chocolate violet carrot

Occasionally, I find fallen nests when cleaning the hedgerows. They are irresistible to me, these vestigial homes; fragile and singular as snowflakes.

I find colonies of violets in the hedgerows, too. Their cheerful pale blue flowers and heart-shaped leaves look content in the cool, moist environment. Unfortunately, these are the common dog variety (Viola canina) and are not graced with the perfume of the sweet violet (Viola odorata)

Although sweet violets have been widely used in the fragrance industry for centuries, they have no significant culinary tradition aside from the Victorians, who were fond of garnishing sweets with the crystallized flower. Their symbolic connection to spring and haunting aroma have been venerated and romanticized throughout history by artists, poets, monarchs, and even Gods.

Napoleon shared a devotion to violets with the Empress Josephine. During his exile at Elba, he promised his followers that he would return in the spring with the violets. This set off a loyalist obsession with the flower, immortalizing the violet as the emblem of the Imperial party, and earning him the nickname "Corporal Violette". He is said to have been buried with a lock of Josephine's hair and violets in a locket.

In Greek Mythology, Zeus ordered the Earth to create the most beautiful of flowers in tribute to his love, Io. The result was the violet.

Ion, the Greek word for violet, lends its name to the terpene Ionone, the defining aroma compound in violets. Ionone is a megastigmane, or a degradation of beta-carotene. Not surprisingly, carrots contain a fair amount of ionone, as do raspberries, tobacco, roses, and black tea.

chocolate nest

violet ice cream

carrot filaments

blackberries

johnny-jump-ups (Viola cornuta)

calendula

violet dust

Download Recipe: Violet nest

clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair.

The conversation around the table is lively. A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud.

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go– just the way you like 'em…lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam–it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

egg dandelion onion

At this time of year, I'm usually on a mission to eradicate the dandelions before their long taproots grapple the earth. This year, I've decided to let them be and to try my hand at dandelion wine.

I never thought I'd say this– but I'm actually hoping for a bumper crop of dandelion blossoms. [I write these words fully cognizant that they may come back to bite me]

In the meantime, there are plenty of young tender leaves to toss into salads and to wilt down in hot bacon fat. Or to weave into a nest of grilled and dehydrated onions for a soft-boiled duck egg. Add to that: favas, lardo, and toasted almond bread and I'm wondering what I ever had against dandelions in the first place.

64°C duck egg*

crispy grilled and dried onions

young dandelion leaves

mashed fava beans

lardo**

toasted almond bread

**This silky piece of lardo is courtesy of Peter Barrett, who was kind enough to share his masterfully-cured stash.

*Martin Lersch, of Khymos, has an in-depth post on soft-boiled eggs that illustrates the difference that a single degree makes in cooking.

minestra primavera

One of my clients recently returned from an extensive trip through Italy. She called this morning to discuss tonights dinner party and the foods that she sampled in her travels, particularly the minestre. When she began listing things like minestrone, zuppa di pesce, ribollita, risotto, spaghetti al pomodoro, and even lasagna, I became confused. In my ignorance, I believed that minestre were simply soups. It was sobering to learn that minestre refers to any food that is cooked in broth or a base sauce and is always served at the beginning of a meal. A liquid minestra (in brodo) is served as a first course, while a dry minestra (cooked in sauce) is served as a second course. This classification blurred the lines of what I formerly thought of as soup.

She was especially excited to tell me about a minestra di verdura that she was served in Emilia-Romagna that consisted of barely-cooked vegetables and legumes in a proscuitto and parmesan broth. Of course, this meant that the menu for the dinner party needed to be altered, which creates a domino effect. And although I have already shopped and prepped for the long-established menu, I'm up for the challenge and aim to please. I'm just gonna roll with this one.

prosciutto consomme, parmesan sponge, parmesan biscotti, young spring vegetables (new potatoes, zucchini, pattypan squash, cavolo nero, garlic shoots), legumes (haricots, green ceci, borlotto, cannellini), herbs (dandelion, basil, marjoram, chervil)

Download recipe: Parmesan sponge

peas parmesan prosciutto

My kitchen is beginning to look like a dairy lab with containers of cream at various stages of infusion and ripening. Fortunately, the local grocer stocks pasteurized cream, so I don't have to go far when inspiration strikes.

fresh peas

parmesan

prosciutto

lemon thyme beurre monté

The first of the infusions– lemon thyme, was made by gently warming the cream to 125F/52C to more readily allow the release of essential oils from the herb, then chilled and infused overnight before culturing. It occurred to me while churning this butter that I could perhaps have saved a step by letting the infusion take place simultaneously with the culturing. It's back to the store to test that idea. Of course, I could have skipped the ripening stage and churned the butter directly from the chilled, infused cream, but I am currently enamored with the plangent and resounding flavor of cultured butter.

Infusing at the cream stage is, so far, turning out to be an effective way to introduce other flavors into the butter. Here, lemon thyme, whose terpenes can be assertive and overwhelming to more delicate flavors, mellowly haunts in the background of the finished butter, which is turned into a beurre monte for this dish.

Beurre monté was brought into modern cuisine by Thomas Keller at The French Laundry. It is an emulsion in which cold butter is gradually whisked into a small amount of hot water and can be heated up to 180F/82C without breaking. While it is typically made with water, I've used a lemon thyme and wine stock in a 1:4 (stock:butter) ratio to reinforce the flavor and lighten the richness of the sauce.

This dish also reflects another current fascination with pliable Parmesan , an emulsion of cheese

sherry, and sodium citrate. In the Umami burger, I used sake to boost the glutamates. Here, sherry was used to test Heston Blumenthal's groundbreaking discovery of diketopiperazines (DKPs), a compound unique to sherries that are produced by yeast activity during secondary fermentation and enhance glutamate-rich foods. Anyone who has nibbled on a well-aged cheese while sipping sherry will recognize and appreciate this symbiotic relationship. As always, flavor is what grabs my attention, but the consistency of this product also appeals to my sense of play. At room temperature it is as soft and malleable as playdoh. I can tell you about the restraint that it took to roll these pea-sized balls, but I'll spare you of the inner-child-induced 'sculptures" that took place after.

The effect of salt on dry-cured meats such as prosciutto di Parma or serrano ham is purely chemical but the transformation is so profound that it seems supernatural. Opaque muscle filaments are rendered translucent, flavorless proteins break down into concentrated glutamates, and muscle fats fragment to form a kaleidoscope of aroma compounds that range from fruity, herbal, grassy, floral, to nutty and buttery. Again, one couldn't ask for more in terms of flavor, but these hams also possesses a silky suppleness that allows it to be molded by compressing finely chopped or thinly sliced pieces. One advantage to breaking down and restructuring prosciutto is that it can be presented in playful forms that retain a resilient bite without all the chew.

Prosciutto di Parma and Parmesan cheese share not only an indelible terroir, but also similar aroma compounds. Another connection is that the pigs, whose hind legs are destined for prosciutto, are often fed the whey from the production of Parmesan. The trinity of cheese, ham, and peas is rooted in the advent of spring, when the harvest of peas marks the end of lean winter months and the beginning of the celebratory feasting season, an apt time to break out ripe-and-ready hams and cheese.

I can't say that my winter months have been lean, but I'm ready for some celebratory feasting.

Bring on the peas!

conifers

Every January, we are inundated with lists that forecast trends for the coming year. As someone who works in fashion as well as food, watching trends is more than a curiosity; its a vital tool for staying current.

In fashion, as in art and music, it is often the innovators that drive the trends, creating perpetual fluxes that shape and define current culture. In these arenas, trends move quickly from concept to mainstream, where consumers not only embrace innovation but expect it.

By contrast, in the visceral arena of food, innovation moves slowly and is often met with reluctance. At their best, consumer-driven trends have markedly improved the state of our food with movements towards organic, local and sustainable. At their worst, they subject us to tsunamis of fads, convenience, and medical quackery. How else would you explain no-carb bread, candy bars-as-meals, and Sandra Lee*?

Innovation, by definition, means the introduction of something new. In this spirit, allow me to introduce a list of focused flavors that I would like to see become a trend. Let me preface by saying that this is not my innovation–avant-garde chefs have been exploring these flavors for years.**

So, are you intrigued? bored? shocked? ready to hurl?

Not surprisingly, I've seen all of these reactions when discussing the flavor of conifers in food, but its really not so radical…or new. In fact, some have a long history in food & beverage:

Juniper is the primary flavorant of gin.
Birch beer, made from birch bark, is a nostalgic beverage from the nineteenth century.
Cedar was used by North American Indians long before Europeans settled here.
Pine nuts, the buttery seed of the genus Pinus, have been consumed since the Paleolithic period.

Moreover, using aromatic parts of trees to flavor food is routine in any kitchen. Peppercorns, nutmeg, cinnamon and bay leaf are used by even a novice cook.

It makes me question why pine and all of its tall friends have been largely ignored. It could be because they tend to be overpowering and evocative of Christmas trees, medicine, and… well… turpentine. Indeed, terpene, the family of aroma compounds to which conifers belong, was named after turpentine, a product of pine resin.

Terpenes are a large class of hydrocarbons that are highly aromatic. Members of the terpene family are: pinene (the aroma of conifers), limonene (the aroma of citrus), menthol (the aroma of peppermint), thujone (the aroma of sage), thymol (the aroma of thyme) and many more that comprise the flavor of the majority of herbs and spices.

Conifers aren't so scary when you realize that they are only a few molecules away from that of rosemary, sage, thyme and mint.

*not to pick on Sandra Lee, whom I'm sure is a lovely gal, but doesn't "semi-homemade" = "semi-good"?

**one of my most memorable dishes of 2008 was the chicken liver spaetzle, pine, and cocoa nibs at WD-50.

WARNING: As with all unfamiliar plants, be sure to correctly identify them before consuming. Although those listed here are known to be safe in small to moderate doses, the ones that contain the terpene thujone may be harmful if consumed in large doses– large meaning more than a rational individual could possibly consume. Thujone is present in cedar, cypress, and juniper. My exploration will be limited to using flavor from the natural plant source–use caution with concentrated essential oils. Under no circumstances should you consume any part of the conifer yew (Taxus) which contain highly toxic alkaloids and can be identified by its soft red berries.

preserved parsley

I don't remember when I first began preserving leaves with glycerin. As a gardener, it was just something that I did to prolong the fleeting life of flowers and foliage.

I do remember introducing it to my boys when they were young. In the autumn, we would gather branches of oak, beech, and maple leaves just as the colors began to turn and submerge them in vases filled with a solution of equal parts of water and glycerin. Over the next week, we would watch the color metamorphose as the chlorophyll ceased production, triggering the release of pigments. The glycerin, an emollient, would fill the cells, rendering the leaves supple and leathery. They would last for years this way, more so if pressed. Undoubtably, I still have some hidden between the pages of old books.

Last week, as I was preserving some blue holly cuttings this way, it occurred to me that I've only applied this procedure for decorative purposes, when all along, I've ignored its role as a food preservative. It was time to rectify that.

Within three days, a few sprigs of parsley were visibly transformed by the glycerine. The color darkened and the leaves appeared denser and heavier. The taste is sweet up front, which is surprising in a pleasant way, followed by the fresh flavor of parsley. Even after a week of sitting on the counter, loosely wrapped, the leaves are still supple and appear fresh.

Now, the obvious question arises: How can this make food better? Is the answer in its ability to preserve… or transform…or both?

black bass parsley lemon

black bass

preserved parsley

parsley root puree

parsley fluid gel

preserved lemon oil

parsley root

Parsley root (Petroselinum crispum), also known as Hamburg root parsley, is a cultivar of flat leaf parsley that forms a bulbous taproot, much like a carrot or parsnip.

It belongs to the family Apiaceae, or Umbelliferae, a large family of more than 3,000 species known for their aromatic leaves and include other edibles: anise, fennel, angelica, dill, caraway, cumin, cilantro, celery, chervil, lovage, carrots, and parsnips. Umbellifers can be recognized by their flowers that form in clusters that resemble mini umbrellas.

In the garden, Umbellifers are useful as companion plants as their essential oils attract beneficial insects. When planted near tomatoes, which are susceptible to tomato hornworms, they attract parasitic wasps that prey upon the destructive hornworms.

Parsley root is native to the Mediterranean and used extensively throughout Central Europe. In the US, it remains uncommon and hard to find.

In appearance, parsley root closely resembles parsnips, though they are lighter in color and denser in texture. Their flavor is less sweet than parsnips and references the clean, refreshing taste of the leaves.