popsicles

I'm always looking for uses for plant materials that are often overlooked or discarded because they're too fibrous to eat.
Wild carrot stems may appear thin and fragile, but are rigid and strong enough to support these popsicles.

Layering is one way to control progression of flavors.
Usually, in the context of a meal, flavors progress from savory to sweet.
Here, they move from sweet to savory, starting with wild carrot syrup, then on to naturally sweet casaba melon, and ending with fig leaf tea.

The popsicles were molded in silicone plastique molds made from test tubes.
Don't try freezing liquids in thin glass molds. Trust me.

the simple charm of wild carrots

A new attitude is really just a change in perception. It's what makes one man's rags another man's riches. It's how a weed becomes a charming flower.

And, yes, the wild carrot has many charms.

Take, for instance, one of its common names: Queen Anne's lace.

OK, maybe you have to be a girl (or an Anglophile) to appreciate that one.

And then there's the flowers, all lacy and white, but they can be any color you like. If you put the cut stems in water stained with food color, the blossoms will change color right before your eyes. They're chameleons that way.

What it doesn't have, at this stage, is a lot of edible parts. But because it's so aromatic, it has plenty of extractable flavor.

Simple infusions are one way to capture the flavor. In these very busy days of summer, simple is good.

And it doesn't get more simple than this. The only hard part is the waiting.

I picked my first cucumber and serrano pepper from the garden on the day that the vinegar was ready. It made sense to toss them together in a light salad. Cool cucumbers and hot peppers are a nice contrast.

I let the syrup infuse for just over a week, until the wild carrot flavor was good and concentrated. I have lots of fun, simple plans for this syrup. One of them is to drizzle it over grilled carrots: wild carrot-candied carrots.

But since the cucumbers are coming in fast and furious, my attention went back to them. This time, I pickled slices of the cucumber in the vinegar, spiked with serrano, then topped them with a dollop of syrup, whipped with 5% versawhip. The whipped syrup looks like a rich whipped cream, but with pure, clean flavor and a lightness that cream cannot imagine.

I served the sweet-tart-spicy-cool-creamy bite in a nest of fuzzy wild carrot seeds so that when my fingers rubbed against it to pick it up, they carried the scent of wild carrots to my nose.

Quite simply, wild carrots have me charmed.

wild carrot

My attitude towards weeds has changed so much in recent years that I hardly recognize myself.

I used to be a weed warrior, indiscriminately pulling anything that I didn't plant. I realize now that it was a futile attempt at controlling my environment. Me vs. Nature. My new attitude laughs.

The shift came from an understanding of weeds and the roles that they play. I had to step back, ask questions, and look at the big picture. I had to be reminded that Nature is a consummate designer.

Left on her own, Nature creates self-sustaining communities of plants where nothing is random or arbitrary. Because Nature hates a void, exposed soil quickly covers with plants— the intention, ultimately, is to turn it back into woods and forests. Shallow-rooted annuals move in to prevent erosion and run-off of precious water. The long taproots of perennial plants burrow deep into the soil to collect minerals. Above ground, natural selection plays out as a timeless, tireless game of offense and defense.

To gardeners and farmers, weeds are just a plant in the wrong place. To Nature, it is absolutely the perfect place. Understanding why has allowed me to become much more lax about weeds and we're both the better for it.

Wild carrot (Daucus carota), also known as Queen Anne's lace, is the progenitor of the common carrot that we eat. All parts of the wild carrot exhibit pungent carrot aroma, made up of over 100 volatile compounds. The white roots are only tender when very young, turning woody by the time that they flower. The leaves are also tender when young, but must be cooked when mature.

Wild carrot is native to Europe and Asia, but has become naturalized in the US, where it's categorized in some areas as a beneficial weed (because their umbels attract parasitic wasps), and in others as a noxious weed (because of it's prolific, long-lasting seeds). It also bears a close resemblance to the deadly poison hemlock (Conium), though the carrot aroma is only present in Daucus.

In the Northeast, wild carrots are ubiquitous plants that favor patches of sandy soil where land meets pavement. When in bloom, from June through August, they form foamy white swathes along the roadside that look like flower surfs. When the tiny white petals drop, the umbels form chartreuse fuzz-covered seeds that have a unique way of propagating themselves. Instead of dropping their seeds like most members of Umbelliferae, the pedicels curl up like a bird's nest, detach from the stem and fall to the ground, where they roll around like tumbleweeds in search of a spot to take root. Quite genius, and [I think] explains their proclivity for roadsides.

For as long as I've lived here, I've routinely battled a tenacious patch of wild carrot that grows along my driveway. Every spring, I would pull them out by the roots from under the lilacs to plant more desirable flowers. Without fail, everything dies in that spot. Everything. Except for wild carrot.

When it comes to gardening, I realize that I can be as stubborn as the weeds that I've fought so hard to eradicate. It's that control thing. But this year, I let Nature have her way. And, you know something… I'm glad that I did… that spot has never looked better.

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.

coconut fig curry

Coconuts were introduced to Europe by Portuguese explorers who brought them back from India. Vasco da Gama's sailors thought the round, hairy fruit (actually, a seed), with the black eyes and nose, resembled "Coco", a folkloric ghost/witch/monster; the precursor to the jack-o-lantern. When it reached England, "nut" was added to the end and the name stuck.

Although the coconut palm (Cocos nucifera) and the fig tree (Ficus carica) have little in common except for similarity of flavor and aroma, they sure taste good together.

I can't help but wonder if 16th century Europeans, upon opening a coconut for the first time, thought that it smelled like fig leaves. I also wonder what they would've thought of this dessert: a familiar and beloved fruit, married to newly-discovered treasures from faraway lands.

coconut fig terrine ✢ curry tea foam ✢ agastache blossoms

Fig leaf tea makes a light and flavorful base for an aromatic curry broth. Further lightened into a foam, it lands weightless on the tongue and dissipates, leaving only an impression of warm spice.

Download recipe: coconut fig terrine with curry tea

allium triquetrum

These allium were sent to me from Oregon, simply labeled as "wild onions". Originally, I thought they were ramsons (Allium ursinum), which grow wild in my area in the early spring. However, the triangular stems were exceedingly long and lacked the characteristic broad leaves that often cause ramsons to be confused with lily of the valley (a toxic plant). Further research revealed that they are, in fact, Allium triquetrum, commonly known as three-cornered leek, a species of Allium indigenous to the Mediterranean. They are also reported to grow in temperate areas of Britain and Japan. In the US, they are only found along coastal Oregon and California, where they are classified as an invasive weed.

All parts of the plant possess a refined leek/garlic flavor and aroma. The bulbs are dense and crisp, like water chestnuts, and are mild enough to eat raw, as are the lower part of the stems. The dark upper stems are fibrous and need to be cooked. The loose clusters of white flowers are more delicate in flavor. After the petals fall, the developed bulbils resemble caper berries, but with a subtle sulphuric flavor.

I see an extraordinary Gibson Martini in my near future.

heat wave

I knew it was coming [the heat and humidity].

The change of weather had been forecast for days and discussed with the same fervor as an impending snowstorm. That's how it is in these parts. Weather rules.

But I didn't need a weather report to tell me that summer is quickly approaching. My dog does a fine job of that. His built-in barometer is fine tuned to low pressure systems, particularly the ones that bring oppressive humidity and summer storms. It causes him to pace the house restlessly until he drops from exhaustion. He's a dog of many talents (he can open doors and does a wicked Chewbaca impression) but when the sky starts to rumble, he has yet to figure out a way to fit his massive body under a bed.

Even without meteorologists and an anxious dog, I can always rely on the garden to tell me what part of the season we're in. The soil is finally warm and dry enough to plant summer vegetables. In the rock garden and perennial borders, the warm colors of spring bulbs and blooming shrubs give way to softer, cooler blues and pinks. And everywhere, there is green.

It's humbling to admit that a few days of hot, hazy sunshine does more to advance a plant's growth than all my fussing, nurturing and organic fertilizer put together. At this stage, my role becomes more passive; it's more about keeping up with the weeds. It feels a lot like raising teenagers.

And just as the garden changes with the weather, so, too, does my appetite. When it's hot and humid, all I want is cold and wet.

And, so, the change came: the heat and humidity descended, weather reporters congratulated themselves, the dog paced on cue, the garden flourished, the weeds rampaged, and I craved nothing but watermelon and iced tea.

With some disdain, I faced a pot of stock that I had made the night before from vegetable trimmings and herbs from the garden: asparagus, pea pods, wild onions, celery, lovage, chervil, ferns, yarrow, chives, and a handful of Parmesan rinds. A hot soup had seemed like a good idea in the cool of the evening, but on a sweltering afternoon, I re-imagined it as a cold tisane. While the cold, flavorful stock strained clear through a coffee filter, I dashed outdoors to collect a handful of leaves and petals: sedum, yarrow, fern, oxalis, dianthus, hesperis, chives. Along with some willowy stalks of asparagus, it was just what I craved— a cold, wet tonic on a hot, humid day.

cherry bombe

Being a mom is hard work.
There are days when you want to hand in your resignation. Or, at the very least, renegotiate your contract. But you don't. You hang in there. You wring your hands. You fret. You worry. You hope. You make wishes.

But then there are days of such luminous rapture that you think your heart will burst out of your chest. And in between there are moments of quiet joy. Smiles. Laughter. Hugs. Flowers and cake.

Give your mom a hug today. If that's not possible, give someone else's mom a hug. Tell her that she's doing/done a good job. Bring her smiles and laughter. Flowers and cake are good, too.
We all need a little appreciation.

Download recipe: Cherry bombe

artichoke fresh cheese cherry

A plant is a chemical universe unto itself.

Even an innocuous blade of grass produces more natural compounds than we can properly appreciate. Some compounds contribute to the plant's growth and development. Some combine to attract pollinators and seed dispersers. And yet others exist to deter predators and pathogens. These complex systems of chemicals all work together to help the plant achieve one thing: survival.

The artichoke doesn't need to rely on its chemical arsenal for protection from predators; nature has bestowed it with cellulosic armor and barbs for that purpose. But even those haven't deterred the indomitable human curiosity and our insatiable appetite once we discovered that beyond its armament, there is something good to eat inside. Our attraction to the artichoke's buried heart is a chemical one; phenolic, to be precise.

Plant chemistry, simplified
All living organisms produce compounds that are essential to life. In plants, these can be divided into two metabolic groups:

Primary metabolites support growth, development and reproduction. Included in this group are carbohydrates, amino acids, polymers, lipids, etc.

Secondary metabolites are organic compounds of low molecular weight (often produced at less than 1% dry weight) that are not vital to growth but allow plants to attract pollinators and defend itself from herbivores and pathogens, but not from humans. Often, these compounds are what attract us to certain plants in the first place— they define its flavor and aroma. Secondary metabolites can be classified into three groups: Alkaloids, Terpenoids, and Phenolics.

Phenolic activity in artichokes
Anyone who has cut into an artichoke has witnessed oxidation; a reaction that takes place when phenolic compounds are combined with enzymes (through cutting or bruising) and exposed to oxygen, turning the exposed surface brown. Applying acid by rubbing with a lemon wedge only slows down the reaction. The only way to prevent it is to cut off its exposure to oxygen by submerging in water or vacuum sealing. Heating to temperatures above 212F/100C destroys the enzyme.

phenolic oxidation/ reaction to acid— both cups contain artichoke tea; the one on the right changes color after adding a few drops of lemon juice

Phenolic compounds are a rich source of phytochemicals (nonessential nutrients that are beneficial to health) such as antioxidants, flavonoids, and tannins. Artichokes are a primary source of cynarin, a compound that is believed to promote good health, including liver detoxification. Cynarin's ability to lower cholesterol was first documented In the 1970's, and many promising studies have taken place since.

Artichokes are notoriously difficult to pair with wine, thanks to cynarin and chlorogenic acid. These two phenolic compounds inhibit sweet receptors on our tongues, causing subsequent ingestion of foods or liquids to taste sweet. This taste perversion is similar to the one produced by miraculin, a protein found in miracle fruit, though it is significantly more short-lived and occurs only in a portion of the population, suggesting that it may be a genetic predisposition.

Cynarase, another enzyme found in artichokes, is believed to aid in digestion because of its ability to curdle milk. In parts of Europe and North Africa, coagulating milk for cheese with cardoon (a close relative of artichoke) is a long-standing tradition that is still carried out today.

Over a decade ago, while in Portugal, I learned that a popular cheese, Azeitao, is made from unpasteurized sheep's milk curdled with cardoon. It wasn't until earlier this year that I discovered that cynarase was responsible. As artichokes came into season, I began experimenting with their various parts, cooked in milk, with no success— lots of artichoke-flavored milk, but no curds. It wasn't until further research revealed that it is the mature thistle flower that is used to form milk curds that I tried again with the isolated choke (the undeveloped flower). Finally, I was able to produce enough curds to press into a small fresh cheese. These curds were very small, scarce, and soft, producing an impossibly fragile, but wonderfully herbaceous-flavored cheese. I haven't had much luck growing artichokes in Zone 5, but I'm willing to try again, if only to harvest the flowers. Barring that, there are other alternatives to explore— other flowers in the Cynareae tribe that do grow in my zone.

I wanted to build a dish around this very small, fragile, and delicious cheese that would represent all of the interesting things that I've learned about the artichoke. I started by pairing the milky cheese and the tender inner scales and ribbons of vegetal artichoke heart with the flavor of cherries. The ephemeral cherry blossoms hearken the nature of the artichoke-as-flower and whisper softly of benzaldehyde, while a soft gel of Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico gives the dish alacrity and vibrance. The artichoke tea, made by steeping the outer scales in boiling water, exhibits phenolic oxidation by changing from bright green to yellow when poured over the acidic cheese and gel. The herbaceous tea has a bitter edge that not only disappears, but is made sweet after taking a bite of the taste-altering heart.

artichoke
cynarase-curdled raw milk cheese
Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico
artichoke tea
cherry blossom

artichoke flower

Artichokes make me wonder about the human spirit and its unbound curiosity. I mean— who was the first person to look at the hostile thistle with its sharp thorns and leathery scales and think “hmmm… that might be good to eat“?
Most likely, that person was from North Africa, where the wild thistle is thought to have originated. While I’ll never know his/her identity, I am grateful to them and the legions of people who have cultivated it since.

The Globe artichoke (Cynara carunculus) is, in fact, a flower bud that is harvested before blooming. The immature flower is the mass of inedible fibers, known as the choke, found in the center of the bud. The edible part— the heart— is the thickened, fleshy receptacle located at the base.
To get to the meaty heart, the scales must be removed, the choke scraped out, and the fibrous exterior peeled away. This process leaves a pile of fractal scales that are often needlessly discarded. The inner pale scales are delicately-flavored and tender as flower petals when the purple papery tips are trimmed away. The dark outer scales are too tough and fibrous to eat, but they retain a nugget of the heart at their base which is delicious and fun to eat when dipped into a sauce and scraped out between the teeth.

Layering the scales with a sauce in a bowl is one way to present them. While the intention of this dish was to save them from the bin, it was directly inspired by the artichoke’s form and true nature as a flower. Amusingly, the restructured scales, or flattened artichoke, comes off looking like a water lily or lotus flower— yet another testament to the recurring designs found in nature which are never arbitrary or isolated.

Artichokes and eggs are a great marriage, especially when piqued with acid. Sweetened with black garlic and crowned with sieved egg yolks, a classic sauce gribiche fits the bill nicely.

black garlic sauce gribiche

Hard boil 3 eggs. Peel and cool the eggs, then separate the yolks from the whites. Pass the yolks and the whites through a sieve separately into 2 bowls. Add 1 raw egg yolk to the bowl with the cooked yolks along with 1 Tblsp (16g) of Dijon mustard, 1 Tblsp (14g) of white wine vinegar, 1 tsp (5g) of salt, and pepper to taste. Whisk well until mixture becomes a smooth paste. In a slow, thin stream, add 1 cup (190g) of safflower oil, whisking constantly, until mixture thickens and mayonnaise is formed. Whisk in 1 Tblsp (16g) of black garlic puree (peeled black garlic cloves pureed with a little hot water into a smooth paste). Stir in 2 Tblsp(30g) chopped capers, 2 Tblsp (30g) chopped sour pickles, 2 Tblsp (20g) chopped fines herbes (fresh parsley, chervil, chives, and tarragon), and the sieved egg whites. Adjust seasoning.