Solanaceae: the incredible [sometimes] edible nightshade family of plants

Have you ever cut into a plum tomato and [for a moment] thought it was a pepper?
Or had a similar moment with the seed patterns of eggplant and tomatillos?

Have you ever roasted peppers over an open fire or opened a bag of sun dried tomatoes and caught a whiff of tobacco?

Maybe you've walked through a vegetable garden and noticed how certain flowers resemble each other?

You have? Well, you're very observant. And you probably already know that these observations are not random but just some of the threads that link together the nightshade family.

Solanaceae, commonly known as nightshade, is a fascinating and diverse family of plants comprised of 102 genera and 2800 species, many of which are globally significant sources of food.

Popular edible genera and species:
Solanum: potato (S. tuberosum), tomato (S. lycopersicum), eggplant (S. melongena)
Capsicum: bell pepper and chili pepper (C. annuum)
Physalis: tomatillo (P. philadelphica)

lesser edible species:
ground cherry/cape gooseberry (Physalis peruviana), goji berry (Lycium barbarum), tomarillo (Solanum betaceum), pepino melon (Solanum Muricatum), naranjilla (Solanum quitoense), wonderberry/sunberry (Solanum retroflexum), Morelle de Balbis (Solanum sisymbriifolium).

Nearly half of all nightshade species are found in the genus Solanum, including two important foods: potato and tomato. The potato species, with over 4,000 varieties, is the world's fourth largest food crop, surpassed only by rice, wheat, and corn. It possesses all of the vitamins and minerals necessary for human survival with the exception of vitamin A and D. Think about this the next time you add butter, milk, or sour cream to potatoes: you're creating a nutritionally complete food.

The potato tuber seems an anomaly in this large, varied family of predominantly fruit (tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers are botanically fruits, but for culinary purposes are considered vegetables). That's because the plant is genetically programmed to direct energy to forming tubers instead of fruit. Only 8% of the potato's genes are responsible for this trait, the other 92% of its DNA is shared with the tomato.

Economically, the tomato can give its tuberous cousin a run for the money— 2 billion dollars worth in the US market alone. Not bad for a fruit that started as a wild green berry in the mountains of Peru (also the birthplace of the potato) and thought to be unfit for human consumption for a span of its existence. Even after domestication in Europe, it was regarded as a mere curiosity to some, while others thought them (as a Paduan physician declared in 1628) “strange and horrible things”. But that was a long time ago and we no longer find the tomato so disagreeable. Well, at least not all of the time.

From July through October, homegrown and small farm raised tomatoes are celebrated with cult-like vehemence. For the rest of the year, when our only choice is commercially grown fruit, we are left with… strange and horrible things. How are these even related and, for the love of Flavor, if we can (insert any modern technological advancement), why can't we buy a tomato from November through June that isn't an abomination? For an age-old lament, you would think that the answer is more complicated than it actually is— what it really comes down to is money. The commercial farmers in South Florida, who grow 90% of out-of-season supermarket tomatoes in the US, don't get paid for flavor, they get paid by the pound. In this monopoly, flavor is inconsequential— profit comes from yield, uniformity, shippability, and shelf life. It's a grim laundry list that the other stakeholders— the commercial tomato breeders— must fill in order to get their piece of the pie. In doing so, they have bred the flavor right out of the tomato.

But there is hope…

Earlier this year, two separate papers were published on tomato genetics that could have a positive impact on commercially grown tomatoes by satisfying the consumer's yearning for flavor and still maintain the grower's bottom line.

The focus of one paper, published in the journal Science, is a random gene mutation in tomatoes that turn them uniformly red. Older varieties, like the heirlooms, turn red from the blossom end to the stem, some even remain green around the stem when fully ripe. Although the mutation was discovered 70 years ago and has since been deliberately bred into modern varieties to make them more attractive to consumers and easier for growers to determine ripeness, it was the authors, led by Ann Powell, a plant biochemist at UC Davis, who discovered that the missing gene inactivated by the mutation is responsible for the alluring aroma and flavor of a ripe homegrown tomato.

In another paper, the genome of the tomato was decoded for the first time by an international consortium of 300 plant geneticists from 14 countries. Shortly after it was published in the journal Nature in May, a surprising discovery from the study— that tomatoes possess a whopping 35,000 genes— made headlines. That's about 7,000 more genes than you or me but it doesn't mean that tomatoes are more complex, they just manage their cells differently.

The monumental work, nine years in the making, illuminates a cheaper and speedier path to improving every aspect of the tomato— from flavor, to disease resistance (lacking in heirloom varieties), to nutrition, to yield— and the ability to isolate these traits separately. The information about the evolution and pathways contained in the genome sequencing also has implications for other fleshy fruits that share tomato characteristics.

All of this groundbreaking information may seem like it's clearcutting the way for genetically modified tomatoes. That's been tried already, back in the 1990's, and failed due to consumer confidence. Instead, it facilitates the selective breeding of new varieties, both for the home garden and commercial farms. But when will we see change? According to a member of the consortium, Professor Graham Seymour of the University of Nottingham, in a BBC article:

"I only work with a couple of companies but I know that they are putting through some of these new traits and they are going to their elite lines – but all tomato breeding companies will be taking this up now so you would expect to see a number of new products over the next 3-5 years."

Godspeed.

tomato poached in lime basil oil
stuffed with mozzarella curds and mascarpone
tomatine sauce: fermented green tomato and tomato leaf

More than tomatoes and potatoes and other good things to eat, nightshade has a dark, unsavory side that begot its name. Meet the shadiest members:
datura (Datura stramonium)
belladonna (Atropa belladonna)
henbane (Hyoscyamus spp.)
mandrake (Mandragora spp.)

These genera played a prominent role in early medicine and continue to be important today. During the Renaissance, Venetian courtesans dilated their pupils with belladonna, the source of the alkaloid atropine, to make them appear dreamy and seductive. The vain application of the past inspired the more practical modern use of atropine in routine eye exams.

The superstitious minds of Medieval Europe shrouded nightshade in mystery, magic, and the occult. Mandrake, whose forked root sometimes resembles a human form, was believed to release a deadly shriek when pulled from the earth and was only harvested through a complex ritual that involved tying the plant to a dogs' tail on a moonlit night. The witches of the time inhaled henbane smoke to induce hallucinatory trances necessary to cast spells and summon spirits. Many of these plants were included in their legendary flying ointments for the sensations of lightness that they produced.

Earlier still, datura was revered as a sacred visionary plant by ancient civilizations of the world and used ceremoniously to induce prophesies. Henbane was commonly used in Druid and Viking rituals, as evidenced by the seeds found in their graves.

History, folklore, and literature are all guilty of romanticizing deadly plants, but nightshade's deadly aspect is no joke. These genera are host to a potent chemical soup of psychotropic alkaloids that in the right dose can treat a variety of ailments from motion sickness to Parkinson. In the wrong dose, they are capable of inducing hallucinations, comas, and death. Solanaceae plants produce these alkaloids and other compounds as chemical defenses against predators and environmental threats. but if you think they are limited to the medicinal species, think again.

the many colors and shapes of Solanaceae

Everything we eat has consequences. The most blatant example is chili pepper, a food that we willfully eat that causes us both pleasure and pain. The pleasure comes from a release of endorphines. The pain comes from the volatile compound capsaicin that, in a twist, has the ability to relieve pain.

Though not a food, tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) is an important cash crop that produces the alkaloid nicotine, whose harmful and addictive nature has been well documented. But how many abstainers know that it is also present (in lesser degrees) in eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes?

Have you ever experienced an itchy or burning sensation on your tongue after eating eggplant? That's oral allergy syndrome, caused by protein histamines that affects sensitive individuals.

And those green spots on potatoes? Those are harmless chlorophyll, but they indicate something insidious just under the surface: the presence of solanine, a poisonous alkaloid that can cause severe nausea, and even death.

Just as science shines new light and understanding on naturally-occurring plant compounds and their implications to our health, it also exposes myths.

The strange and horrible tomato, once feared for its association with the dark side, is now known to contain beneficial phytonutrients, even as an increasing part of the population sensitive to their alkaloids is choosing to exclude them, and all nightshades, from their diet.

Solanine has been long believed to be the culprit that kept us from consuming tomato leaves. But as Harold McGee pointed out in a 2009 article in the New York Times, solanine belongs to the potato species, while the tomato's is tomatine, which "appears to be a relatively benign alkaloid". So, while it may not be a good idea to indulge in a heap of tomato greens, a few aromatic leaves used as an herb is likely harmless.

Perhaps the most misunderstood and controversial members of Solanaceae belong to the Solanum nigrum complex. Solanum nigrum, commonly known as black nightshade, is a morphologically distinct species and there are at least 30 other distinct Solanum species that are bundled into this complex. To quantify them all under the dark umbrella of black nightshade taints them with the perception that they are all deadly poisonous when, in fact, they are not. At least, not all of the time. And that's where the confusion begins.

Here, too, solanine seems to be the problem— or more accurately— the varying degrees of concentration among the species. Many (too numerous to list) have a long history as significant food sources, primarily in Africa and Eurasia. Most often, it's the leaves that are gathered and cooked as greens. In some cases the ripe berries are consumed as well. Unless we are willing to sift through a maze of mind-numbing toxicological data on the individual species, there is very little practical information available. Even so, conclusions given by plant scientists are typical to this:
"the development of toxic levels of these alkaloids is dependent on their growth under certain conditions or in certain localities, and even on the age of the plants concerned. Other reports suggest that the amounts of poisonous 'principles' vary greatly with climate, season and soil type." (Edmonds and Chweya,1997)

Could this be a case of poisonous terroir?

The fear and uncertainty surrounding black nightshade, at least in North American, prevents even the adventurous from gathering and consuming wild species— every field guide lists S. nigrum as toxic. But there is a cultivated species that was introduced in the early 1900's by plant breeder Luther Burbank, whose ripe berries are reputedly safe to eat.

Burbank claimed to have hybridized his 'Sunberry' by crossing S. guineense with S. villosum , and created Solanum burbankii, “a new food plant from a poisonous family”. In 1909, Burbank sold the rights to the seeds to John Lewis Childs, who rechristened it 'Wonderberry' and promoted it with extravagant claims as "the greatest garden fruit ever introduced ". Suspicion was cast when horticulturists claimed that it was nothing more than common S. nigrum. Controversy raged until the 1950's when the wonderberry was proven to be a distinct species native to South Africa. It was never known whether Burbank was aware of this or if it had been inadvertently introduced to his experimental gardens. Nevertheless, the damage was done and fear of black nightshade cast the wonderberry into obscurity. In recent years, wonderberry has been resurrected by seed companies and gardeners interested in 'new' heirloom varieties. Sometimes it is listed as the hybrid S. burbankii, sometimes as the correct species S. retroflexum, but by all accounts it is safe to eat the black ripe berries (green are recognized as poisonous), and by many accounts, they are delicious.

roasted eggplant and smoked potato custard
fire-roasted pepper petals
nightshade relish

Ever versatile, Solanaceae contributes more than food and drugs— it enriches our lives with beauty and scent through these ornamentals plants:
petunia (Petunia spp.) most widely grown ornamental nightshade • 35 species • flattened tubular flowers • available in many colors from white to black (dark purple) • spreading habit makes them popular in hanging baskets.
flowering tobacco (Nicotiana spp.) various flowering species of tobacco • small tubular star-shaped flowers open at dusk • older varieties are more scented than modern.
datura (Datura spp.) aka: angel's trumpet, moonflower, thorn apple • large erect trumpet flowers • produces spiny seed pods • highly toxic.
brugmansia (Brugmansia spp.) closely resembles datura, but with pendulous flowers and woody stems • grown as trees in the tropics • strongly scented • highly toxic.

The etymology of Solanaceae is unclear— there is conjecture that Sol- refers to their preference for sunshine and heat. Most genera originated in warm climates, where they grow as perennials. In cold climates, unless protected, they must be treated as annuals. Although they love growing in the sun, the flowers of these ornamentals only release their alluring scent at night. This trait allows them to attract nocturnal pollinators and, perhaps, contributed to the naming of "nightshade".

husk-covered nightshade: tomatillo, groundcherry, Morelle de Balbis

Among the edible species, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant are the most widely cultivated by home gardeners. They're certainly omnipresent in my vegetable patch, along with tomatillos. They are easy to grow if you provide them with rich soil, room to breathe, and at least 6 hours of sunshine a day. Potatoes require a little extra care as they need to have additional soil hilled up around them as they grow to allow tubers to form along the stem and to protect them from sunlight that triggers solanine.

I've always allocated space in the garden to experiment with new plant varieties. This year, it was occupied by three nightshade: purple tomatillos, groundcherries, and Morelle de Balbis.

The purple tomatillos got a late start and didn't fully ripen before the first frost, but I was able to harvest a decent crop of the green variety before they succumbed to the same fate.

Groundcherries were a delight (for the squirrel and slugs too). When ripe, their papery green husks turn brown and they fall to the ground. The berries within are edible when green and taste similar to tomatillos. They turn yellow when ripe and become sweet with a flavor reminiscent of pineapple. They'll definitely be on the roster next year.

The Morelle de Balbis were formidable plants to grow— the stems, leaves, and husks are covered with fierce thorns that like to grab onto clothes and hair, and prick exposed skin. The husks surrounding the berries make them appear to be physalis, but they belong to the genus solanum. They break open when the fruit ripens, exposing red berries that taste like a blend of tomatoes and plums, and take on sweet cherry notes as the fruit ages.

pineapple honey glazed groundcherries
cherry honey glazed Morelle de Balbis
lime tomatillo tuile sheeps milk gelato
sweet cicely chamomile

Even as I put my garden to rest for the year, I'm already thinking ahead to next.

I already know that nightshades will take up most of the real estate. I'll put the tall tomatillos towards the back, the low-growing groundcherries in the front, where they'll have room to sprawl. The potatoes will grow in a row along the wall that will retain the soil that I'll pile on them as they grow. There will be peppers, both hot and sweet, and petunias in hanging baskets on the porch, flowering tobacco in the border by the back door to perfume the night air.

I look forward to growing two new-to-me varieties: wonderberry, an edible member of black nightshade (see above), and naranjilla (Solanum quitonense), a shade tolerant plant that produces acidic orange berries, reputed to taste like pineapple and lime.

And yes, there will be tomatoes, as many as I can fit. They'll get the spot with the best soil and the most sun because the tomatoes that grow there will likely be the best that I eat all year. Maybe someday, with a push from science, that will no longer be true.

sashimi rose and a celebration of fermentation

My first batch of shoyu has been brewing for six months now and it's just hitting its stride. I've tended it faithfully, stirring at least once a week and skimming off harmless surface mold as it formed, but for the longest time it was barely more interesting than a pot of bean soup. It wasn't until the end of its fourth month that I noticed a marked difference as the mold quit and the moromi (solids) began congregating on the surface, concealing clear dark liquid beneath. When I stir it now, the aroma is intoxicating in the nuanced complex way of fermented things. Soon, I'll begin filtering small batches to mark its progress and though I don't yet know when it'll be done, I expect it to continue improving with time.

While I wait for the shoyu, there's a fresh batch of mirin to celebrate— and real mirin is a just cause for celebration. I'll restrain myself from a full-on rant about what passes for mirin in the commercial market; you have only to read the list of ingredients and if it begins with glucose and ends with corn syrup, you should wonder why you're being asked to pay four dollars for ten ounces of sugar water. Hon- mirin (true mirin) contains no added sugar, though it is remarkably sweet— the result of koji/rice saccharification. The aroma of hon-mirin is unlike anything else, fruity and floral with a delicate flavor that can be sipped like a fine sake*. In fact, I see great potential for hon-mirin in cocktails and as an alternative dessert wine/spirit. And, an unexpected perk of brewing mirin is the lees— a heady cream that is left after pressing the moromi and before filtering.

The celebration continues with hishio, a hybrid of mugi (barley) miso and lactic-fermented fruits and vegetables. Hishio is made entirely with barley koji that is fermented in water and salt for about a week before adding vegetables (asian pear, cucumber, and eggplant in mine) that are seperately fermented in salt. The loose, miso-type condiment is then fermented in a warm environment and is ready in four months.

In even less time, a lively yuzu kosho can be made in a just over a week at room temperature. This particular batch was made late last year, when piney green yuzu were still available. They were zested with a microplane and blended with the restrained heat of charred, minced shishito peppers and salt. After it fermented for eight days, I blended in the last of the kinome leaves just before my tree went dormant for the winter. I'm sad to see the bottom of my jar come into view as fresh yuzu won't be available again until the end of the year, but I'm equally gratefully for the bounty; a consequence of soil, bacteria, and patience.

(left) mirin: clockwise from top- filtered, lees, moromi
(right) from top- hishio, yuzu kosho

sashimi rose
hiramasa • mirin lees • yuzu kosho puree • strained hishio

* most mirin brewers add water to the rice, koji, and shochu to bring the finished alcohol down to about 14%. I used straight shochu (20%), no water, and can only assume that my mirin comes in at between 17%- 20% alcohol by volume.

salmon hot dog

There's a virtually untapped world of specialty malted grains made for the beer brewing industry that can be used to add unique flavor to baked goods. Two stand-outs are: smoked barley (gives Rauchmalz its smoky aroma) and chocolate rye (contributes nutty, caramel notes to dark stouts and Porters). Over the past year, I've tested them in everything from laminated pastries* to cookie doughs** with great effect, but it is the realm of yeasted doughs where they seem most at home. The robust complexity that chocolate rye adds to pumpernickel makes the original pale in comparison.

The virtue of making condiments lies in customization and enhanced flavor. Commercially made Dijon mustards taste flat and boring in comparison to the ones you can make yourself. The process starts with shallots and garlic simmered in Chardonnay. The reduced infusion is strained and blended with brown mustard powder, olive oil, and a few drops of honey. Sometimes, I customize it with various herbs and aromatics, but I always let it sit at room temperature for at least 2 weeks to ripen the flavor before storing in the refrigerator, where it will keep for three months or longer. It's a small effort for a big flavor; too big, it turns out, for my delicately flavored salmon hot dog.

Coincidentally, I was working on an orange horseradish*** puree for a pork dish that needed a nudge in the flavor department. A whole orange and peeled horseradish root had been steamed in a pressure cooker with white wine, then the whole lot pureed. Pressure cooking removes the acridity from the horseradish and softens the bitterness in the orange's pith, producing a puree with a mellower flavor than you would think possible from the raw ingredients.

For the salmon hot dog, I punched up the puree by blending it with an equal amount of homemade Dijon, and— because I love citrus with salmon— I added microplaned orange zest. Mixing horseradish with mustard made sense because they both belong to the Brassica family, a simple observation that opened a new pathway to a great condiment.

salmon sausage in leek casing
chocolate rye roll
horseradish orange mustard
kefir fermented daikon
fennel sprouts

* croissants made with smoked barley flour and smoked butter are revelatory.

** see pepper cookies

*** please, no comments about the horseradish root. I only photographed and cooked the thing, Nature did the rest.

pepper cookies

It just isn't Christmas until I've tasted that first warm bite of spice cookies. Gingerbread, gingersnaps, lebkuchen, speculaas, hermits— I love them all!

As their names imply, pfeffernusse, pepparkakor, and piparkakut are spice cookies that are set apart from the rest by the inclusion of pepper. But if you're expecting the fragrant, tingling burn of piperine, you might be disappointed as even the oldest recipes for these cookies contain only small amounts of pepper, whose flavor is overshadowed by other pungent spices.

Don't get me wrong— I still enjoy these cookies— it's just that they don't quite live up to the promise of their name. And since it was their name that captured my imagination in the first place, it was high time to re-imagine what a pepper cookie can be.

clockwise from top left: long pepper (Piper longum), pink peppercorns (Schinus terebinthifolius), black peppercorns (Piper nigrum), sichuan pepper (Zanthoxylum piperitum), grains of paradise (Aframomum melegueta), green peppercorns (immature Piper nigrum), center: chile tepin (Capsicum annuum var. glabriusculum)

pepper cookies
makes about 5 dozen 2" cookies

Chocolate rye malt is used in the production of dark beers and can be purchased from beer brewing suppliers. It gives these cookies a pleasant bitter edge, deep roasted aroma, and darker color. If unavailable, substitute equal amount of wheat or rye flour that has been slowly roasted in a low oven to a dark chocolate color.

spice blend: 6 black peppercorns, 5 green peppercorns, 8 pink peppercorns, 1/4 tsp sichuan pepper, 1/4 tsp grains of paradise, 1/2 of a long pepper, 3 chile tepin, 4" piece of cinnamon stick, 4 whole cloves, 2 cardamom pods, 8 coriander seeds, 1/2 tsp coarse salt

Place all ingredients in a spice blender and grind to a fine powder. Sift ground spices through a fine sieve and re-grind any coarse pieces.

245g (2 cups) flour
14g (3 Tblsps) finely ground chocolate rye malt, or dark toasted flour
2.5g (1/2 tsp) baking powder
1.25g (1/4 tsp) baking soda
85g (3 oz) unsalted butter, softened
150g (5.25 oz) muscavado or dk brown sugar
1 egg
7g microplaned fresh galangal root, or ginger root

Place the ground spice mixture in a bowl with the flour, chocolate rye malt, baking powder, and baking soda. Whisk until well blended. In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream the butter and sugar on medium speed until lightened. Add the egg and galangal and mix until incorporated. Add the dry ingredients and mix on low speed until a dough forms. Wrap dough in plastic wrap or place in an airtight container and age in refrigerator for 2 days to allow flavors to bloom and mellow.
When ready to bake, preheat oven to 176C/350F. Roll out dough to .63 cm/ 1/4" thickness and cut into desired shapes. Bake for 10-12 minutes. When cool, dust with confectioners sugar.

(ground and whole) chocolate malted rye berries

kefir

I have a friend who claims that regular consumption of kefir will provide her with a long, healthy, disease-free life. I hope she's right.

It seems that most kefir enthusiasts drink it for the health benefits (which are substantial) but almost apologetically claim that the flavor is an acquired one. Sure, if you're not open to the taste of sour milk, kefir can be offputting. But, by making it yourself, you can control the degree of sourness— from mildly tangy to sharp and effervescent.

For the uninitiated, kefir is fermented milk, cultured with kefir grains. The gelatinous grains are a matrix of sugar, protein, fat, and ash that harbor a garden of yeast and bacteria. It is the yeast that sets it apart from other milk cultures that are predominately bacteria.

Making kefir is as simple as adding the grains to milk (about 1 tablespoon of grains per 2 cups of milk) and allowing it to ferment at room temperature for a day or two. When the desired texture and flavor are achieved, the grains are strained from the kefir and recycled to start a new batch. If those directions sound vague, they are intentionally so. Even with careful weighing and control of temperature, the results are not always consistent. I've come to believe that this is because kefir grains are living organisms that operate with dual microbes and that the speed and efficiency with which they culture a new batch of kefir is largely dependent on their active state at the time of introduction. For example, I've found that after straining the grains from a completed batch of kefir and immediately adding them to fresh milk, fermentation (detected by the onset of a sour flavor) begins more rapidly than when a batch is started with grains that have been stored in the refrigerator between batches.

With so many variables, I no longer bother with weights and temperature, I just set it out on the counter and let it do its thing. Sometimes I catch it when it turns creamy and just begins to acquire a tang. Sometimes I let it ripen until it curdles and precipitates whey, at which point the curds can be drained to form a soft, tangy cheese. My favorite thing is to cover it tightly while it ferments to trap the CO2 released by the yeast until it gets fizzy. Milk champagne is a wonderous thing!

egg yolk cheese

These are 65C hen egg yolks that have been cured in miso for two weeks. The longer cure renders them dark and pungent. Although they were firmer than they were at 5 days, they remained moist and sticky. In order to dry them out, they were wrapped in the cheesecloth in which they were cured and hung in the refrigerator.

These are the cured egg yolks after hanging for twenty days. They've became firm enough to slice or grate neatly, with the smooth, plastic-y texture of an aged gouda. Their flavor, too, is transformed— the aging process rounds out the sharpness of the miso, creating a mellow complexity of flavor with the texture of cheese. Delicious!

olive oil poached daikon ✢ fava ✢ meyer lemon
egg yolk cheese

tekka miso

Tekka miso is a condiment traditionally made from burdock, carrots and lotus roots. The grated roots are slowly cooked in sesame oil, then blended with ground black sesame seeds, ginger, and Hatcho miso— a dark, long-fermented type of miso made entirely from soybeans. The paste is slowly cooked over a low fire until all of the moisture evaporates, resulting in a dry, crumbly mixture.

Prized in Japan for its flavor and aroma, tekka miso is reminiscent of chocolate and coffee. Not surprising as it, too, is a product of fermentation and roasting, with parallel complexity.

tekka miso
makes 200ml (¾ cup)

9g sesame oil
30g grated daikon
30g grated carrot
25g grated beet root
25g finely minced scallion
25g black sesame paste
6g microplaned gingerroot
130g hatcho or red miso

Line the bottom of a skillet with the sesame oil and set over medium heat. Add the daikon, carrot, beet root and scallion and toss to coat with the oil. Cook until vegetables just begin to take on color, then lower the heat to medium low and continue cooking until soft and tender, stirring often. Add the sesame paste and gingerroot, pressing into vegetable mixture until incorporated (it will form a clump). Cook for 2-3 minutes while spreading and turning the mixture, then blend in the miso. Spread the resulting thick paste in the bottom of the pan in an even layer. Turn the heat down to lowest setting and continue cooking for 20-30 minutes. Alternately, the mixture can be spread on a baking sheet and baked in a 65C/150F oven. In either case, turn and spread the mixture every few minutes until it is dry and crumbly. Cool before packing into jars. Store in refrigerator for up to 3 months.

roasted buna shimeji stems (brown beech mushrooms)
asparagus pudding
tekka miso

curry cake

Perhaps the best thing about rebuilding a kitchen from scratch is that everything will finally get a home in a place that makes sense— at last, form will follow function. My spices, for instance, were once scattered around in cupboards wherever they would fit. Soon, they will live together in their very own cabinet; on shallow floor-to-ceiling shelves, in shiny new jars, each clearly labeled.
I think they're as excited as I am.
In fact, I know they are.

I'm pretty sure that they planted the idea of spice cake in my head while I was organizing them. I tried to shake it off because, frankly, I've been baking more judiciously lately. But it was of no use. I think I heard them cheer when I pulled out my go-to recipe for spice cake, which made cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger very happy, but caused some others to feel slighted. Five bold spices came forward and asked "Why can't we play too? You know we play well together…you always put us in your garam masala."
They had a point, but did I really want to make a curry cake?
I did.

Conceding to a new direction, I scrapped the spice cake recipe and decided that a yogurt cake would be a more appropriate platform for the savory spices. I measured them out individually, planning to blend the spices together into the finished batter, but they had other ideas. They didn't want to be muddled together. They each wanted to star in their own individual layer and be united as a cake.
"Really?" I asked, "you want me to make nine different layers?"
They did.

It wasn't as complicated as I thought it would be. I simply weighed out the batter in grams and divided by nine. Then I added just enough spice to each batch to allow each flavor to come through, but not overpower the others. This was all going well until I tasted the turmeric batter, which had the distinct flavor of musty cardboard. I didn't want to insult the old chap, but I had to be honest. He took it pretty well— considered it for awhile, then invited the other spices to join him.
"We'll be the curry layer… the reference for the cake."
What a trooper.

After the layers were baked, cooled, and trimmed, I joined them together with coconut frosting. Because turmeric stepped up and took one for the team, I gave him a distinct layer where his vivid color could be best appreciated.

As I ate the curry cake, I found myself tasting each layer with a hyper awareness, then searching for that unique flavor in the blended layer. I thought about the process of synthesizing— how we often blend things together to create something new and synergistic. Taking them apart, not to deconstruct, but to isolate, reminded me of the importance of being mindful of individuality, while celebrating commonality.
For me, it was a lesson about so much more than food.

curry cake
mango chutney ice cream

peanut butter miso cookies

Some time ago, I mentioned adding miso to peanut butter cookies on twitter. I received a number of requests for the recipe/ratios, which I promised to post.

You wouldn't know that it's miso that makes these cookies special unless you were privy, but you'll notice the difference in the rounded flavor. Sweets that are nuanced with savory and salty are always a winning combination in my book.

peanut butter miso cookies

makes 24 7.5cm/3" cookies

106g unsalted butter, at room temperature
130g peanut butter
40g shiro miso (light miso)
88g dark brown sugar (preferably muscavado)
80g granulated sugar
8g glucose
53g egg
5g baking soda
10g boiling water
175g all-purpose flour

Place the butter, peanut butter, miso, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and glucose in a mixer bowl. Beat the ingredients with the paddle attachment at medium speed until light and creamy. Add the egg and beat just until incorporated. In a small bowl, dissolve the baking soda in the boiling water and add to the mixer bowl along with the flour. Mix on low speed for 2 minutes until all of the ingredients are well combined.
Preheat oven to 163C/325F, or 157C/315F if using convection. Using a 3.80cm/1.5" scoop, lay out level scoops of dough on a silpat or parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving about 5cm/2" between cookies to allow for spreading. Chill cookies for 20 minutes to firm dough. Scoops of raw dough can also be frozen for future cookie cravings, then packed into ziplocks. Remove cookies from refrigerator and press with the tines of a fork in a cross-hatch pattern, if desired. Bake for 10 minutes for a softer cookie, or 12 for a crisper cookie.

Miso and peanut butter are so similar in appearance and texture that I'm surprised I haven't made the connection before. In addition to improving a classic cookie, the peanut butter-miso connection captured my imagination for another product: peanut miso.

Most people don't realize that peanuts are in fact legumes. Culinarily, we use them like nuts, but botanically they belong to the plant family Leguminosae, or Fabaceae, and are more closely related to peas and beans. This connection begs the question: if miso is made from soybeans, can it also be made from other beans?

I do know that [I] can't make miso from citrus rinds, though I gave it a good try. During the 10 month fermentation, I had hopes of transforming all sorts of products by fermenting with Aspergillus oryzae(koji mold), the fungus used in the production of miso, soy sauce, and sake. In my haste to make a new product, I failed to follow two fundamental tenets: understanding of product and process, and groundwork. Had I started with a time-honored traditional soybean miso, I would've had a map for when it was on course and where it veered off. Had I done my research, I would have understood that pectin-rich citrus pericarps were not an inviting environment for the enzymatic reaction that koji forms with protein.

Still, I'm hopeful and excited about roasted peanut miso.
And spicy black bean miso.
And fermented hummus.
But first— I'll start with the basics.

grapes cheese bread

I keep a running list of plants that I'd like to breed. I do so because I have this fantasy that one day I'll have the time and space for an experimental garden where I can play with plants in the same way that I play with food.

Somewhere on that list is purple peas (merely for the novelty), but it looks like someone 's already been there, done that.

Elsewhere on the list is champagne grapes. I'm besotted by their diminutive size (tiny ones look like caviar, big ones like the aforementioned purple peas), but their one-dimensional flavor needs some work.

Champagne grapes, or Black Corinth, are an ancient seedless variety of Vitis vinifera. They are not used in the production of Champagne (that's just a marketing ploy), though they were once used to make wine in Ancient Greece. I can't imagine that the wine was of recommendable quality because they are so overtly sweet (sweetest grapes on the market) and low in acid. In terms of flavor, they aren't even very good table grapes (but they make good currants). They do, however, have other redeeming qualities: their size is irresistible, their skins are thin and burst pleasantly in the mouth, their stems are edible, and (best of all) they're seedless. These grapes are primed for cross-breeding with a foxier variety— I'd choose Concord (Vitis labrusca).

But until I (or someone else) can alter the plant, at least I can alter the product.
Champagne grapes infused with Concord grape juice, in an iSi whipper, charged with N2O.
Now, that's a great grape!

Vitis vinifera x labrusca • taleggio
flavors of bread: malt, yeast, almonds, mushrooms

(Apologies for all of the asides. Somedays I can't figure out how to blend facts with thoughts without parenthesis. Or italics.)