Fierce and Grumpy Defender of the Dried Minced Onion
If your onions vanish from your kitchen without cause and your garden flowers seem oddly plucked, you may have brushed shoulders with Lady May.
| Height: | No taller than a kettle lid |
| Temperament: | Grumpy, territorial, deeply opinionated |
| Delights: | Laundry line drama, unexpected guests, sharp cheeses, crinkly leaves |
| Detests: | Unironed linens, loud squirrels, and anyone who misuses dried onion |
| Botanical Ally: | Dried Minced Onion |
Lady May is a prairie-born cryptid known across forgotten fields and postboxes as the protector of dried flavor. She first appeared in whispers along fence lines—tiny, stern, flower-hatted—and always scowling. Farmers’ almanacs from the late 1800s reference her as "The Onion Curator of Windy Hill" and warn not to mock her stature.
Though minuscule, Lady May is mighty. She is said to carry a sharp twig like a cane and has been known to rap on windows when people forget to properly store their spices. Her flower hat changes with the seasons, but her attitude never does.
You’ll most often find Lady May in onion patches, between the slats of herb drying sheds, or tucked into the warm folds of old dish towels. She favors cleanliness, precision, and the unmistakable bite of dried onion in broth or brew. Her sharp nose can detect spoiled onions from a field away, and she’s not afraid to shame those who misuse seasoning.
| Behavior | Likelihood | Notes |
| Thwapping ankles with twigs | ★★★★☆ | A sign you’ve disrespected the spice drawer. |
| Sorting your herbs while you sleep | ★★★☆☆ | Unlabeled jars are her greatest enemy. |
| Appearing in tea steam | ★★☆☆☆ | Often muttering insults in a language no one’s heard since 1861. |
Hint: Look for a flutter near your garden fence and a faint smell of hot soup with a bite of onion. Then, duck.
Lady May appears as a wrinkle-faced woman no taller than a skillet, draped in layered skirts stitched from napkins. Her hat is always floral, often oversized, and may twitch when she's thinking. She wields a twig like a saber and rarely smiles.
A loud “tsk.” A rustle of aprons. Sometimes a groan that sounds like a very old woman realizing she has to host again. If you hear three thuds and a sigh—you forgot to label something.
Dry cellar onion, morning dew on cotton, and the crisp edge of snipped herbs. If your linens start smelling of fennel and onion, she’s claimed your laundry line.
Ingredients: Dried Minced Onion, flower petals, and a white ribbon
Method:
Outcome: Less neighborhood drama. Fewer surprise visits. Calmer linens.
| Metric | Score |
| Global Population | ★★☆☆☆ |
| Human Encounters | ★★★☆☆ |
| Conservation Status | Rare but watchful, always within two soup pots of the prairie |
Lady May may be grumpy, but she has good taste. Our Dried Minced Onion is crisp, sharp, and worthy of your pantry—and hers. Seal it tight, label it clearly, and she may even let you nap in peace.
