Creation Is Necessary

Long before Rome called it koriannon, before the British packed it into glass jars and labeled it “exotic,” coriander had already crossed deserts in the hands of merchants who needed no maps. It grew beside lentils in the Indus Valley. It was crushed into paste in Babylon. It was stirred into barley porridge in ancient Egypt, where it was buried with the dead—not as garnish, but as offering.

They say if you hold a coriander seed beneath your tongue, you’ll remember the taste of something older than your passport. Something sacred. Something stolen and sold back to you as cuisine.
But coriander also has secrets.

In old Chinese medicine, it was said that if you consumed enough of it—fresh, ground, or brewed—you would awaken the path to immortality. Not the body, but the memory. A seed that remembered every name it had ever worn, and would whisper them back to you in dreams.

The Greeks believed it sparked lust; they soaked it in wine, then blamed the fever on the gods.
And in lands now forgotten, there was a goddess of breath and boundaries who carried coriander in her hair. She scattered the seeds across thresholds so that liars would trip as they crossed.

The plant itself is soft, modest. But its myths are loud.
And if you ask the Codex, coriander is no spice.
It is a witness.