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.

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.

asparagus sauce

There are times when I buy asparagus only for the tips and am left with several inches of tender stalk. That is never a problem for me, they quickly become a base for my favorite springtime sauce.

I don't remember when I first started making asparagus sauce; it's one of those seasonal staples that I pull out of my culinary closet like a favorite pair of sandals. Like the sandals, the sauce goes with everything and puts a 'spring in the step' of anything it's paired with.

The sauce varies every time I make it, adapting to what I have on hand. Basically, it consists of asparagus, leafy greens, and herbs; quickly pureed in a blender and emulsified with extra virgin olive oil. The asparagus can be whole stalks or trimmings, cooked until tender. The leafy greens can be arugula, spinach, sorrel, or even lettuce leaves. Herbs can be anything you like, although I avoid basil because of oxidation. Invariably, I include a form of raw allium to lift the flavors: scallions, ramps, spring onions, shallots are all good.

I urge you to try it for its versatility. It's fantastic with eggs, grilled or poached fish, and even makes chicken breast taste exciting. Its a delicious dip for raw vegetables, dressing for potato or pasta salad and makes the best risotto when stirred in at the final stage of cooking. It's so good that even these tiny fried spearings are falling all over themselves to get a taste.

asparagus sauce

3 cups cold water
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups of roughly chopped asparagus
1 1/2 cups of leafy greens (spinach, arugula, sorrel, lettuce), loosely packed
1/2 cup of fresh herbs (parsley, chervil, tarragon, cilantro), loosely packed
1 medium shallot, scallion, small spring onion, or small bunch of chives, roughly chopped
1 tsp salt
20 grinds black pepper
1/4 cup water from cooked asparagus
1 tsp lemon juice or vinegar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

Bring water and salt to a boil. Add asparagus and cook until tender. Place leafy greens, herbs, shallot, salt and pepper in a blender. Drain hot asparagus, reserving 1/4 cup of cooking water, add both to blender along with lemon juice. Blend on high speed, slowly drizzling in the olive oil until it is all incorporated and the sauce is smooth. Adjust seasoning to taste.
If it is to be served hot, serve immediately, or chill to serve cold. Sauce will keep in refrigerator for up to 5 days.

earthy potatoes and magic ham

After two years, this blog still challenges me to poke and prod and go places I haven't been before. It reminds me that despite what I think I already know, the only thing I really know is that there is always more to know.

I'm grateful for that.
I wouldn't want it any other way.

I'm also grateful to those of you that take time out of your busy, busy lives to drop me a line. To ask questions. To say hi. To send encouragement. To take me to task. And sometimes, after I respond, you respond back. And so on. And the next thing I know, I have a new friend.

I'm grateful for that, too.

Sometimes, my new friends send me things. Special things. The kind of things you can't buy in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Sometimes, they send me inspiration. Or boxes of sunshine. They even send me magic.

And just in case there was any doubt, it was clearly labeled POP'S MAGIC HAM.

Uwe's pop is a magician. On his farm in Texas he transforms pork loin into something not of this world. Uwe and Chad describe the magic far better than I could. I can tell you, though, that with a smoke whisperer for a father, Uwe has a lot to be grateful for.
And so do I.

If you've ever received food that promises magic, you'll know that the first thing you want to do is eat it. And if it's good, you'll want to eat it all. That's part of the magic.

And if you, like me, showed heroic restraint and stopped yourself short so someone else can enjoy it too, then you know that magic is meant to be shared.

Some time later, you may find yourself with a few handfuls of tiny fingerling potatoes that are intended to share a plate with the magic ham. And you wait patiently to roast them because your oven is currently full of dirt (after all, it's early spring and you need sterile soil to start your seedlings). And as you wait, your nostrils fill will the smell of roasted earth, and you look at the potatoes and slap yourself upside the head (gently, of course) and think DUH. And you grab a trowel and head for the garden and fill a casserole dish with damp earth.

Back in the kitchen you bury the potatoes in the earth and it just feels right. You put them in the oven and set a timer. You hope against hope that they turn out tender and fragrant, but they don't. You look with despair at the shriveled hard pucks and realize that they are victims of the hygroscopic properties of silica. You try again with a fresh batch of potatoes, this time soaking the soil thoroughly, and you smile, remembering how you used to make mud pies as a child and you realize that you've come full circle.

They turn out perfect: soft, tender, earthy by design. You give them a quick rinse in hot water, sad that you had to do so because you like the way they looked with bits of soil clinging to them. Then you remember the crispy cream and crumble some over the hot potatoes with a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper. You toss them and watch the bits of toasted milk solids soften and melt, coating the potatoes with butterfat and you are satisfied.

You arrange the potatoes on a plate and shower them with ultra thin slices of the magic ham (because it came with clear instructions: SLICE ULTRA THIN). You taste and think that the flavors of earth and smoke need something to bounce off of. Something fresh. Something green. You scan the herbs that you have growing on a windowsill and under lights. Thyme (nah)… mexican oregano (maybe)… nutmeg geranium (could be interesting)… oxalis (probably not)… ram rau (definitely not)… tahoon (bingo!). You taste the tahoon, just to be sure. Green. Herbaceous. Sun-warmed earth. Oily beechnuts. Perfect. You pick a handful of leaves and whirl them in a blender with olive oil and a pinch of ground sumac, working quickly before the potatoes cool.

You eat the earthy potatoes and magic ham and come to a sudden realization. It is this:
In your entire life, you've cooked with fire. Sometimes with water. Sometimes with air. And now you can add earth to the list.

Somehow, that makes you feel complete.

kumquat tomato cilantro

I've always loved the combination of tomato and orange. One of my go-to sauces for cheese ravioli is a simple reduction of tomatoes and orange juice, emulsified with fruity olive oil. The sweet and acidic fruits bring out the milkiness in the ricotta.

Although tomatoes and oranges are available year round, their seasons aren't concurrent. In the Northeast, the only fresh tomatoes worth eating in the winter are the small sweet cherry and grape varieties. This year, I've been enjoying baby Romas; indulging in their rich, concentrated tomato flavor. It didn't escape my notice that they are the same size and shape as kumquats and I'd feel remiss if I let citrus season pass without bringing the two together in a sweet preparation.
Cilantro and coriander, which taste to me of orange, adds herbal brightness and warm spice.

kumquat and tomato confiture
coriander gel
olive oil pastry
cilantro ice cream

scallop fennel bearnaise

What would you do if you were served a broken bearnaise?

Would you think that it was a mistake and send it back to the kitchen?

Or would you recall that Fernand Point wrote in Ma Gastronomie "It takes years of practice for the result to be perfect" and chalk it up to inexperience?

What if you learned that it was broken intentionally?

Would you be curious to know why?

Or outraged that someone would mess with 170 years of tradition?

Can something be fixed if it's not broken?

Or does it need to be broken to be fixed?

scallop mousseline

fennel: bulb, fronds, green seeds, pollen

smoked bearnaise

caviar

corn langoustine plantago

There's a prevalent flavor in raw plantago that intrigues me. It's the same nutty oiliness that is found in arugula. It's reminiscent of a nut oil that is starting to go off– not rancid, but strangely pleasant. Unlike arugula, it's not followed by a sharp bite. Like arugula, it matches well with corn.

Anything cold and easy is all that I crave on these dog days of summer. Fresh corn, put through a juicer along with a chunk of fresh coconut, seasoned with salt and a squeeze of lime, requires little energy to prepare and even less to consume. Swirling on fresh plantago juice and brown buttermilk allows the flavors to meet and mingle on the palate and not be muddied on the plate. A quick salad of langoustine tails, dressed with a light and tangy brown buttermilk vinaigrette completes the dish.

eggs benedict

Some dishes have stood the test of time by honoring tradition. Innovative chefs seek to redefine these classics by examining the flavors and textures that make the dish appealing and attempt to give us a purer, focused version. When successfully executed, the new dish feels like a rarefied distillation of the old. I think this is called refinement.

Eggs Benedict certainly falls prey to this category and I have yet to taste a better interpretation than the one served at WD-50. So good, in fact, that I had it twice on the same day.

Every component on Wylie Dufresne's plate is beyond reproach: Wafer-thin slices of crispy Canadian Bacon. Toasty English Muffin crumbs holding together a mind-bending cube of liquid hollandaise. But it was the egg yolk that did me in. Cooked sous vide at 70C for 17 minutes, egg yolks are transformed to the texture of soft, dense fudge that coats the mouth and leaves the tongue happily lapping over and over it like a dog with peanut butter. (OK, that was just me. That, I'm certain, is not called refinement.)

left: seasoned and whipped egg white quenelles, poached in barely simmering water.

center: seasoned egg yolks in sealed piping bag, 70C water bath.

right: piping cooked yolks.

Eggs Benedict v.1.1

70C egg yolks

brown butter hollandaise

whipped egg whites

crispy serrano ham

bacon curls

crispy ciabatta

plantago

Eggs Benedict v.1.2:

egg yolk wrapped in serrano ham "cooked" in dehydrator at 150F for 45 minutes.

brown butter hollandaise

mini English Muffin

plantago

Plantago is a common weed found in lawns, meadows, and sidewalk cracks. Its common name, plantain, is a misnomer, as it is not related to the plantain (in the banana family) or the plantain lily (Hosta), though the leaves of the broadleaf variety (Plantago major) do resemble those of hosta.

Plantago grows from a fibrous taproot that produces basal rosette leaves and seed stalks from April through October. When young, all parts of the plant are tender and edible. By midsummer, the leaves toughen and require cooking to render them edible and the mature stalks are too fibrous to eat. An advantage of allowing plantago to grow in the lawn is that mowing curtails seed production, forcing the plant to continuously produce new seed stalks that are tender, nutty, and buttery when only a few inches tall.

Medicinally, plantago is a powerhouse, used as an emollient, astringent, antimicrobial, antiviral, antitoxin, diuretic, demulcent, and vulnerary. When taken internally as a tea, it lowers blood sugar and treats lung and stomach disorders. Externally, as a poultice, it treats sores, burns, stings, rashes, and insect bites.

left: Embryonic seeds on a tender stalk of Plantago major growing in the lawn.

right: The mature seed stalks of the narrow-leaf variety (Plantago lanceolata) can be harvested and roasted for a delicious, nutty treat. When soaked, the seeds become mucilaginous (particularly those of P. phsyllium) and are used to in fiber supplement products.