pokeweed

Farmers say that a weed is just a plant in the wrong place and there's truth in that. Jewelweed, for example, look lovely in hedgerows, but gangly in a garden.

Unlike cultivated plants that fuss over the right conditions, weeds are opportunists just trying to survive. My issue has always been with the bullies that come out of nowhere and threaten to take over the neighborhood. They just don't play nice.

I'm all for giving Darwinian theories a stage in the wild, but not in my gardens.

Of all of the weeds that I've battled over the years, I'd classify pokeweed (Phytolacca americana) among the most obnoxious. Certainly, it would top the tenacious list for its long taproots that reach far and dig deep. Pokeweed waits until you turn your back to go from innocuous sprouts to monstrous copses that reach ten feet in height.

Pokeweed, though, is not without its charms. It is a native plant, so that gives it a right to stake its claim. Its long panicles of white flowers are attractive and even smell mildly sweet— and I'm a sucker for scented flowers. Songbirds love the deep purple berries whose juice was used as ink during the Civil War. In fact, the Declaration of Independence was written with poke ink and remains legible after two and a quarter centuries. So there's that. But all of those virtues aside, there is one other that undeniably endears it to me: pokeweed is edible.

Yes, pokeweed has a long and rich history as a wild food, but it is also potentially poisonous!

In the rural south, the young leaves (known as poke sallet, or polk salet) were collected in the spring and cooked in three changes of water to leech out the toxins, of which there are at least three different types. I can only guess at how many mountain folk fell seriously ill after consuming the highly toxic roots, and mature stems and leaves and eventually realizing that only the thoroughly cooked young shoots and leaves were safe to consume.

Despite the risks, the regional appeal of poke sallet was strong enough to inspire a folk song "Polk Salad Annie", recorded by Elvis, and a commercially canned product by The Allen Canning Company, who ceased production in 2000 because of "the difficulty of finding people interested in picking poke". Today, pokeweed is still celebrated in annual Poke Sallet Festivals that take place in Harlan, KY and Gainesboro, TN, and its legacy lives on in a new generation of foragers and interest in historical foods.

The internet is full of old-timers poetic waxings about pokeweed. But for every fond memory, there is an equally passionate warning against its consumption. Jean Weese, of the Alabama Cooperative Extension System, has this to say:
"The boiling process removes some of the toxins but certainly not all of them. I suggest that people avoid this plant no matter how many times your mother or grandmother may have prepared it in the past and no matter how good it tasted. Why would you want to eat something that we know is toxic when there are so many other non-toxic plants out there we can eat?"

It's a good question— one I've asked myself many times.

Plants are fascinating on so many levels. As the primary source of phytochemicals, they have the ability to do harm or to heal. It's not unusual for one plant to do both. Pokeweed contains chemical compounds that can make us sick, yet it is sold as a dietary supplement. And an antiviral protein unique to pokeweed (PAP) is being studied (and showing promise) in treatments of cancer, herpes, and HIV.

Minor ailments aside, I'm a physically healthy person (or so my doctor tells me). And let's assume that I'm also mentally sound, if only because I have no overwhelming desire to poison myself. Why then would I knowingly consume something that can harm me? It's not a decision I make lightly. My approach is careful and methodical:

Research, research, research. Proceed only when confident.
At first, take small bite, chew, spit out, wait 24 hours for side effects.
If there are none, go back for another small bite, chew, swallow, wait another 24 hours.

At the very least, it's a three day proposition. Only then would I consume a moderate meal of any questionable plant. But that's just the how. The why is more complicated.

pokeweed hush puppies ✢ smoked ham mousse ✢ buttermilk pokeweed puree

Eating plants that were prepared and enjoyed by people of a different time, place or culture matters to me because it connects us. Maybe that's purely idealistic, but it's this romantic attraction to food that keeps me engaged on an emotional level.

On another level, it appeals to my sense of discovery. Throughout history there have been food pioneers who consumed strange things for the first time and forged paths of deliciousness for the rest of us. Consider the brave individuals who dared to bite into a pungent gnarled root of horseradish or sip a foul-smelling fermented beverage before anyone else had. That would not have been me! When it comes to consuming potentially toxic substances, my curiosity is trumped by reason and altruism by self-preservation. My sense of discovery extends only to foods that are new-to-me, and must first be positively identified and known to be edible.

Perhaps, what most compels me to seek out and eat plants like pokeweed is simply to taste it. Every new flavor that I experience adds to my catalog of flavors— a tool that is more useful than a sharp knife. Flavor is the foundation and defining factor of any good dish. Without it, technique is gimmickery and composition is arbitrary. A chefs repetoire of flavors is no different than a painters palette or a writers vocabulary; diversity allows for a broader range of expression.

Cooked pokeweed has a mild vegetal flavor that's hard to describe. Who knows, maybe someday I'll eat something that I can say "tastes like pokeweed".

myoga and ume

A pair of new-to-me Japanese ingredients that I'm excited to work with:

Myoga (Zingiber mioga) is a close relative of common culinary ginger root (Zingiber officinale) that is prized for its edible flower buds. The buds are made up of scales that are crisp— like celery— with a refreshing ginger flavor that is characteristic of the genus. In Japan, myoga is commonly served raw in sushi, and as a condiment (yakumi) for cold dishes such as tofu and noodles. In other preparations, it is pickled or dipped in tempura batter and fried.

Ume (Prunus mume), often refered to as a type of plum, is a distinct species that is more closely related to apricots. Ume, with 4-5% acidity, are tarter than plums (1-2%), and contain astringent polyphenols, as well as glutamine, an amino acid. In Japan, ume are almost exclusively consumed in a preserved form. The most popular, umeboshi, is made with lactic acid fermentation, where the ripe yellowish plums are salted and weighted, then dyed with red shiso (akajiso) before being dried. Unripe ume are steeped for prolonged periods in shochu and sugar to make umeshu (ume liqueur). In this preparation, the flavor of the flesh, as well as the kernel, infuses the umeshu, which is then enjoyed straight up or in a cocktail. The liquor-soaked fruit (pictured above) is fragrant and addictive.

blowfish tails

Blowfish. Just reading the word set off a panic alarm.

"Aren't blowfish potentially lethal?" I asked the fishmonger with genuine concern and a frisson of excitement.

"No" he said, "You're thinking of the kind they serve in Japan. These are from Long Island. They're harmless."

He picked one up and offered to eat it— raw and all— as proof. His comical heroics only slightly allayed my fear. I wanted to ask more questions but there was a long line behind me, so I bought a pound out of curiosity.

Back home, I examined the blowfish tails. They looked innocuous enough. In fact, they looked like they would be pretty tasty. The only thing preventing me from cooking and eating them was a piece of information: were they safe? Certainly, I trusted the fishmonger, but I needed to know what made his blowfish different from the deadly delicacy that I had only read about. I thought the answer would be easy to find.

Blowfish belong to the Tetraodontidae family, of which there are 19 genera and at least 189 species. Fugu is the notorious genus whose preparation is rigorously controlled in Japan and only allowed by licensed chefs who train for 11 years. The culprit toxin: tetrodotoxin, is concentrated in the liver and ovaries (the sale of fugu liver has been banned in Japan since 1983). Tetrodotoxin is a powerful neurotoxin— 1200 times deadlier than cyanide(!)— and when ingested, it paralyzes the diaphragm muscles and produces a pseudo-coma for which there is no antidote. (Interestingly, the toxin is used in Voodoo to induce these symptoms in creating zombies— sounds like fodder for a CSI plot).

Blowfish, or puffers, as they are commonly known, are accused of being the second-most poisonous vertabrate in existence, but by many accounts, their levels of toxicity vary wildly according to species, sex, part of body, season, and location. Puffers are not thought to produce tetrodotoxin themselves— it is believed that they manufacture it from specific precursor bacteria in their prey. Thus, puffers that are raised in farms are free of the toxin.

That was all well and good until I remembered that my fish was labeled "wild-caught".

The internet is both a blessing and a curse . On the one hand, it instantly provides us with a mind-numbing wealth of information. On the other, the uncensored glut often turns up contradictions, and I hit those in spades. For instance, one article in Wiki (whose content I take with a grain of salt) singled out Takifugu oblongus as being non-poisonous, yet another stated that all species of Takifugu were suspect. Other sources unequivocally stated that ALL species were toxic, while others claimed that some were not, but didn't bother to list them. Which to believe? I knew that I had to identify the species of my puffers and the fish monger had given me a valuable clue— they were caught on Long Island. Puffers are warm water fish, there is only one species that venture into the waters north of Florida: Sphoeroides maculatus

Most of what I found about S. maculatus were idyllic accounts by fishermen and childhood reminiscences of summers on the mid-Atlantic coast. Apparently, in the 1960's, northern puffers "were so plentiful that you could practically kick them up on the shore". Amateur fishermen loved them because they could "catch more in an afternoon than they could eat in a week" but professionals who were after the bigger catch found them a nuisance and would "beat them off the side of the boat as we reeled them in". Children were endlessly entertained by their cartoonish spherical bodies. It seems that for most of the decade, the eastern seaboard— from Long Island to the Chesapeake Bay— was teeming with northern puffers. And then they suddenly disappeared. To this day, no one can explain why.

The more I learned about blowfish, the more enigmatic they became, but I was at least encouraged by the memories of those that were familiar with the northern puffer and the casualness with which they caught and prepared the fish. They were eaten with abandon and never with concern of safety— and they all lived to tell about it.

But that was a long time ago and I needed solid facts about the safety of the fish that I was determined to consume. It was then that I realized that if there was any questionable food being sold in the US that the FDA would have a report. On their website I found the answer that I was searching for:

"The only safe sources for imported puffer fish are fish that have been processed and prepared by specially trained and certified fish cutters in the city of Shimonoseki, Japan. Additionally, puffer fish caught in the mid-Atlantic coastal waters of the United States, typically between Virginia and New York, are safe to consume. Puffer fish from all other sources can either naturally contain deadly toxins or become toxic because of environmental factors and therefore are not considered safe."

Finally, I no longer felt like I'd be playing Russian roulette by serving them to my family. When my husband and son asked what they were, I simply said "blowfish tails" and was only mildly surprised by their lack of alarm. I wanted to tell them more, but I just let them enjoy it, uninhibited, as did I.

And we all lived to tell.

I couldn't resist the alliteration of making puffed puffers, and I'm glad I didn't. The crunchy shell was a perfect foil for the sweet fish and a visual reference to its spines. The texture of the meat reminded me of the fried eels that my mother used to make. To get the broken, dehydrated spaghetti to cling to the tails, they were first dipped in a light tempura batter. The sauce is a wood sorrel (Oxalis acetosella) aioli, plated to look like red ribbon sorrel (Rumex sanguineus) leaves. A quenelle of beet and fennel salad completes the dish.

raw pistachios

Little pleasures come from finding familiar things in unfamiliar forms. These discoveries become new folders in the catalogue of flavor and texture.

infusions: a revolutionary technique

On the days when I work at home, my morning starts with reading emails over a cup of coffee. Today, though, I took some extra time to catch up on blog reading.

One of my favorites, Cooking Issues, put up a post this morning about infusion that, quite frankly, changed my life. No joke. When your life and your livelihood revolve around food, and your obsessions include plants and aroma, then this post was truly life-altering.

Extracting flavor and aroma from plants has long been a source of frustration for me. Without a rotovap or chamber vacuum, I've had to resort to conventional methods of infusion that can take days, sometimes weeks. That's all changed now, thanks to Dave Arnold and an isi whipper.

Dave's revolutionary infusion method involves packing aromatics and liquid into an isi whipper, charging it with N2O, waiting 60 seconds before opening the canister and straining. The depressurized gas disrupts the cells, releasing aroma into the liquid. The beauty of this technique is that it is simple, quick, and inexpensive.

After I calmed down, I tried to work. Really, I did. But I was too distracted. I had to take inventory of my chargers and figure out how soon I could get more. And I kept thinking of all the herbs, flowers, and seeds in my garden, pantry and refrigerator.

Despite a crushing deadline, I took a few hours off to play. My reward is a refrigerator stocked with a dozen or so jars of brilliant infusions.

It's nearly midnight as I write this, and I have hours of work to make up. It's gonna be a long night, but I had to take a few minutes to share this with you. Maybe it will change your life, too.

discovering herbs

As long as we're on the subject of herbs and plant classification, there's something I'd like to share.
I hope you find it useful.

Herbs (short for herbaceous plants) are defined as "seed-producing, non-woody plants that die back to the ground annually".

The problem with that description is that it would include nearly every plant in existence except trees, shrubs, mosses, ferns, and funghi, while excluding obvious ones like rosemary, savory, bay, and sage, which develop woody tissues.

An even broader description, "a useful plant", could be applied to any of the 400,000+ species that make up the plant kingdom. All plants have purpose; some are just waiting to be discovered.

Culinarily, herbs are considered green leafy plants, whose leaves are used to add flavor, aroma, and color to food. Plants like lettuce, onions, broccoli, and tomatoes are all technically 'herbs', but we tend to categorize them as 'vegetables'. When cooks speak of herbs, we speak commonly of plants like parsley, dill, cilantro, etc.

When I began cooking with herbs eons ago, market selections were limited to fresh parsley, dill, basil, and mint. I quickly learned that the only way to gain access to a wider variety was to grow them myself. My first garden, in fact, was a culinary herb garden, where I strived to grow varieties that were esoteric at the time.

Herbs, I had been told, were the easiest plants to grow. I lost so many plants in those early attempts that I began to question my ability as a gardener.

But there were successes, and they led to an exciting period of discovery. Tasting things like lemon verbena, cinnamon basil, and anise hyssop for the first time opened up a new universe of flavor.

While I believed that the flavors and aromas found in herbs were varied and unique, I began to see similarities in their forms and in the way that the plants developed:
Thyme looked exactly like miniature oregano.
The leaves of green shiso and anise hyssop were nearly identical.
And the flowering heads of dill, parsley, cilantro, fennel, and chervil all resembled little umbrellas.

It was these observations (and many others) that led me to discover that most common culinary herbs belong to one of two families: Lamiaceae or Umbelliferae.

Undoubtably, my little discovery is common knowledge to anyone who really knows plants. But to me, it was an epiphany— a moment of clarity in which chaos became neatly organized.

As a gardener, it demystified the cultivation of herbs, allowing me to successfully grow individual species according to the traits of its family. Knowing that Lamiaceae likes heat and hates wet feet, I plant them in sunny locations where the soil is light and friable. And I know, too, that the tall flowers of Umbelliferae attract predatory insects like lady bugs and parasitic wasps, making them good companions to more vulnerable plants.

As a cook, the relationship between these seemingly disparate plants provided me with a deeper understanding of flavor. Questioning why lovage tasted like celery, parsley like carrots, and basil like mint, led me to investigate aroma compounds, and another universe opened up.

As a hunter and gatherer of information, I've amassed a good amount of knowledge about herbs and plants, most of which I've already forgotten. More and more, it seems that it's the connections that are forged through personal experiences and discoveries that are the truly indelible ones.

And just like herbs, they are all useful.

agastache

For years, I've auditioned various herbs with figs, failing to find a winning combination. Mint and sage, in the right proportions, has been a close contender. But for now, Agastache takes the prize.

I was first attracted to the Agastache cultivar 'Dessert Sunrise' by it's color, then aroma. Agastache is actually an herb, although it is mostly grown as an ornamental flower because of its showy blooms. In my experience, most Agastache species display aggressive sage and salvia aromas, some with anise and licorice overtones. This one was different— it smelled light and citrusy, a trait which I was delighted to find echoed in the flavor of the leaves. Even more so in the flowers, with spicy notes of bergamot, but in the sweet, subtle way that is characteristic of herb blossoms.

Agastache is a genus of plants in the Lamiaceae family that is often confused with Hyssop, a closely related genus in the same family. I think it's the common names that throw people off.

There are over a dozen species of Agastache and many of them are commonly known as hyssop. For example: the common name for Agastache foeniculum is Anise Hyssop and Agastache mexicana is known as Mexican Hyssop. To further complicate the matter, some are known as mints: Agastache cana= Texas Hummingbird Mint, and Agastache rugosa= Korean Mint.

Confused? Then let me introduce you to Agastache rupestris, commonly known as both Threadleaf Hyssop AND Licorice Mint.

Don't get me wrong, common names of plants are often charming and seemingly more descriptive than their scientific (Latin) name. Some of my favorites are romantic and whimsical: dame's rocket (Hesperis), queen anne's lace (Daucus), jack-in-the-pulpit (Arisaema), lady's slipper (Cypripedium), love-in-a-mist (Nigella).

And then there are all of the archaic -banes and -worts: henbane, leopardbane, spiderwort, milkwort, whorlywort, that hearken the superstitions that once surrounded herbs and medicinal plants.

Learning the scientific names of plants, along with the common, and the hierarchy of the plant kingdom has helped me to understand individual plants, as well as their connection to one another. It's these connections, and the accompanying epiphanies, that keep me interested.

the scent of fig leaves

I can say, with a degree of certainty, that one of my earliest memories is of the scent of fig leaves.

Coconut was not a food that I grew up with. My mother had no idea what to do with it and my brother and I both disliked it. We agreed that Mounds and Almond Joys were a waste of good chocolate and avoided houses that offered them at Halloween.

With me, it was more of a textural thing that I eventually grew out of. My brother never did.

Yet there was something about coconut that haunted me.

I distinctly remember the first time that I opened a can of coconut milk. It stirred something that was locked away and undefinable; a memory that I couldn't access.

My mother once gave me a large piece of the puzzle. We were on a crowded beach that reeked of coconut-scented suntan lotion. She said it reminded her of fig trees.

And later, as a teenager, I approached her wearing a new drugstore cologne that I thought made me smell exotic and tropical. In hindsight, I probably just smelled like a musky pinã colada, but she casually remarked that I smelled like figs.

I should have pieced it together from old photographs and stories of my grandparent's property in Portugal— my home for the first three years of my life. It wasn't until I returned as an adult, with husband and children in tow, and experienced it for myself, that it clicked.

In its heyday, my grandparent's property was a thriving farm, consisting of orchards, vineyard, and fields of grains, vegetables, and hay. There were chickens, rabbits, pigs, and oxen to work the fields. Water was supplied by a well; an enormous, deep hole in the ground, bordered by a low stone wall and covered with iron framework. The treillage, more ornamental than functional, soared high into the sky and was crowned with an iron horse that became the icon of the farm.

The stories that I heard throughout my childhood painted a lively picture of life on the farm: days governed by hard work, tempered by frequent celebrations and feasts, where family, friends, neighbors, and hired hands gathered together.

After my grandparents passed away, the property was left to my father and his siblings, who all lived in the US. They hired caretakers, who were grossly negligent of their duties. When I returned, in the late 1990's, I was crushed by what I found. The once-grand house was in an advanced state of decay, too precarious to enter. There was nothing to see anyway, all of its contents had been pilfered and looted. The fields laid fallow and were overgrown with weeds. The grounds were thick with brambles.

But there were some vestiges; things that endured the ravages of time and neglect.

The carefully cultivated grapes had gone wild, but were still producing heavily, the dark clusters ripening in the August sun.

The well and treillage were intact and the horse still galloped high in the clouds.

And near a concrete pool that was used to wash laundry, a fig tree thrived. It was heavy with fruit, still young and green. I mourned that I would not be there to taste them ripe. I picked some leaves, intending to press them between the pages of a book back home. It would be my only memento.

I turned to leave and a breeze kicked up, carrying with it the sun-warmed scent of fig leaves. The old feeling stirred and I understood that it was nostalgia.

I saw myself as a baby, laid out on a blanket under the shade of the fig tree. Nearby, my mother and grandmother washed linens in the pool and laid them out under the October sun to bleach.

I've no idea what I was feeling or thinking, but I'm reasonably sure that I was content to just lay there, listening to the splashing of water and the chatter of familiar voices, inhaling the scent of fig leaves.

I didn't know it then, but I do now— they smell a lot like coconut.

Some people think that fig leaves smell like cat pee. I suppose that could be true of some varieties, but most people detect creamy, nutty notes (like those in coconut), warm spice (as in cinnamon and nutmeg), and woody herbs (oregano, thyme and rue).

Last fall, I brought some dried leaves back from a trip through the South for Alex of Ideas in Food. I didn't tell him what they were because I wanted to let him guess. I think the first words out of his mouth were "smells like coconut".

In the perfume industry, fig-based fragrances are often described as "coconut aroma".

Despite the overwhelming similarity in scent, I can't find a direct link between the two. Figs and coconuts belong to different orders in the plant kingdom and research has turned up no common aroma compounds.

So, is it a matter of perception? Or something more tenuous?

Of course, the next question is: Do fig leaves taste like coconut?

Nibbling on the fresh leaves, I could detect no coconut flavor. But an infusion (in hot water) released the aroma, and yes— a fresh, green coconut flavor.

Fig leaf tea is not uncommon. It's best known for treating diabetes, helping to maintain proper insulin levels. It's also loaded with antioxidants and phytonutrients.

Regardless of the health benefits, I find fig leaf tea to be one of the best tasting 'herbal' teas in recent memory.

Maybe you would, too. That is— if you like coconut.

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

sweet pickled black cod

I can't say that I've ever been a fan of commercially made sweet pickles. More often than not, they're cloyingly sweet or too heavily spiced to win me over. That all changed when I encountered a product that showed me what a sweet pickle should be.

Low Country Products, located in South Carolina, makes a line of artisanal pickles, preserves and soups. Their website buzzes with all of the right trigger words: handmade, handpacked, small-batch, farm-driven, local, seasonal– but ultimately, the proof is in the pickle.

While I can't vouch for any of their other products, the Sweet Cucumber Pickles were an epiphany. The list of ingredients reads like Grandma's recipe: cucumbers, cider vinegar, sugar, garlic and pickling spices. Long after the pickles were gone, I kept the jar of brine because it was just too good to discard.

Miso-glazed black cod was another epiphany. Nobu's iconic dish was the west's introduction to the sustainable sablefish, or black cod, and the ancient method of curing in a sweet and acidic marinade of sugar, sake, mirin, and miso. Using this method with the sweet pickle brine rendered the flesh lush and silky and allowed for deep caramelization without overcooking.

Being an advocate of flowers-as-food, I'm delighted to see that edible flowers are becoming more readily available at grocery stores, though it concerns me that they are being marketed as garnishes and destined to become nothing more than a gratuitous flourish, replacing the token mint sprig on a desert, instead of relevant components of a dish.

Perfumers recreate scent profiles by carefully selecting and blending flower essences– can't we do the same with flavor?

My intention with this dish was to integrate the flavors in the sweet pickle brine with a purposeful selection of flowers. Yellow and purple chive blossoms reinforce the garlic, dianthus petals (which taste of cloves) supports the warm spices, and the sour bite of oxalis leaves (the flowers close up at night) substantiates the vinegar. Borage, had it flowered in time, would have been a fitting reference to the cucumber.