E has long believed that bay leaves are a load of crap. Nearly every soup and stew recipe calls for one or two of these little leaves, which most people buy dried and jarred from their supermarket’s spice aisle. How could one of these shriveled little paper-thin dry-as-cardboard leaves actually and significantly impact 4 to 6 quarts of already otherwise flavorful food, is her typical argument. My typical response is “and that’s why *I* do the cooking, and *you* do the dish-washing. Go set the table or something, dinner will be ready soon.”

The “argument” renewed at the farmer’s market this morning as we passed by the table where we normally get our salad greens (nicely packaged with a few colorful edible flowers, $2.50 for a half-gallon size zip-top bag). These folks also sell a wide assortment of fresh herbs, from the mundane (your parsleys, your mints…) to the obscure (fresh chervil, anyone?). Next to a beautiful bouquet of purple-tipped thyme was a branch of fresh bay leaves, 99¢. As I grabbed for one, E shot me her skeptical look: “I just don’t buy it, this whole bay leaves thing” she said.

As the last thing we watched before going to bed last night was the Chicken Kiev episode of America’s Test Kitchen we Tivo’d the night before, a challenge immediately sprung to mind. I would prepare a taste test, to prove to my wife, once and for all, that bay matters.

Back in my kitchen, while waiting for the start of my batch of chicken stock to boil, I poured two cups of water into two separate pots and brought each to a simmer. In one pot, I placed two of the newly-purchased fresh bay leaves. In the other, two dried leaves from the spice aisle (actually, from the spices in the Mexican aisle – much cheaper). I let each pot simmer for half an hour, then strained the liquids into separate teacups (a third teacup was filled with plain hot water).

The results? E is still skeptical. Because bay leaves are known to release their flavor slowly, the half hour of simmering was probably not quite enough to extract the leaves’ full flavor. The fresh leaves made a reddish tea-like brew with a light, pungent aroma of herbs and flowers, with a very light bitter-licorice flavor. The dried leaves made a golden brew that could have just as well been chamomile tea. The plain hot water had a slightly off, stale flavor that makes me think I should go get a Brita.

Meanwhile, my stock is coming along nicely. There’s something deeply satisfying about having homemade stock in the freezer; you really ought to devote a few hours to it every few months.