barley salad

Salads, like a wardrobe, change with the seasons. In winter, grains stand in for the leafy greens that are abundant in the warmer months and I look to my windowsill instead of the herb garden for flavor power ups. Fruits and vegetables, the mementos of summer, are culled from jars instead of bins.

The dressings for these salads vary as widely as the components, even within the parameters of a classic vinaigrette: 3 parts oil to 1 part acid. Oils pressed from seeds, nuts, grains, and fruit each possess their own personalities and can be further customised with aromatics. And oils aren't limited to plants— hot rendered animal fats can transform coarse greens and grains into something special.

Acids offer even more variety as they can be made from, or flavored with, almost anything and needn't be restricted to just vinegar and citrus. Sour fruit juices such as verjus, tamarind, passion fruit, crabapple, rose hips, plums, rhubarb, and pomegranate make fruity dressings bursting with sweet, tangy flavors when the oil ratio is lowered to double the amount of juice. Most milk products lack acidic presence, but kefir whey makes a kicky dressing that feels light on the palate with a milky background.

With a wide and varied palette of flavors at hand, your mind and palate will never be bored, and a meal as ordinary as salad, with little effort, can be made extraordinary.

This barley salad was dressed with passion fruit juice, rice bran oil, shallots, and hishio, a type of barley miso. Herbs from the windowsill include mitsuba (Cryptotaenia japonica), saltwort (Salsola kornarovil), and sedum (Sempervivum tectorum). And from the pantry are: burdock ribbons pickled in coconut vinegar, Rainier cherries preserved in umeboshi and simple syrup, and ground cherries (Physalis pruinosa) preserved in sake.

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

pork jowl creamed smoked cabbage

The other pork jowl steak was covered with thin slices of Benton's country ham, tightly rolled and cooked sous vide at 60C/140F for 3 hours, then chilled in the bag overnight.

The pork roll had remarkable flavor and texture, like a fine charcuterie— as if the ham had cured the pork from within. It held its shape, even when thinly sliced, until the heat of a pan caused them to unfurl their tails, whimsically creating pork commas.

Whoever said that cabbage is the lowliest of vegetables had surely never seen the Savoy, whose extravagantly blistered leaves look like the velvet trapunto quilts of European finery. The flavor, too, is more refined than the common smooth-leaved variety. And those nooks and crannies? They make great traps for sauces.

With the weather propelling toward winter, I've been working on hearty vegetable dishes that are free of dairy and gluten. In my world, where I'm often feeding people with restricted diets, dishes like these are my Ace in the hole. Cabbage was first on my list with the intention of transforming it into something comforting, yet luxurious. I thought I could accomplish that by saucing the tender leaves of Savoy with a creamy puree of itself, but that wasn't producing the full mouth feel that I was after.
Simultaneously, I've been exploring the process of using cooked grains and nut purees as thickeners in place of refined starches. Refined starches work wonders at altering texture without affecting flavor, but there are times when the whole personality of a food (instead of just one of its properties) is welcome. And cabbage had rolled out the mat.
I pondered the options over breakfast: wheat was out, so should I use buckwheat, quinoa, rice, pumpkin seeds, chestnuts? All were viable, but ultimately, the answer laid before me in my bowl of oatmeal.

creamed smoked cabbage

Adding steel cut oats to cabbage puree gives it a creamy richness, but don't substitute instant or rolled oats or you may end up with a gluey, too-much-Xanthan-like consistency.
If meat products are not an issue, I recommend using chicken stock, augmented with ham scraps for the liquid. Otherwise, vegetable broth, or water, is fine.
Smoking the cabbage is optional, but especially in the absence of meat, it makes a marked difference in the enjoyment of the dish.

oatmeal: 20g steel cut oats, lightly toasted in a dry pan
60g apple cider
1g salt
Place all of ingredients in a vacuum bag and seal. Cook in an 82C/180F water bath for 55 minutes.

cabbage: 350g de-ribbed Savoy cabbage leaves that have been cut into 1/4" squares
              bouquet garni of: 1 bay leaf, 5 peppercorns, 4 juniper berries, 2g fresh caraway seeds or 1g dried
              200g vegetable, chicken, or ham stock
              6g salt
              2g baking soda
Pack cabbage and bouquet garni into a vacuum bag. In a small bowl, stir the stock, salt, and baking soda until dissolved, them pour over the cabbage in bag. Seal bag and place in water bath with the oatmeal (82C/180F) for 45 minutes. When done, open the bag and drain contents, discarding the bouquet garni.
Lightly smoke the cabbage with smoked apple wood chips in a smoker for 5 minutes, following manufacturer's directions. (alternately, use a smoke gun).
Separate 125g of the cooked cabbage and place the remaining cabbage in a saucepan.

cream: 6g sliced garlic
              50g extra virgin olive oil
              125g of smoked cabbage from above
              contents of cooked oatmeal bag from above
              50g vegetable, chicken, or ham stock
2g fresh caraway leaves, or a blend of 1.5g fresh dill weed and 1g dried caraway seeds
Heat the olive oil over low heat and add the garlic. Sweat the garlic until fragrant, translucent, and just beginning to color. Scrape into a blender along with the remaining ingredients. Blend on high to form a smooth puree.
to finish: scrape puree into saucepan with remaining cabbage and toss over low heat until warmed through and the cabbage leaves are evenly coated. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

I toasted some Savoy leaves (after misting them with olive oil) in a 176C/350F oven for a few minutes until they were crisp. They reminded me of the Caldas da Rainha ceramics that I collected in the 90's when they were popular. I was drawn to their realistic depictions of natural forms, mostly cabbage leaves. My favorite piece remains a soup tureen, a trompe l'oeil of a head of Savoy, which I swear that any soup that is served from it tastes better.

The crispy cabbage leaves make tasty edible bowls for serving the creamed smoked cabbage. They can be picked up, folded, and eaten out of hand— no utensils required. Here, they're filled with creamed smoked kale (which works just as well as cabbage), slices of rolled pork jowl, 64℃ quail egg yolk, fresh garbanzo beans cooked with horseradish, and pickled rutabagas.

amazake

Making amazake is perhaps the most overt example of saccharification that I've ever witnessed.

Take some cooked rice, blend it with koji (about 2:1 by volume), embrace them in warmth (100-140F), and in less than half of a day the koji will have efficiently digested the rice's starch, converting it into simple sugars. The result is stunningly sweet and full of character.

Traditionally, amazake is used as a sweetener or blended with hot water and served as a warm drink, but I'm just starting to investigate its potential in other arenas.

kasu bread

Leavened bread is probably the last thing anyone would associate with washoku tradition. Indeed, when we take a protracted view of Japanese cuisine, bread is a johny-come-lately.

It was late in the 16th century when the first Europeans—the Portuguese—settled in Japan, bringing with them Western religion, science, technology, and food. Although the Japanese quickly assimilated cake (bōlo) and fried food (tempura) into their cuisine, the Portuguese bread was too sour and chewy for their taste and not widely adopted. Nonetheless, it captured their imagination and the word pan (from the Portuguese pão) stuck.

Fast forward 300 years to 1871: the samarai Yasubei Kimura opens a bakery, Kimuraya, in Tokyo, with the aspiration of producing baked goods for the Japanese palate. Kimura realized that making European-style bread in Japan would be challenging. Leavened doughs were a new concept and wheat flour and yeast were scarce. After many failed attempts using alternate sources of yeast, Kimura hired Kodo Katsuzo, who developed a dough leavened with kasu (sake lees), giving birth to anpan, a hybrid of manjū (a Japanese derivative of Chinese mochi) and light, cottony, Dutch-inspired bread dough, encasing a filling of anko (sweet red bean paste). After the emperor gave it his seal of approval, anpan became the first widely accepted Japanese bread.

It was kasu's potential to leaven bread that first drew me to it. I found many references to sakadane, the liquid kasu starter used in the original anpan, but couldn't find a recipe or process, so I developed my own. Using wild cultivated yeast as a model, I made a starter from rice flour, water, and kasu. It took 8 days of feeding and stirring for it to become fully active— a considerable effort for what turned out to be a less than remarkable loaf of bread.

I suppose I could have started over and tweaked the recipe, but with all of the lengthy fermentation processes that I have currently working, I wanted something more immediate. I wanted bread— conspicuous with kasu, and mellow with rice—that I could make start-to-finish in a day. To that end, I made a new dough, adding yeast to hasten the process, and folded bits of kasu and fragrant basmati rice into the risen dough. For that shortcut, I make no apologies— to you, or to myself— because the bread was truly remarkable.

kasu bread ✢ kombu butter ✢ salt ✢ kinome

Kimura's anpan is but one example of how cross-cultural influences inform and develop cuisine by borrowing ideas, processes, and/or ingredients, and tailoring them to the tastes of the people that it will feed.

My kasu bread goes one step further; it closes the circle.

The Japanese were inspired to create a national bread from their introduction to leavened bread via the Portuguese. Inspired by sakadane, I borrowed kasu from the Japanese and applied it to a bread from my own heritage: Portuguese pão.

How does it taste?
It tastes richly personal,
sweet with history,
seasoned with a touch of irony.

kasu bread

starter:
54g compressed kasu
180g water
100g bread flour
.4g active dry yeast

dough:
175g bread flour
1.6g active dry yeast
5g salt
5g rice bran oil
5g mirin

solids:
100g cooked, drained, and cooled basmati rice
40g compressed kasu, cut into small bits

starter: In a blender, blend together the kasu and water until homogenous. Place the flour in a bowl and stir in the yeast. Pour kasu water into center and stir with a spoon to form smooth batter. Cover loosely and set aside at room temperature for 2-3 hours until batter forms bubbles.
dough: Place flour, yeast and salt into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with paddle attachment. Mix on low speed to blend dry ingredients. With the mixer still on low speed, slowly pour in the active starter. Turn speed to medium and mix for 2 minutes. Add the rice bran oil and the mirin and mix 2 minutes more. Replace paddle with dough hook, turn speed up to medium high and knead dough for 5 minutes. Lightly oil a large bowl. Scrape dough into bowl and turn upside down, so that top of dough is oiled. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside at room temperate until doubled in volume, about 1 1/2-2 hours.
solids: Punch dough down to deflate and turn out onto floured board. With fingertips, press dough into a rough rectangle, about 1/2" thick. Evenly sprinkle rice over dough, followed by bits of kasu. Starting at wide end of rectangle, roll dough in a tight spiral to form a log, and seal the ends. Cover dough with lightly oiled plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours, or until nearly doubled in size.
40 minutes before baking, place a baking stone on floor of oven and preheat to 232C/450F. When dough has risen, transfer it to a floured baking peel and place on heated stone in hot oven. Mist the oven 3-4 times with water in a spray bottle during the first 10 minutes of baking. After 15 minutes, turn the oven down to 204C/400F, and continue baking for 15-20 minutes longer until deep golden brown. Remove from oven with a peel and allow to cool on a rack.

miso

I was making miso when I heard the news about Japan. Sendai miso. I stopped to watch the footage on the same TV screen that, at any given moment, on numerous other channels, I could watch other horrific scenes played out. But this was real. It was happening. Days later, it's still hard to grasp the destruction… the devastation… the loss… the redesign of geography… the bending of time. And as the crisis escalates from a natural disaster to one made by man, I remain in awe of the grace and dignity of the people of Japan.

prepared miso, ready for fermentation
The label indicates the date of production and date of "first sample".
I expect it to take at least a year until it will be ready for use.

Miso is surprisingly easy to make. The hardest parts are: waiting six months to over a year for the fermentation process to complete, and procuring the koji. Although shoyu, miso and sake combined make up 2 percent of the GNP of Japan, there are only about six companies that produce koji, making it difficult to buy in small quantities. I purchased mine from naturalimport.com, but even they are currently out of stock. If you are an adventurous do-it-yourself'er, you can make koji by inoculating rice with tane-koji (Aspergillus oryzae spores), available from GEM cultures.

There are many types of miso, ranging from sweet white (shiro miso), light yellow (shinshu miso), sweet red (edo miso), to barley miso (mugi miso). They vary by ratios of soybeans:koji:salt and in length of fermentation. Sometimes, as is the case with mugi miso, barley (instead of rice) is inoculated with the tane-koji. I chose to make red (sendai miso) because it is what I use most in my kitchen.

red miso (sendai miso)
makes 1.5 litres (just over 6 cups)

PREPARING TO MAKE MISO:
   • To avoid contamination, sterilize everything that will come in contact with the miso.
   • Choose a cylindrical earthenware or glass vessel whose diameter is less than its height. The miso should fill the vessel by at least 80%.
   • Choose a lid to fit snugly inside the vessel. It should be rigid and flat and can be of any material, but porous or reactive material should be well wrapped and sealed with several layers of plastic wrap.

PREPARING SOYBEANS:
1. Rinse 397g/14oz dried organic soybeans under cool running water, then place them into a pressure cooker*. Add 1L/1qt spring water. Cook on high pressure for 40 minutes, then allow pressure to release naturally. Beans should be soft enough to crush easily. (*If pressure cooker is unavailable, soak beans in water for 8-10 hours, then bring to a boil with 2L/2qts spring water. Reduce heat and cook beans at a simmer for 4-5 hours, or until tender.)
2. Pour hot, cooked beans through a strainer, reserving the liquid. Allow to drain for 10 minutes.
3. For a rough, rustic texture, mash beans with a fork or a potato masher. For smooth texture, puree in food processor. Transfer beans to a non-reactive bowl.

PREPARING MISO:
4. Measure 454g/16oz of the reserved bean cooking liquid. Add 163g/5.75oz kosher salt. Stir.
5. Add mixture to mashed beans. Stir until well blended.
6. Check the temperature of the bean mixture. It should be no higher than 37.78C/100F. Set aside to cool, if necessary, then add 340g/12oz koji. Stir until well blended.

PREPARING MISO FOR FERMENTATION:
7. With clean hands, moisten the inside of vessel by dabbing the walls and bottom with wet fingertips. Sprinkle 3g/½tsp kosher salt inside vessel and distribute evenly with fingertips.
8. Pack prepared miso tightly into vessel, stopping between layers to press and release trapped air pockets. Smooth top of miso and sprinkle 6g/1tsp kosher salt evenly over surface.
9. Cover miso with a piece of plastic wrap, pressing onto surface and draping over rim of vessel. Secure plastic wrap to top of vessel with a rubber band or string, leaving a little slack to allow for compression.
10. Fit lid inside rim of vessel. Press firmly. Place a 1-1.5kilo/2-3lb weight on top of lid. Affix label to vessel with the date of preparation and the estimated date of completion.

FERMENTATION:
For natural fermentation (1-3 years)— Choose a clean, cool (not over 21C/70F), dry location that is well ventilated and not in direct sunlight, such as a garage, barn, or cellar. Elevate vessel so that it is not sitting on floor. Do not disturb miso for at least the first six months, except to monitor the level of tamari (liquid) that rises to the top. After one month, if there is no tamari, increase the weight on the vessel. If there is more than 1/2", decrease the weight. After six months, The tamari can be tasted for aroma and flavor, keeping in mind that it will be saltier than the finished miso. Surface mold is not harmful and can be scraped off, in which case the surface should be re-salted and covered with a clean piece of plastic. Continue to sample every three months until the flavor is mature and satisfactory. If at anytime the miso tastes or smells overly acidic, sour, or alcoholic, it should be discarded.

Miso can be fermented in under 6 months by storing in a carefully controlled environment between 21C/70F and 32C/90F, a process that is too detailed to cover here. For further information and inspiration on how to make and use miso, refer to the comprehensive "The Book of Miso", by William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi.

koji

Do you know koji?
If you don't, you should— it's responsible for all kinds of deliciousness.

Koji is an unsung hero among molds. If you enjoy products like soy sauce, shoyu, mirin, miso, and sake, then you can thank Aspergillus oryzae, the filamentous fungus that transforms beans and grains into umami-laden powerhouses of flavor. It does so by producing enzymes that break down starches, proteins, and fats into simple sugars, amino acids, and fatty acids, preserving them, while making them more digestible and delicious. It is the same process that transforms milk into cheese, wheat into bread, grapes into wine— the elegant and complex miracle of fermentation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pemmican

dried duck, cranberries, crispy duck skin

puffed wild rice

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.