Apart from the trials to which my curiosity subjects it, I do not see that the Cicada-larva is exposed to any danger of perishing in this way. There is always a bit of brushwood of some kind near the exit-hole. The newly-exhumed insect climbs on it; and a few minutes are enough for the animal pod to split down the back. This swift hatching has often been a source of trouble to me in my studies. A larva appears on the hills not far from my house. I catch sight of it just as it is fastening on the twig. It would form an interesting subject of observation indoors. I place it in a paper bag, together with the stick that carries it, and hurry home. This takes me a quarter of an hour, but it is labour lost: by the time that I arrive, the green Cicada is almost free. I shall not see what I was bent on seeing. I had to abandon this method of obtaining information and be content with an occasional lucky find within a few yards of my door.
“Everything is in everything,” as Jacotot the pedagogue[1] used to say. In connection [[50]]with that remarkably quick metamorphosis a culinary question arises. According to Aristotle, Cicadæ were a highly-appreciated dish among the Greeks. I am not acquainted with the great naturalist’s text: humble villager that I am, my library possesses no such treasure. I happen, however, to have before me a venerable tome which can tell me just what I want to know. I refer to Matthiolus’ Commentaries on Dioscorides.[2] As an eminent scholar, who must have known his Aristotle very well, Matthiolus inspires me with complete confidence. Now he says:
“Mirum non est quod dixerit Aristoteles, cicadas esse gustu suavissimas antequam tettigometræ rumpatur cortex.”
Knowing that tettigometra, or mother of the Cicada, is the expression used by the ancients to denote the larva, we see that, according to Aristotle, the Cicadæ possess a flavour most delicious to the taste before the bark or outer covering of the matrix bursts. [[51]]
This detail of the unbroken covering tells us at what season the toothsome dainty should be picked. It cannot be in winter, when the earth is dug deep by the plough, for at that time there is no danger of the larva’s hatching. People do not recommend an utterly superfluous precaution. It is therefore in summer, at the period of the emergence from underground, when a good search will discover the larvæ, one by one, on the surface of the soil. This is the real moment to take care that the wrapper is unbroken. It is the moment also to hasten the gathering and the preparations for cooking: in a very few minutes the wrapper will burst.
Are the ancient culinary reputation and that appetizing epithet, suavissimas gustu, well-deserved? We have an excellent opportunity: let us profit by it and restore to honour, if the occasion warrant it, the dish extolled by Aristotle. Rondelet,[3] Rabelais’ erudite friend, gloried in having rediscovered [[52]]garum, the famous sauce made from the entrails of rotten fish. Would it not be a meritorious work to give the epicures their tettigometræ again?
On a morning in July, when the sun is up and has invited the Cicadæ to leave the ground, the whole household, big and little, go out searching. There are five of us engaged in exploring the enclosure, especially the edges of paths, which yield the best results. To prevent the skin from bursting, as each larva is found I dip it into a glass of water. Asphyxia will stay the work of metamorphosis. After two hours of careful seeking, when every forehead is streaming with perspiration, I am the owner of four larvæ, no more. They are dead or dying in their preserving bath; but this does not matter, since they are destined for the frying-pan.
The method of cooking is of the simplest, so as to alter as little as possible the flavour reputed to be so exquisite: a few drops of oil, a pinch of salt, a little onion and that is all. There is no conciser recipe in the whole of La Cuisinière bourgeoise. At dinner, the fry is divided fairly among all of us hunters. [[53]]
The stuff is unanimously admitted to be eatable. True, we are people blessed with good appetites and wholly unprejudiced stomachs. There is even a slightly shrimpy flavour which would be found in a still more pronounced form in a brochette of Locusts. It is, however, as tough as the devil and anything but succulent; we really feel as if we were chewing bits of parchment. I will not recommend to anybody the dish extolled by Aristotle.
Certainly, the renowned animal-historian was remarkably well-informed as a rule. His royal pupil sent on his behalf to India, the land at that time so full of mystery, for the curiosities most impressive to Macedonian eyes; he received by caravan the Elephant, the Panther, the Tiger, the Rhinoceros, the Peacock; and he described them faithfully. But, in Macedonia itself, he knew the insect only through the peasant, that stubborn tiller of the soil, who found the tettigometra under his spade and was the first to know that a Cicada comes out of it. Aristotle, therefore, in his immense undertaking, was doing more or less what Pliny was to do later, with a much greater amount of artless credulity. He listened to [[54]]the chit-chat of the country-side and set it down as veracious history.