Category: herbs

turnip brown mascarpone lemon balm

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raw turnip
smoked salt
scent of lemon balm
People think I'm quirky when I tell them to listen to their food.
I only mean that mindful observation allows an ingredient to reveal itself.
A newborn turnip, freshly plucked from the earth, spoke to me of the goodness of simplicity.
It's a common language these days, spoken by the corn and tomatoes alike. 
I thought that it might want to be something else, but it said otherwise. 
Behold my perfection, it said.
But a raw turnip on a plate does not a dish make. 
Concept should not supersede content.
(isn't that what went wrong with nouvelle cuisine?)
 
I once asked an artist how they knew when a painting was done. 
The reply was, "You'll know it's done when it's finished".
I asked a chef the same thing and got a similar reply.
But isn't that subjective?
One person revels in embellishment and layers. 
Another wants things stripped to their essence.
Is there a wrong or right?
A chef, like an artist, must engage the senses and make an emotional connection.
Art enters the psyche and becomes part of our soul.
Food penetrates the body and becomes part of our cells.
Oh, the responsibility.
Back to the turnip…
It spoke, and I listened.
I listened to the mascarpone as well. It told me to explore a hidden potential. It wanted to be a more complex version of itself.
Lemon balm had no such aspirations. It only wanted to lend its fragrance to exalt the turnip. Such a humble herb.
If I say that I tasted this dish, that would be inaccurate.
I did not taste the lemon balm, yet its enveloping scent was a vital part of the dish.
I experienced the dish and had to ask if there was anything left to add or take away.
That's when I knew it was done.

scallop milkweed curry


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I found some old photos of my very first garden. I was taken aback by how pristine it looked– perfect rows, not a weed in sight. I remember how diligent I was back then. A lot has changed.
I used to think that if I was going to put the time, work and expense into cultivating a patch of earth, that I had the right to choose what could live there– the freeloaders had plenty of other options. Despite my democratic world views, any semblances of egalitarianism were firmly checked at the garden gate.
Over the years, I've made peace with the weeds. Mostly, I grew tired of feeling defeated. But the softening could also be attributed to a newfound appreciation that runs parallel with an accumulation of life lessons:
Life Lesson Cliche #1: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade (or better yet, wine). I've always collected tender, young dandelion leaves for salads and such, but this year it was gratifying to utilize the blossoms for dandelion wine.
Life Lesson Cliche #2: Pick your battles (aka Parental Survival Tactic #1). I still pull dandelions out of the lawn, but I leave the more tenacious clover for 'textural character'.
Life Lesson Cliche #3: You can't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse (don't believe it). Even fierce and hostile stinging nettles can be transformed into an elegant and refined soup.
Life Lesson Cliche #4: Shit happens (deal with it). On the morning of an important dinner that I had planned down to the last detail, I went to the rock garden to harvest newly planted cultivars of oxalis that I had purchased for the occasion, only to find that they had been loped off by an animal. The common yellow-flowered oxalis that proliferates everywhere came to the rescue and no one was the wiser.
Life Lesson Cliche #5: Stop and smell the roses (and the weeds). While working in the yard one night, I caught a whiff of a sultry, sweet scent that I couldn't identify. I followed it to a patch of tall plants with large allium-like flowers with a captivating scent that I later identified as milkweed. Though I didn't know what they were then, I instantly recognized the leaves as being the same weed that I had been pulling out of the vegetable garden for years. To make up for my indiscretion, I gave milkweed a place of honor in my flower garden. And because it's edible, it's also welcome in the vegetable garden.
Regarding weeds, the best lesson is: If you can't beat 'em, eat 'em.
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scallop ceviche
milkweed
cucumber
curry
salad burnet

green beans fried shallots

Greenbeans

Emerite beans
fried shallot cheese
potato broth
fried shallot emulsion
pickled shallot
marjoram blossoms
Green beans are one of the most satisfying plants to grow. They're not fussy about soil, sun, or location and they only require regular picking so that they can continue to do what they do best– produce.
For many years I've exclusively grown a french filet bean variety called "Emerite", a pole bean that must be grown vertically with support. This is a trait that I prefer over bush beans because they are easier to harvest (no stooping), they stay clean and don't rot from contact with wet soil (a big concern this year), they produce continuously until frost (bush beans have a short, concentrated harvest), and they require less real estate (a 10" wide x 10' long row produces an ample supply of beans for my family of four).
One of the advantages of growing green beans (or any plant) is access to their various stages of growth. When Emerite is in full production, I pick handfuls of the immature pods when they are only 1 to 2 inches long and briefly saute them in butter and a sprinkle of sea salt. These are a rare treat, resembling a mound of green angulas. Late in the season, I let the beans mature and dry on the vine. Within the shriveled, papery pods lies next years crop.
Mostly, I harvest Emerites when they are 4 to 6 inches long, At this stage, they are still slim, straight and tender, their delicate flavor fully developed. One favorite preparation is to saute thinly sliced shallot rings in olive oil until browned and crisp, then toss blanched beans in with the shallots and flavored oil.
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Here, I've made fresh cheese infused with the flavor of fried shallots by heating a quart of milk to 135F and adding a half cup of well-drained and crumbled fried shallots, then covering and allowing the mixture to infuse for about 30 minutes. The shallots are then strained from the milk and the milk is reheated to 100F. A tablet of rennet is dissolved in a teaspoon of water and added to the milk. Once the rennet is added, it should be stirred in gently and briefly as any agitation at this point will disrupt coagulation. Cover the pan and allow to sit undisturbed for 30 minutes. Once the curds form, they are scooped into a ring mold lined with blanched Emerites, which act as a case for the cheese. As the curds compress and the whey drains away, the level of the cheese will sink and more curds can be added until they reach the desired level. The cheese will be firm enough to unmold and hold its shape after about 4 hours.  

tomato peppermint

While working with zapotec tomatoes, it occurred to me that the hollow-lobed bottoms would make an interesting case for a filling. I didn't have to look far, as there was fresh milk curd forming in a pot on the stove.
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fresh cheese-filled tomato 
peppermint pain de mie
black garlic aioli
Nearly every country in the world makes a form of fresh cheese. They vary by origin/type of milk and the process used for curdling. Curds can be formed by acidulation with vinegar, lemon juice, buttermilk, or yogurt. Cottage cheese and ricotta are made from the cooked and drained curds, while a variety of acid-formed fresh cheeses such as farmers cheese, cream cheese, quark, feta, chevre, queso fresco, and paneer are formed from the pressed curds. 
Curds can also be formed by the enzyme chymosin, found in the stomach of calves and available as rennet. Chymosin coagulates the milk solids (casein) into a solid mass that can be eaten in the soft-set stage (when sweetened, this is a popular dessert known as junket), or drained and pressed for a sliceable cheese. These were the curds that were forming on the stove and used to fill the tomato. Cutting off the bottom of the tomato allowed the whey to drain while the curds compacted. 
Pairing peppermint with tomato was a 'happy accident'. Actually, it was borne of laziness– I didn't want to run to the garden for basil in the pouring rain, so I grabbed some peppermint that was sitting on the windowsill for the salad that I was assembling. 
True peppermint (Menthus x piperita) is a hybrid of watermint (M. aquatica) and spearmint (M. spicata) and can only be propagated from cuttings and not from seeds. Peppermint brightens and compliments the flavor of the tomato much the same way that basil does, but with menthol overtones. A quick search confirms that they are indeed chemically linked in aroma.
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Immediately after publishing this post and pulling it up for review, I was struck by how the tomato/cheese component resembles a peppermint candy. I promise this was not intentional and I am just now aware of it! 
Was it subliminal? serendipitous? a cosmic alignment? complete coincidence or a mischievous peppermint pixie guiding my hand?
I've no idea–I'll just chalk it up to another of those WTF moments that leave me smiling and shaking my head in wonder.

patchouli beets

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baby beets roasted in patchouli sugar crust
bocconcino di pura capra
Villa Manodori dark cherry balsamic
I've posted about roasting in a sugar crust before. The technique, introduced by Pierre Gagnaire and Herve This, replaces the salt in a traditional salt crust with sugar. The process caramelizes the sugar during roasting and infuses the contents with the aroma of caramel. 
The technique worked beautifully on bananas and though I never took it any further, I always thought that I would like to try it on root vegetables– particularly beets.
Beets were the first thing that came to mind when tasting fresh patchouli leaves and a subsequent sampling of roasted beets with chopped patchouli proved to be a good pairing. The next progression of thought was to bring the two together in a sugar crust.
Taking advantage of the enclosed environment of roasting in a porous crust as a vehicle for aroma-infusing, I incorporated patchouli leaves into part of the sugar. To optimize the meager harvest from my few plants, I limited it to the layer of sugar that is in direct contact with the beets, then covered that with the remaining sugar/egg white mixture.
The beets, when cooked this way, seemed to condense in texture and flavor, like inspissated versions of themselves. The patchouli did not ambush their flavor, but gave them a mysterious edge; haunting them with an earthy aura.
 
Sugar crust: Mix 3 pounds (7 cups) sugar with 3 egg whites until well blended. Lay down a 1/2" thick base layer of mixture on a silpat. Press to compact. Lay food on top of base, leaving at least 1" in between. Cover with a thick layer of remaining mixture, pressing well on all sides. Bake at 275 F. Test for doneness by inserting a skewer through the crust and into the food. Allow to rest for a few minutes after removing from oven and breaking open the crust.

patchouli

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If the scent of patchouli makes you think of head shops and Dead concerts, you may be surprised to know that the taste has none of the sweet incense overtones and is of dark,warm earth (i.e. dirt).
You may also be surprised to learn, as I was, that the scent of patchouli is extracted from fleshy green leaves and not tree-derived resin like its intensely aromatic cousins: frankincense and myrrh.  
The real surprise was experiencing the scent from its unadulterated source; allowing me to break from its emotional and nostalgic connections and imagine what is possible.

cheddar corn chives

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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.
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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. 
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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?

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chive blossom tempura [the real blooming onion]

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.
Tree peony
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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.

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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.

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