a green banner waving from Romanian kitchens, reminding us that true love can be found not only in people, but in the leaves that perfume our soups and stay with us long after the pot is empty.
