thai shrimp cocktail

I've always poached shrimp in the conventional way: in a pot of simmering court bouillon. Sometimes I poach it in butter or olive oil, but then, that's confit, isn't it? Same with sous vide.

Recently, I was shown a different method by a culinary student at the restaurant, who learned it from another chef. His way is with residual heat. Instead of cooking the shrimp in the simmering broth, boiling broth is poured over the shrimp that's been spread out in a hotel pan. The pan is immediately covered tightly with plastic wrap and set aside. Depending on the size and quantity of the shrimp, it takes 10-15 minutes until they are perfectly cooked. What I like about this countertop cooking is that they are never tough or overcooked.

Peeling and deveining shrimp is a time consuming task. Sometimes, I buy them already deveined, but always with their shells on for flavor. Decapods (ten-footed crustaceans) carry their intestines on what appears to be their backs, but are actually their bellies. To remove the intestinal tract, the flesh along the belly must be slit open, leaving thin flaps that I find visually distracting when presenting them whole. These long, thin filaments peel away easily and are tasty morsels, though they rarely accumulate in quantities that would comprise a meal. These trimmings— the rare and esoteric by-products of cooking— are the cook's reward.

I think what I like best about Thai food is the balance of sweet, salty, tart, spicy and umami. Nowhere
is this best exemplified than in the sweet-sour garlic dipping sauce Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon— a lively combination of lime juice, palm sugar, thai chilies, garlic, and fish sauce. It's an alarm clock of a sauce— it awakens the senses, makes you sit up and pay attention. I prefer it over cocktail sauce as a dip for poached shrimp. It's delicious poured over hot, grilled fish or steamed rice. In hot weather, I drizzle it over icy-cold watermelon or freeze it and rake it with a fork for a refreshing granita. It's so good that I could drink it, and I do—diluted with sparkling water and sometimes in a sake cocktail.
Using kaffir lime juice brings it to a whole other level, adding complex floral notes along with a bracing acidity.
I wanted to use it with the shrimp bellies and rice noodles in a cold salad, but because it is so thin, I was having a hard time getting the sauce to cling to it. It's not such a bad thing having a pool of it in the bottom of the dish to slurp up, but I was looking for a cleaner presentation. Of course, I could've thickened it with xanthan or ultratex, but looking at the rice noodles, I realized that they were the perfect vehicle to carry the flavor. With a nod to an entirely different cuisine— Italian— and the dish Spaghetti All'Ubriaco, where pasta is cooked in red wine, I cooked the rice stick noodles in the sauce. Infused with the flavor of Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon, the noodles 'dressed' the salad neatly and cleanly.

Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon
parts are by volume, not weight

3 parts nam plah (fish sauce)
2 parts water
2 parts palm sugar (or brown sugar)
1 part finely minced garlic
1 part minced fresh thai bird chili, or 1/2 part dried
3 parts fresh kaffir lime juice

Place all ingredients except for lime juice in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. When the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and add the lime juice.

kaffir lime

Why— in the dead of winter— do I crave bright exotic flavors? I suppose it's a countermeasure to the bleakness of January; a physical reminder that somewhere on this planet the earth is producing things that are juicy and ripe.

Many food trend lists for 2010 include eating locally and seasonally. Admirable goals, certainly, but I live in the frozen tundra Northeast, and if I were to adhere strictly to that, I would be starving right about now. And even worse, there would be no citrus fruits of any kind.

I never fully realized how indispensable citrus is in cooking until I had to do without it, as the Native Americans did— who ONLY ate locally and seasonally. It forced me to analyze why I relied on lemon and lime juice— or any acidic medium. I concluded that it is not merely a crutch, but an essential element of flavor balance that is supported by many of the world's cuisines. Lemons, limes and other sour citrus have distinct aromas that can define or enhance flavor, while acid is a great equalizer. Like salt, it opens up flavors and makes them bloom. A small addition of acid can balance a dish; saving it from being too sweet, too rich, too flat. Relearning all of this makes me more mindful of its role and all the more grateful that I have access to products that don't grow in my climate.

I'll never forget my first encounter with kaffir lime. It was one of those moments that left an indelible impression on my sensory bank. I was eating Thai food— for the first time— at an authentic Thai restaurant. The perfume of kaffir lime leaves was woven through course after course of the most sensual and aromatic food that I had no point of reference or vocabulary for. It was wonderfully exotic.

The first thing I did was to buy a Thai cookbook to better understand the cuisine. 20+ years ago, I had never even heard of things like galangal, nam pla, and kaffir lime leaves, let alone know where to source them. But that didn't stop me from cooking it— substituting ginger for galangal, lime zest for kaffir lime leaves— fully cognizant that it was not authentic. Instead, I focused on learning technique— how to pre-soften dried rice noodles for Paht Thai in warm water, how to make an incendiary and aromatic Krueng Gaeng Kua in a mortar & pestle, how to thicken coconut cream until the surface glistens with oil before adding the curry paste and coconut milk when preparing Choo Chee Goong. When the ingredients finally became available, I was prepared to do them justice.

As I recall, the kaffir lime leaves were the hardest to source. It was a hit-or-miss item at Asian markets. With the advent of the internet, I found a supplier/grower in Florida who was willing to ship small quantities of fresh leaves. Eventually, I became curious about the fruit, made inquiries, and was told that because there wasn't a market for kaffir limes in the US, they stripped the trees of fruit buds to direct its energy to producing leaves. Undeterred, I ordered a dwarf tree that I would grow indoors. It died before setting fruit, along with my hopes of ever tasting a fresh kaffir lime.

Fast forward to last winter. The chef at the restaurant hands me a pair of green knobby fruit that Sid Weiner had dropped off as samples of a new product. One intoxicating whiff and I instantly knew what they were. I had waited over a decade to experience them. Were they worth it? You bet.

This was one of my favorite hors d'Oeuvres from this holiday season. They're so simple that a recipe isn't neccessary. Just mix impeccably picked-over crab meat with a little mayo, minced shallots, scallions, cilantro and kaffir lime zest (or minced leaves) and as much red curry paste as you can handle.. The avocado bases were cut a few hours ahead and kept in diluted kaffir lime juice (or just lime juice with a few kaffir lime leaves tossed in for flavor).

Indian Summer : wrap up

Well, that was probably the longest meal in history.
8 courses in 5 weeks.
Hope you weren't too hungry.

For awhile, I thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

The dishes came easily enough. It was the research— the wonderful bottomless pit of discovery— that held me up. It didn't help that it was also the busiest time of the year at the restaurant and with catering.

It had started with a season. A micro-season, actually. Indian Summer. A time that straddles the end of autumn and heralds the feast of Thanksgiving.

But food is never just about time. It's also about place. And it's always about people.
Food tells a story about people.

Historically, cuisine is shaped by people, culture, and geography. We live in a marvelous time when technology has shrunk the world, blurring borders and giving us access to unlimited streams of information. It's only natural that the influence of technology should find it's way into our kitchens. There is always more to learn.

I felt compelled to look back— way back— to the beginning. I sought to understand food at its most primal, and learned that food is inextricably bound to the people who prepare and eat it.

History is a quagmire. Only by looking back can we see how far we've come. In some ways, it's not very far at all.

Today, though, I'm looking forward. To a New Year. A new decade. And to new culinary adventures.
I can hardly wait!

This post is part of a tasting menu inspired by the indigenous foods and people of North America:
Indian Summer
Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine
Indian Summer :: the sea :: oyster seaweed
Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion
Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean
Indian summer :: the river :: trout birch sumac
Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice
Indian Summer :: the plains :: bison juniper chestnut
Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory

Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory

   The day had started as any other.
   Onatah was the first to wake. She gathered wood to revive the dying fire, choosing the hot-burning oak logs for the cooking fire. In the dim morning light, she watched her tribe as they slept, covered with bear and buckskins, on the ground. Since their retreat into the woods, they had taken to sleeping under the stars for as long as the weather held. It had been warm and dry since leaving their village, but with autumn coming to a close, winter was not far behind. They hoped to reach their brethren tribe at the edge of the Great Plains before the first snow.
   Her sisters and aunts would wake soon to tend the fire and prepare the morning meal. There was enough corn to get them through to the new moon, but only enough acorn meal for this day. There was a sack of dried acorns that needed to be peeled, pounded, and leached of their bitter tannins. In another sack were hickory nuts, gathered just before their departure from a stand of shagbark hickory trees that grew behind their longhouse. She loved the sinuous texture of the bark almost as much as the sweet oily nuts. She would miss those trees and savor their last offering.
   There were more sacks and baskets of roots and tubers, both fresh and dried, maple sugar, sumac, mushrooms, dried venison and pumpkins, smoked fish, chokecherries, beans, and tallow. All of their food, save the fresh sunchokes and mushrooms that they had foraged along their journey, had been gathered from their storage pits and packed in haste.

   On the last full moon, the elders from coastal tribes had come with stories about them.
   The salty people.
   They came from the Great Sea in large vessels, pushed by the wind caught in white sheets. There were many of them and more came with each moon.
   The elders took turns telling stories of how their tribes had shared their food and taught them how to forage and grow The Three Sisters. They made houses from logs, stacked one upon the other on their sides. They had brought with them hoofed animals that they kept in pens. They drank the milk and used it to make butter as their people did with nuts. They made a fine bread from a grain they call wheat.
   They also brought with them illnesses that spread through their people and that medicine men could not cure. Many had died in their tribes.

   The elders came to warn Onatah's tribe. They said that the salty people wanted to possess the rich fertile land along the rivers and lakes; the land where their ancestors had lived and where their children were living now.
   Onatah's husband had laughed then, saying "Don't they know that land can not be owned any more than the stars or the sky?"
   An elder shook his head and said "No, they live by different ways than ours."
   "Then we will fight them!"
   "Their diseases will kill many of you and others will die by their weapons, which are more powerful and deadly than ours. My ancestors have come to me in dreams. They revealed that a Great War is coming and that we should warn others and seek protection in numbers so that our people and our ways will persevere. "

Continue reading “Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory” →

Indian Summer :: the plains :: bison juniper chestnut

Before the arrival of the Europeans, over fifty million bison roamed freely through North America.
By the 1890's there were less than a thousand left.

A very long time ago, bison came to North America from Asia, crossing a land bridge that connected Siberia to Alaska. These early bison (Bison latifrons) were enormous beasts, weighing up to 5,000 pounds. As the ice age waned and the climate warmed, buffalo evolved. B. latifrons were replaced by two new species: Bison antiquus, which became extinct 10,000 years ago, and Bison occidentalis, which further evolved into the two distinct races that exist today: Bison athabascae (wood buffalo) and Bison bison (plains buffalo).

Early inhabitants were largely nomadic hunters, following their prey on seasonal migrations. By the time that they had established villages (about 20,000 years ago), buffalo dominated the grasslands and hillsides that covered the central part of the United States. An adult male buffalo stood seven feet tall, weighed 2,000 pounds, and was capable of running up to 35 miles per hour. They were not easy prey.

Before horses and guns, stealthy hunters chased buffalo on foot using arrows and machetes. Before long they began using their wits to devise more effective ways to hunt. After observing that a wolf could approach a herd without causing a stampede because the buffalo sensed that the wolf would not attack in a herd, they would dress in wolf skins, allowing them to kill selectively.

Knowing that bison blindly followed their leader, they would dress as buffalo and lead an entire herd off of a steep cliff to their deaths. These stampedes were carefully organized and orchestrated to deal with the hundreds of carcasses that had to be processed quickly. Even amid the extravagant slaughter, nothing was wasted.

The Plains Indians relied on buffalo for nearly every aspect of their existence. Besides being a primary source of food where flesh, fat, blood, guts, organs and even hooves were cooked, dried, or smoked; their hair was used for bedding and ropes; hides for shoes, clothing and teepee covering. Buffalo brains were used to cure hides. Bones were made into tools and weapons. Sinews were dried for cordage and bowstrings. Horns were used to transport hot embers. Bladders were employed as cooking vessels. Because the buffalo gave so much, the Native Americans honored them in songs, dances, and prayers, considering them as their spiritual relatives.

In the 18th century, European settlers began to move westward, bringing with them horses and guns. To them, the lumbering buffalo were easy prey. Some of them were trappers and traders who made their living from selling buffalo hides that they would send on trains back east. During the winter of 1872-1873 more than 1.5 million hides were harvested and sold for $2.00-$3.00 apiece. As railroads were built for travel to the west, buffalo became the primary food for laborers. After their completion, buffalo were shot from the windows of moving trains as sport and amusement, leaving their carcasses to rot.

At about the same time, government leaders launched a campaign to eradicate the buffalo as a means of bringing the Indians into submission. In 1873, Columbus Delano, the Secretary of Interior, stated "The civilization of the Indian is impossible while the buffalo remains upon the plains. I would not seriously regret the disappearance of the buffalo from our western prairies, in its effect upon the Indians, regarding it as a means of hastening their sense of dependence upon the products of the soil and their own labors."

The slaughter continued until 1894, when President Grover Cleveland made it illegal to kill buffalo, saving them from near extinction.

Bison Jump

bison tartare, juniper ashes, journey cake

bison sausage, wild onion, roasted in juniper

chestnut puree, dried blueberry sauce

Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice

Pemmican was the original power bar— a rich source of energy, and a nutritious survival food. Native Americans made pemmican by blending pounded, dried meat (jerky) with rendered fat in a 50/50 ratio. Typically, the meat came from ungulate (hoofed) animals— bison, moose, elk, deer. The fat was melted tallow or marrow, extracted from the bones. For special ceremonies, dried berries were added for flavor and color.

The word pemmican comes from the Algonquin word pimikan, derived from pimil, the Cree-Chippewa word for fat.

The hunter-gatherers of North America ate diets that were high in saturated animal fat— alarmingly high by today's standards— yet they lived long, healthy lives, free of disease (until the Europeans arrived). Hunters, in particular, were driven by a lust for fat that they believed was vital to their physical and mental well-being.

Early visitors who witnessed the native hunter's prowess were in awe. One Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca, wrote "The men could go after deer for an entire day without resting or apparent fatigue… one man near seven feet in stature… runs down a buffalo on foot and slays it with his knife or lance, as he runs by its side".

No doubt, their active lifestyle contributed to their physical integrity and superiority. Maintaining it placed a premium on the quality and quantity of their caloric intake, necessitating fat as part of their diet. With nearly 2 1/2 times the energy of complex carbohydrates, sugars, or meat, animal fat was the most efficient way to consume calories without adding bulk.

puffed wild rice: (top) cook until very soft, (center) dehydrate until hard and dry, (bottom) fry in rendered duck fat until puffed

The Chippewa (anglicized name for Ojibwe), are the third largest group of Native Americans in the United States, though they are equally divided between the US and Canada. They once occupied a large territory around The Great Lakes that spread from the prairies of Canada to the plains of Montana.

Chippewas are best known for the wild rice that they gather from the lakes in birchbark canoes. The manoomin (meaning "good berry"), or wild rice, is a sacred plant to the Obijwe, who believed that it was a gift to them from the spirits. According to legend, their creator Gichi-Manidoo guided them on a long journey from the east to Lake Mole, in Wisconsin, where they found "the food that grows on water". Manoomin became so valuable and integrated in their lives that in the early 1800's, they fought a bloody war with the Sioux over it, in which the Chippewa were ultimately victorious.

Wild rice (Zizania) quickly became a staple in the Chippewas diet, and they learned to prepare it many different ways: cooked into a paste to be eaten as bread, mixed with cranberries and maple syrup for breakfast, to thicken broths, and popped, or puffed in hot grease. Wild rice was also traded for furs and was useful for attracting geese, ducks, and other wild fowl, making them easy prey for the Indians who waited, hiding in the dense reeds. The Chippewas believed that the birds that fed on the revered crop were the most delicious of all. Makes sense to me.

Pemmican

dried duck, cranberries, crispy duck skin

puffed wild rice

Indian Summer :: the river :: trout birch sumac

Staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina) is a native shrub/small tree that can be found growing at the edge of forests and along riverbanks. In late summer and autumn, the drupes ripen to form clusters of velvety red berries that were sought after by Native Americans for their sourness. They used the dried and ground sumac as a seasoning and made a lemonade-like beverage with fresh berries. Indians also enjoyed smoking the dried berries in a pipe, a custom that they introduced to the Europeans— who, as a result, preferred it to the best Virginia tobacco.

In early spring, and then again in autumn, Woodland Indians left their communal villages to set up fishing camps along rivers. There they would erect portable wigwams and move about on canoes that were fashioned out of birchbark in the north and hollowed-out trees in the south. They fished in shallow waters with spears and built weirs to trap fish. At these seasonal camps, they also processed the fish by brining, drying, and smoking. Fish were dried by skewering on sticks and stuck into the ground around the cooler perimeters of a fire, or smoked on racks made of twigs that were propped above a smoldering fire. Fresh fish were roasted on aromatic planks of cedar, oak, alder, birch— or fried on hot rocks that were greased with bear fat.

At the time that the Europeans arrived, the rivers, lakes and streams of North America were said to be swarming with fish of countless species— some of which are lost to us now. In "The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell", Mark Kurlansky states " The rivers and streams had so many fish— striped bass, sturgeon, shad, drum fish, carp, perch, pike, and trout— that they could be yanked out of the water by hand."

In appalling contrast, Cormac McCarthy describes a post-apocalyptic North America in his novel "The Road", in which the earth is inexplicably scorched and unimaginably barren. The story deals with themes of survival and morality, addressing questions like Who are we when we have nothing left to lose?, or How long can we survive when the earth no longer provides food or water? In the very last paragraph he writes a provocative passage that seems wrought with Indian sensibility and wisdom:

"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber currents where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."

Trout: Sour, Sweet, Smoky

hot stone-seared, sumac and young cress

cold smoked, birch syrup glaze

Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean

The sweet corn that we enjoy today is far removed from its ancestor. It is thought to have originated from teosinte, an ancient wild grass native to Mexico. Centuries of cultivation and hybridization has transformed it into the more palatable and versatile species that we continue to grow today. This was not a natural occurrence— it took careful selection and sophisticated horticultural skill to achieve. How primitive cultures had the knowledge to accomplish this continues to perplex scientists and researchers.

The domestication of corn is thought to have started 7,500 to 12,000 years ago in the Balsas river valley in lower Mexico. During the 1st millennium, cultivation of maize spread into the Southwestern United States. It took another thousand years for it to reach the Northeast and Canada, where Woodland Indians cleared forests and grasslands, creating large fields to plant the new crop.

Native Americans did not practice monocropping as we do today— cornfields belong to modern agriculture. Instead, they employed a more sustainable system of interplanting three crops: corn, beans, and squash— a triad that is deeply rooted in Native American mythology, known as "The Three Sisters".

To the Native Americans, The Three Sisters were sacred goddesses that could not bear to be separated. Among the tribes, there were varying versions of the legend that revolved around a creation myth. According to one legend, Sky Woman, who lived in the Upper World, fell through a hole in the sky towards an endless sea. Animals scurried to dig mud from the bottom of the sea and spread it on the back of a giant turtle to cushion her fall. Sky Woman gave birth to Corn Mother, who bore three daughters that were inseparable until their death, when they were buried together on Turtle Island (North America). Out of their graves sprouted corn, beans, and squash— their gift to humanity.

Like most myths, The Three Sisters sounds far-fetched and fantastical, but in fact, their relationship is scientifically sound.

Throughout the Old World, corn, beans, and squash were sown together in small mounds of earth that were scattered through fields. The beans would wind around the corn as they grew, using the cornstalk as a support, while simultaneously supporting the tall, slender stalks from toppling over in the wind. The nitrogen-fixing nodules on the roots of the beans fed the nutrient-hungry corn and the squash vines that covered the ground at their feet. The squashes shallow roots and copious foliage shaded the ground, preventing weeds and preserving moisture. Together, they formed a perfect symbiosis.

This same symbiosis carried over from horticulture into nutrition— when eaten together, The Three Sisters form a perfect food. Corn provides protein and niacin, while beans and squash contribute the amino acids necessary for digestion. Native Americans also nixtamalized their corn to produce hominy by soaking it in alkaline water (made with wood ashes), thereby liberating the niacin and making it more nutritious. The importance of The Three Sisters and nixtamalization was supported when pellagra (a disease brought on by niacin deficiency) spread through non-indigenous cultures who adopted corn as a staple food without the ancient wisdom to accompany it. Again, the scientific community was left marveling at the primitive ingenuity.

Gourds are related to pumpkins and squash and were cultivated by Native Americans to use as dippers, spoons, cups, medicine holders, bottles, canteens, sacred honey containers, and ceremonial rattles. I grew these to use as birdhouses— dried, cut with a saw, and lightly sanded, they make interesting organic bowls.

The Three Sisters

corn beans pumpkin

popcorn sage broth

hominy chip

Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include: sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts.

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash
that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population.

Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.

Indian Summer :: the sea :: oyster seaweed

The diets of coastal Indians were largely dependent on the bounty of the sea. In colonial times, oysters were abundant in the brackish waters of estuaries. This has been well documented by the early settlers. Among them, William Strachey, wrote in 1612: "Oysters there be in whole banks and beds, and those of the best. I have seen some thirteen inches long." (!)
We know that Native Americans enjoyed oysters by the tremendous piles of shells that they left behind. These piles, called middens, have been found by archaeologists up and down the eastern seacoast, including many in New York City (one directly beneath a subway line). Some of these middens were four feet deep and contained thousands of shells.
Although Native Americans ate massive amounts of oysters, it's unlikely that they ate them raw. Their tools of stone and bone were too brittle to pry open the abductor muscle, capable of exerting twenty pounds of pressure. It's far more probable that they were wrapped in seaweed and baked in pits with hot rocks, as that was the traditional way of cooking shellfish and mollusks— and the origin of our modern clambake.

Seaweed was prized by the Native Americans. Besides its use to steam-cook foods, it was eaten as a vegetable, or dried and used as seasoning— in much the same way that we use salt. Some varieties, like Irish moss, contain polysaccharides that form gels when boiled. These were used to thicken soups and make a type of pudding.

Irish moss (Chondrus crispus) is a red alga found along the Atlantic coasts of North America and Europe. More closely associated with the potato famine in Ireland, where its consumption warded off starvation, it also proliferates along the rocky outcrops of the New England coast. Alternately, it is known as carrageenan moss because it contains up to 55% of the polysaccharide. When dried in sunlight, the color bleaches to pale yellow.

Irish moss needs to be soaked before cooking, which causes it to swell but not soften. The difference can be seen in the photo above— dried is on the right, soaked on the left. In the soaked stage, it has a weird synthetic texture, like plastic aquarium plants. When cooked in liquid, it begins to soften and eventually dissolve, forming a soft gel when cool. Cooked in just water, the gel has a mild and pleasant taste of seawater. Cooked in oyster liquor, as I have here, it tastes like the essence of the sea.

The Essence of the Sea

seaweed-roasted oyster
irish moss gel