asparagus rose

prosciutto asparagus olive oil lemon rose

I once worked for a chef with an exacting standard for detail. His mirepoix were perfectly uniform 1/4" dice and his mise en place were works of art, craft, and geometry. Besides his knives, which he wielded with the precision of a surgeon, his favorite tool was a ruler.

I learned a lot about OCD from him.

He must have seen some of those same tendencies in me because I was given some of the fussier tasks that he normally did himself. When he wasn't there to walk me through it, he would leave detailed notes– complete with drawings– of components or new dishes that he wanted me to work on. Eventually, as I became more familiar with his aesthetic, and he with mine, I was just given a list of dishes and left to interpret them.

On one of those lists was a dish that I fixated on: Fresh pea risotto with prosciutto rose. I immediately saw the dish in my head; a pale green mound of risotto topped with a loosely coiled ribbon of prosciutto. I couldn't figure out how prosciutto rose even fit into his style so I proceeded with my vision.

When I showed him the dish, he glowered at it. He insisted he had specified prosciutto lardons. I showed him the list and he conceeded that it had been his mistake but he never did explain how someone confuses lardons with roses.

In the end, he liked the dish as I had made it. My reward for pleasing him was to make 150 more just like it.

asparagus risotto

robiola bosina

prosciutto rose

deep-fried rose petals

asparagus salt

A recent job took place on a privately-owned modern villa here in Northwestern Connecticut. Hidden behind 8'-high stone walls was the most extraordinary vegetable garden that brought to mind the gardens of Monticello, Versailles, and Villa Borghese.

Highly ornamental, yet fully functional, it featured symmetrical parterres edged with clipped boxwood in elaborately knotted patterns; the pockets planted with herbs and vegetables. Red and green lettuces were planted in alternating blocks to form edible checkerboards. Iron trellage towers supported beans and tomatoes. Antique terra cotta cloches protected tender seedlings. Gurgling fountains, imposing sculptures– there was so much to admire and draw inspiration from that I quickly went into sensory overload.

In that formal setting, herbs and vegetables were treated and displayed with a deference that is usually reserved for ornamental plants and flowers. One stunning border featured roses interplanted with asparagus. The slim stalks of asparagus rising out of the ground echoed the thorny stems of the roses tipped with tight green buds. The gardener revealed that there was a beneficial logic to the pairing, but I was too distracted to take note.

I can however tell you about the logic of pairing the flavor of roses with asparagus. They are united by several aroma compounds, most notably alcohols and aldehydes and also some ketones and esters. Among them are:

Valeraldehyde (warm, winey, slightly fruity, and nutty)

Phenylacetaldehyde (earthy-sweet, fruity, floral)

Octanol (fresh orange-rose, slightly herbaceous)

Vinylphenol (vanilla extract)

Nonyl Alcohol (floral-citrus, slightly fatty, bitter)

No matter how much research I do on these compounds, the scientific names always shock me. They serve as a reminder that everything we perceive as wholesome, natural, and organic is, in fact, a complex composition of chemicals.

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.

cheddar corn chives

snacks:

ice cream float

Sweet corn ice cream with cheddar beer. Yep, that's right: cheddar beer. It's better than I expected and it keeps getting better with age. The real gem here is finding a use for chive flower stems– their rigid cellulosity renders them inedible, but makes for fantastic straws.

corn krispies treat

Ethereally light and crisp freeze-dried corn kernels and chives, bound with buttery isomalt syrup. More like a sweet/savory popcorn ball. Eminently addictive.

funyun

OK, so it's really an onion ring. But it's kinda fun, and definitely 'yuniony' courtesy of chive blossoms, thinly sliced Vidalia onions and ground, dehydrated onions in the tempura batter. The batter gets an extra boost from cheddar beer. I thought of making an onion beer for this but even I wouldn't go there.

pixy stix

Remember these? The sweet/tart powdered candy-in-a-straw goes savory with freeze-dried corn, chive, and cheddar powders. The straw (cheddar water with Ultratex) is edible, too. Break it open, use it as a dry dip, sprinkle it on the float–or better yet–directly on the tongue.

Download recipe: Cheddar corn chive snacks

blooming onion

Chives are the smallest species of onions and they grow in clusters instead of individual plants.

I never got around to dividing the chives last year and now that they are in flower it'll have to wait until the fall. They multiply so quickly that by the end of the season the clumps will have doubled in size and become so compacted that I'll have to cut them apart with a knife.

I really didn't need any more chives for the garden but I couldn't resist this yellow-flowered Allium Molly. The flower heads are looser and slightly larger than the common purple variety (Allium schoenoprasum) but they have the same sulphuric bite.

The "Blooming Onion" was once ubiquitous fare at family restaurant chains. It was introduced by Outback Steakhouse in the late 80's and involved a giant Vidalia onion, scored into petals, dipped in batter and deep fried. I went with my family once and someone ordered it as an appetizer. I remember being astonished by the size of it and even though it was passed around the table a few times, we couldn't finish it.

A quick look at their website shows that they are still serving it and are quite proud of the 16 ounce, 4 1/2" wide onions that are specially grown for them. Wiki reports that this "appetizer" contains about 2,200 calories and 134g of fat. I have to ask—why so big?

Here I thought that the days of confusing portion size with value were behind us. Has anyone ever finished an entire one, followed by an entree, and lived to tell about it?

chive blossom tempura [the real blooming onion]

the meadow

"No voice calls me to order as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel to earth and, moving east to west, second the motion only of the sun…. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold or promise rain. In time, outside of time, the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers."

"Planting the Meadow" by Mary Makofske

Dame's rocket (Hesperis matronalis) is a biennial wildflower that is often confused with phlox. The most obvious distinction is that phlox blooms later in the season and the flowers have five petals whereas Hesperis has only four.

Because of its tendencies to self seed and escape cultivation, it's considered an invasive species in parts of the country where it has crowded out native species. In my state of Connecticut, it is illegal to move, sell, purchase, transplant or distribute Hesperis. And, because I always follow the law [ahem], I resist the temptation to transplant them to a more conspicuous part of the garden. For now, they live on an unmown patch of earth that I call "the meadow", where they happily coexist with sumac, asters, mullein and goldenrod.

Dame's rocket belongs to the Brassicaceae family of plants that include cabbage and mustard.

The flowers throw off a sultry vanilla scent that intensifies as the sun goes down (Hesperis means evening in Greek) and has a two-part flavor that starts as honeyed pears and ends with a mild sting of mustard.

This dish, built on a foundation of peanut butter ganache and peanut brittle-enrobed roasted banana, covered with elderflower and green tea whip displays an intriguing juxtaposition of harmonious flavors.

It looks a bit wild and unkempt. Just like the meadow.

Download recipe: The meadow

tree peonies

I have the good fortune to live near a peony farm. It's no ordinary farm and their peonies are anything but ordinary. In fact, at this time of year when the plants are in full regalia, the gardens are aptly referred to as "Peony Heaven".

Cricket Hill Garden is a world-renowned grower of rare Chinese tree peonies (Paeonia suffruticosa). The owners Kasha and David Furman were among the first to import the plants into the US and have grown hundreds of cultivars over the past twenty years on their seven acre farm. In conversations with David, it's apparent that he is a man completely fulfilled by a career that grew out of his obsession with the Chinese culture and a passion for their national flower. He speaks freely of his travels through China and the political tribulations of gaining permission to import the plants from a country that– at the time– was embarrassed by the sensual nature of the flowers.

Tree peonies do indeed arouse the senses. They unfurl their luminous petals slowly and luxuriously to reveal their flamboyant centers. The flowers are as large as a dinner plate, smell heavenly, and bear fanciful names such as "Purple Butterfly in the Wind" and "Green Dragon Lying on a China Ink Stone". At about 100$ per plant, they are expensive, but as they are known to live hundreds of years, I see them as an investment in the future.

One of my favorite salads involves shaved bulb fennel, fresh herbs, and olives, simply dressed with lemon juice and walnut oil. The addition of silky wisps of salami or a fresh tangy chevre rounds it out to a meal.

The ether anethole is responsible for the sweet (up to 13 times sweeter than sugar) anise flavor of fennel. Many of the tender annual herbs are united by this aromatic: basil, dill, tarragon, chervil, and hyssop all partake in anise love. Anethole is widely used as a flavoring for liquors. Because it is less soluble in water than in ethanol, it will produce a spontaneous microemulsion, a phenomenon known as "ouzo effect" when water is added– turning a clear solution milky white.

A deli slicer makes shaving fennel a breeze. I'm always fascinated by the forms that fall off the slicer. A cross-section of the heart, with its long gangly arms attached, look like alien sea creatures. The end-cuts reveal a succession of delicate petal shapes.

Typically, the shavings go directly into an ice bath to keep them crisp and hydrated. The swelling that occurs when their cells fill with water further distorts the shapes.

I knew what I was hoping for when I submerged a handful of the petal shavings into chilled rhubarb juice, but I wasn't sure that it would happen. A few hours later, I nearly squealed with delight as I lifted the petals and watched them fall onto a plate.

Pale pink. Curled and cupped. All I could see was peonies.

dandelion wine

"The golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ran, then gushed from the spout below, to be crocked, skimmed of ferment, and bottled in clean ketchup shakers, then ranked in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.

Dandelion wine.

The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered."

~Ray Bradbury "Dandelion Wine"

As far back as I can remember, I've had a major crush on books.

As a child, I would enter the local library with the awe and reverence reserved for cathedrals. It was there that I would worship the written word; a place to receive the sacrament of ink on paper at the altar of ideas, imagination, and information.

Then, as now, books were magic carpets that transported me to worlds where anything and everything was possible. And I could be home in time for dinner.

I was eight or nine when I read Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. I have read it numerous times since to relive the wonder of childhood. It's a simple book; a semi-autographical collection of stories woven together into a strange and dreamy tale of an ordinary summer, filled with extraordinary moments, in a 12-year-old boy's life. It was an introduction to subtle and complex themes that revealed themselves like layers of an onion, with two in particular that keep me coming back:

The ecstatic awareness of being alive.

And the transubstantiating magic of dandelion wine.

In the book, dandelion wine is a metaphor for life itself; a prosaic weed transformed into a mystical elixir with the power to "change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in."

Having never tasted dandelion wine, I can only imagine its flavor will be sweet, slightly tart, mildly bitter. It may not turn out to be the most delicious of beverages, but I fully believe that on a cold wintry day, when I head down to the cellar and raise a glass to my lips, that the snow will melt, the sky will turn blue and–if only for a moment–it will be summer.

That is the power of flavor.

That is the magic of books.

Download recipe: Dandelion wine

tulip

the thing about moms

regardless of how grownupold you thinkfeel you are

in her mindhearteyes

you are

forever5

bathed in sunlight

running towards her

with a tulip in your hand

rhubarb sorbet

lemongrass ganache

cream cheese pound cake

rhubarb glass

angelique tulip petals

sakura

People who have the means and leisure to travel at whim often do so in pursuit of a passion. Some follow the sun, others follow food, music, art, or sports. Romantics follow their hearts.

Me, I would follow flowers.

At the top of my itinerary would be Japan in March. There you would find me, in a cherry blossom-induced delirium, standing like Julie Andrews on top of that mountain– eyes up, arms outstretched; twirling like a dervish–reveling in a blizzard of cherry-pink petals.

The Japanese are serious about cherry blossoms (sakura) and the ancient custom of flower-viewing (hanami). The cherry-blooming forecasts (sakura zensen) are watched fervently and the occasion is observed with reverence and enthusiasm.

Cherries belong to the plant genus Prunus, and are a member of the large family Rosaceae, which includes other aromatic fruits such as almonds, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, pears, quince, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, loquats, and roses.

The flavor of cherries are defined by benzaldehyde (sour cherry, bitter almond) and coumarin (vanilla, sweet grass, hay).

black sesame ganache

cherry yogurt panna cotta

rose-mahleb semifreddo

raspberry meringue

pink peppercorn crisp

sour cherry glass

maraschino almonds

cherry petals

cherry leaf

Download recipe: Sakura

daffodil

There's a place just up the road from me that I make a point to visit at this time of year.

It's the kind of spot that embodies the bucolic scenery of rural New England.

There are pastoral rolling hills…

…moss-patinaed stone walls…

…ancient gnarled trees…

…steep stone steps…

…and a lake with tiny islands.

It's a magical place at any time of year, but for a few weeks in April it becomes an enchanted land of earth, water, stone, and daffodils.

Daffodils have an alluring aroma with sweet notes of honey, citrus, warm spice, and exotic fruit. However, they contain the alkaloids galanthamine and lycorine that render them highly toxic if consumed. Even deer won't touch them.

mango

whipped honey

passionfruit souffle cake

orange blossom ice cream

pandan glass

ginger honey crystals

calendula buds

Download recipe: Daffodil