Solanaceae: the incredible [sometimes] edible nightshade family of plants

Have you ever cut into a plum tomato and [for a moment] thought it was a pepper?
Or had a similar moment with the seed patterns of eggplant and tomatillos?

Have you ever roasted peppers over an open fire or opened a bag of sun dried tomatoes and caught a whiff of tobacco?

Maybe you've walked through a vegetable garden and noticed how certain flowers resemble each other?

You have? Well, you're very observant. And you probably already know that these observations are not random but just some of the threads that link together the nightshade family.

Solanaceae, commonly known as nightshade, is a fascinating and diverse family of plants comprised of 102 genera and 2800 species, many of which are globally significant sources of food.

Popular edible genera and species:
Solanum: potato (S. tuberosum), tomato (S. lycopersicum), eggplant (S. melongena)
Capsicum: bell pepper and chili pepper (C. annuum)
Physalis: tomatillo (P. philadelphica)

lesser edible species:
ground cherry/cape gooseberry (Physalis peruviana), goji berry (Lycium barbarum), tomarillo (Solanum betaceum), pepino melon (Solanum Muricatum), naranjilla (Solanum quitoense), wonderberry/sunberry (Solanum retroflexum), Morelle de Balbis (Solanum sisymbriifolium).

Nearly half of all nightshade species are found in the genus Solanum, including two important foods: potato and tomato. The potato species, with over 4,000 varieties, is the world's fourth largest food crop, surpassed only by rice, wheat, and corn. It possesses all of the vitamins and minerals necessary for human survival with the exception of vitamin A and D. Think about this the next time you add butter, milk, or sour cream to potatoes: you're creating a nutritionally complete food.

The potato tuber seems an anomaly in this large, varied family of predominantly fruit (tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers are botanically fruits, but for culinary purposes are considered vegetables). That's because the plant is genetically programmed to direct energy to forming tubers instead of fruit. Only 8% of the potato's genes are responsible for this trait, the other 92% of its DNA is shared with the tomato.

Economically, the tomato can give its tuberous cousin a run for the money— 2 billion dollars worth in the US market alone. Not bad for a fruit that started as a wild green berry in the mountains of Peru (also the birthplace of the potato) and thought to be unfit for human consumption for a span of its existence. Even after domestication in Europe, it was regarded as a mere curiosity to some, while others thought them (as a Paduan physician declared in 1628) “strange and horrible things”. But that was a long time ago and we no longer find the tomato so disagreeable. Well, at least not all of the time.

From July through October, homegrown and small farm raised tomatoes are celebrated with cult-like vehemence. For the rest of the year, when our only choice is commercially grown fruit, we are left with… strange and horrible things. How are these even related and, for the love of Flavor, if we can (insert any modern technological advancement), why can't we buy a tomato from November through June that isn't an abomination? For an age-old lament, you would think that the answer is more complicated than it actually is— what it really comes down to is money. The commercial farmers in South Florida, who grow 90% of out-of-season supermarket tomatoes in the US, don't get paid for flavor, they get paid by the pound. In this monopoly, flavor is inconsequential— profit comes from yield, uniformity, shippability, and shelf life. It's a grim laundry list that the other stakeholders— the commercial tomato breeders— must fill in order to get their piece of the pie. In doing so, they have bred the flavor right out of the tomato.

But there is hope…

Earlier this year, two separate papers were published on tomato genetics that could have a positive impact on commercially grown tomatoes by satisfying the consumer's yearning for flavor and still maintain the grower's bottom line.

The focus of one paper, published in the journal Science, is a random gene mutation in tomatoes that turn them uniformly red. Older varieties, like the heirlooms, turn red from the blossom end to the stem, some even remain green around the stem when fully ripe. Although the mutation was discovered 70 years ago and has since been deliberately bred into modern varieties to make them more attractive to consumers and easier for growers to determine ripeness, it was the authors, led by Ann Powell, a plant biochemist at UC Davis, who discovered that the missing gene inactivated by the mutation is responsible for the alluring aroma and flavor of a ripe homegrown tomato.

In another paper, the genome of the tomato was decoded for the first time by an international consortium of 300 plant geneticists from 14 countries. Shortly after it was published in the journal Nature in May, a surprising discovery from the study— that tomatoes possess a whopping 35,000 genes— made headlines. That's about 7,000 more genes than you or me but it doesn't mean that tomatoes are more complex, they just manage their cells differently.

The monumental work, nine years in the making, illuminates a cheaper and speedier path to improving every aspect of the tomato— from flavor, to disease resistance (lacking in heirloom varieties), to nutrition, to yield— and the ability to isolate these traits separately. The information about the evolution and pathways contained in the genome sequencing also has implications for other fleshy fruits that share tomato characteristics.

All of this groundbreaking information may seem like it's clearcutting the way for genetically modified tomatoes. That's been tried already, back in the 1990's, and failed due to consumer confidence. Instead, it facilitates the selective breeding of new varieties, both for the home garden and commercial farms. But when will we see change? According to a member of the consortium, Professor Graham Seymour of the University of Nottingham, in a BBC article:

"I only work with a couple of companies but I know that they are putting through some of these new traits and they are going to their elite lines – but all tomato breeding companies will be taking this up now so you would expect to see a number of new products over the next 3-5 years."

Godspeed.

tomato poached in lime basil oil
stuffed with mozzarella curds and mascarpone
tomatine sauce: fermented green tomato and tomato leaf

More than tomatoes and potatoes and other good things to eat, nightshade has a dark, unsavory side that begot its name. Meet the shadiest members:
datura (Datura stramonium)
belladonna (Atropa belladonna)
henbane (Hyoscyamus spp.)
mandrake (Mandragora spp.)

These genera played a prominent role in early medicine and continue to be important today. During the Renaissance, Venetian courtesans dilated their pupils with belladonna, the source of the alkaloid atropine, to make them appear dreamy and seductive. The vain application of the past inspired the more practical modern use of atropine in routine eye exams.

The superstitious minds of Medieval Europe shrouded nightshade in mystery, magic, and the occult. Mandrake, whose forked root sometimes resembles a human form, was believed to release a deadly shriek when pulled from the earth and was only harvested through a complex ritual that involved tying the plant to a dogs' tail on a moonlit night. The witches of the time inhaled henbane smoke to induce hallucinatory trances necessary to cast spells and summon spirits. Many of these plants were included in their legendary flying ointments for the sensations of lightness that they produced.

Earlier still, datura was revered as a sacred visionary plant by ancient civilizations of the world and used ceremoniously to induce prophesies. Henbane was commonly used in Druid and Viking rituals, as evidenced by the seeds found in their graves.

History, folklore, and literature are all guilty of romanticizing deadly plants, but nightshade's deadly aspect is no joke. These genera are host to a potent chemical soup of psychotropic alkaloids that in the right dose can treat a variety of ailments from motion sickness to Parkinson. In the wrong dose, they are capable of inducing hallucinations, comas, and death. Solanaceae plants produce these alkaloids and other compounds as chemical defenses against predators and environmental threats. but if you think they are limited to the medicinal species, think again.

the many colors and shapes of Solanaceae

Everything we eat has consequences. The most blatant example is chili pepper, a food that we willfully eat that causes us both pleasure and pain. The pleasure comes from a release of endorphines. The pain comes from the volatile compound capsaicin that, in a twist, has the ability to relieve pain.

Though not a food, tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) is an important cash crop that produces the alkaloid nicotine, whose harmful and addictive nature has been well documented. But how many abstainers know that it is also present (in lesser degrees) in eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes?

Have you ever experienced an itchy or burning sensation on your tongue after eating eggplant? That's oral allergy syndrome, caused by protein histamines that affects sensitive individuals.

And those green spots on potatoes? Those are harmless chlorophyll, but they indicate something insidious just under the surface: the presence of solanine, a poisonous alkaloid that can cause severe nausea, and even death.

Just as science shines new light and understanding on naturally-occurring plant compounds and their implications to our health, it also exposes myths.

The strange and horrible tomato, once feared for its association with the dark side, is now known to contain beneficial phytonutrients, even as an increasing part of the population sensitive to their alkaloids is choosing to exclude them, and all nightshades, from their diet.

Solanine has been long believed to be the culprit that kept us from consuming tomato leaves. But as Harold McGee pointed out in a 2009 article in the New York Times, solanine belongs to the potato species, while the tomato's is tomatine, which "appears to be a relatively benign alkaloid". So, while it may not be a good idea to indulge in a heap of tomato greens, a few aromatic leaves used as an herb is likely harmless.

Perhaps the most misunderstood and controversial members of Solanaceae belong to the Solanum nigrum complex. Solanum nigrum, commonly known as black nightshade, is a morphologically distinct species and there are at least 30 other distinct Solanum species that are bundled into this complex. To quantify them all under the dark umbrella of black nightshade taints them with the perception that they are all deadly poisonous when, in fact, they are not. At least, not all of the time. And that's where the confusion begins.

Here, too, solanine seems to be the problem— or more accurately— the varying degrees of concentration among the species. Many (too numerous to list) have a long history as significant food sources, primarily in Africa and Eurasia. Most often, it's the leaves that are gathered and cooked as greens. In some cases the ripe berries are consumed as well. Unless we are willing to sift through a maze of mind-numbing toxicological data on the individual species, there is very little practical information available. Even so, conclusions given by plant scientists are typical to this:
"the development of toxic levels of these alkaloids is dependent on their growth under certain conditions or in certain localities, and even on the age of the plants concerned. Other reports suggest that the amounts of poisonous 'principles' vary greatly with climate, season and soil type." (Edmonds and Chweya,1997)

Could this be a case of poisonous terroir?

The fear and uncertainty surrounding black nightshade, at least in North American, prevents even the adventurous from gathering and consuming wild species— every field guide lists S. nigrum as toxic. But there is a cultivated species that was introduced in the early 1900's by plant breeder Luther Burbank, whose ripe berries are reputedly safe to eat.

Burbank claimed to have hybridized his 'Sunberry' by crossing S. guineense with S. villosum , and created Solanum burbankii, “a new food plant from a poisonous family”. In 1909, Burbank sold the rights to the seeds to John Lewis Childs, who rechristened it 'Wonderberry' and promoted it with extravagant claims as "the greatest garden fruit ever introduced ". Suspicion was cast when horticulturists claimed that it was nothing more than common S. nigrum. Controversy raged until the 1950's when the wonderberry was proven to be a distinct species native to South Africa. It was never known whether Burbank was aware of this or if it had been inadvertently introduced to his experimental gardens. Nevertheless, the damage was done and fear of black nightshade cast the wonderberry into obscurity. In recent years, wonderberry has been resurrected by seed companies and gardeners interested in 'new' heirloom varieties. Sometimes it is listed as the hybrid S. burbankii, sometimes as the correct species S. retroflexum, but by all accounts it is safe to eat the black ripe berries (green are recognized as poisonous), and by many accounts, they are delicious.

roasted eggplant and smoked potato custard
fire-roasted pepper petals
nightshade relish

Ever versatile, Solanaceae contributes more than food and drugs— it enriches our lives with beauty and scent through these ornamentals plants:
petunia (Petunia spp.) most widely grown ornamental nightshade • 35 species • flattened tubular flowers • available in many colors from white to black (dark purple) • spreading habit makes them popular in hanging baskets.
flowering tobacco (Nicotiana spp.) various flowering species of tobacco • small tubular star-shaped flowers open at dusk • older varieties are more scented than modern.
datura (Datura spp.) aka: angel's trumpet, moonflower, thorn apple • large erect trumpet flowers • produces spiny seed pods • highly toxic.
brugmansia (Brugmansia spp.) closely resembles datura, but with pendulous flowers and woody stems • grown as trees in the tropics • strongly scented • highly toxic.

The etymology of Solanaceae is unclear— there is conjecture that Sol- refers to their preference for sunshine and heat. Most genera originated in warm climates, where they grow as perennials. In cold climates, unless protected, they must be treated as annuals. Although they love growing in the sun, the flowers of these ornamentals only release their alluring scent at night. This trait allows them to attract nocturnal pollinators and, perhaps, contributed to the naming of "nightshade".

husk-covered nightshade: tomatillo, groundcherry, Morelle de Balbis

Among the edible species, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant are the most widely cultivated by home gardeners. They're certainly omnipresent in my vegetable patch, along with tomatillos. They are easy to grow if you provide them with rich soil, room to breathe, and at least 6 hours of sunshine a day. Potatoes require a little extra care as they need to have additional soil hilled up around them as they grow to allow tubers to form along the stem and to protect them from sunlight that triggers solanine.

I've always allocated space in the garden to experiment with new plant varieties. This year, it was occupied by three nightshade: purple tomatillos, groundcherries, and Morelle de Balbis.

The purple tomatillos got a late start and didn't fully ripen before the first frost, but I was able to harvest a decent crop of the green variety before they succumbed to the same fate.

Groundcherries were a delight (for the squirrel and slugs too). When ripe, their papery green husks turn brown and they fall to the ground. The berries within are edible when green and taste similar to tomatillos. They turn yellow when ripe and become sweet with a flavor reminiscent of pineapple. They'll definitely be on the roster next year.

The Morelle de Balbis were formidable plants to grow— the stems, leaves, and husks are covered with fierce thorns that like to grab onto clothes and hair, and prick exposed skin. The husks surrounding the berries make them appear to be physalis, but they belong to the genus solanum. They break open when the fruit ripens, exposing red berries that taste like a blend of tomatoes and plums, and take on sweet cherry notes as the fruit ages.

pineapple honey glazed groundcherries
cherry honey glazed Morelle de Balbis
lime tomatillo tuile sheeps milk gelato
sweet cicely chamomile

Even as I put my garden to rest for the year, I'm already thinking ahead to next.

I already know that nightshades will take up most of the real estate. I'll put the tall tomatillos towards the back, the low-growing groundcherries in the front, where they'll have room to sprawl. The potatoes will grow in a row along the wall that will retain the soil that I'll pile on them as they grow. There will be peppers, both hot and sweet, and petunias in hanging baskets on the porch, flowering tobacco in the border by the back door to perfume the night air.

I look forward to growing two new-to-me varieties: wonderberry, an edible member of black nightshade (see above), and naranjilla (Solanum quitonense), a shade tolerant plant that produces acidic orange berries, reputed to taste like pineapple and lime.

And yes, there will be tomatoes, as many as I can fit. They'll get the spot with the best soil and the most sun because the tomatoes that grow there will likely be the best that I eat all year. Maybe someday, with a push from science, that will no longer be true.

garlic mustard

As long as we've lived here, there has been garlic mustard in the woods at the back of our property. Over the years, I've watched it creep down the hillside and flirt with the backyard. I've managed to keep them apart because they can be terribly invasive, although their compact colonies don't bother me as much as pokeweed or knotweed.

I don't know how long I can keep them at bay. In the battle of the weeds, I just might let garlic mustard win.

Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) is a hardy biennial in the Brassicaceae family that grows to three feet in height. All parts of the plant are edible. The leaves are tender and mild, almost sweet, and taste of both garlic and mustard due to flavonoids that are enjoyed by humans, but despised by insects and herbivores— an efficacious trait that guarantees its proliferation.

Next to onions, garlic is the most used allium in my kitchen, though it's not a regular in my vegetable garden. That's because it needs to go in the ground in the fall when I'm more concerned with harvesting than planting. I did remember to plant a handful of cloves last September and recently dug up some immature heads. The baby-toe-sized cloves are tender and their translucent skins have not yet turned papery. When poached in milk, they become incredibly sweet and mild— a rare treat that only a vampire could resist.

Milk-poaching garlic always reminds me of brandade, a requisite step in making the salted cod and potato emulsion. The garlic-infused milk is used to poach the cod, which is infinitely better when salted just prior to cooking.

I piped the brandade from a parchment paper cone, using the exact same motion to fashion bite-size cones from garlic mustard leaves. A tiny smear of brandade on the underside of the outer leaf edge glues the cone together. Fried potatoes sticks were inserted into the cone before the brandade was piped in, because fried potatoes with [garlic and cod] pureed potatoes are doubly delicious!

brandade

Brandade is traditionally served as a dip or spread for bread. Other fish such as halibut, haddock, pollock, and hake can be substituted for the cod. Strong, oily fish like mackerel, herring, and sardines makes an assertive brandade that stands up well to pickled and brined condiments. In any case, the fish should be salted the day before. The salting process could go on for up to 24 hours, but I prefer the flavor and texture of 6-8 hours. I also prefer to use Yukon Gold potatoes over more traditional white as the don't get pasty when mechanically pureed.

400g cod (or other fish) fillet
kosher or sea salt

Sread a 1.25cm/1/2" thick layer of salt in the bottom of a shallow, non-reactive dish that is just large enough to hold the fish. Lay the fish fillet on top of the salt and completely cover with another 1.25cm/1/2" thick layer of salt. Cover dish loosely and refrigerate for 6-8 hours. Remove fish from salt and rinse thoroughly under cold running water. Pat dry. Cut fish into 2.5cm/1" pieces and allow to sit at room temperature while proceeding with recipe.

200g Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 2.5cm/1" dice

Drop the potatoes into a pot of lightly salted boiling water and cook until very tender. Drain and keep warm.

600g whole milk
35g shallot, peeled and thinly sliced
10 black peppercorns
4 bay leaves
3 sprigs of thyme
12g garlic, peeled and thinly sliced

Place all ingredients except garlic into a large saucepan and bring to a bare simmer. Continue simmering (don't allow milk to boil), tightly covered, for 8 minutes. Strain through a sieve. Discard solids and return milk to saucepan. Add garlic and simmer for 4 minutes. Add fish to pan and simmer for 2 minutes (temp should be at about 80C/144F). Tightly cover pan and remove from heat. Let sit for 5 minutes or until fish is thoroughly cooked and flakes easily.

50g extra virgin olive oil

Lift the warm fish and garlic slices from the milk with a slotted spoon and place in the bowl of a food processor along with the olive oil. Process for in short bursts, sraping down sides, until a smooth paste is formed. Add about 1/3 of the milk and process for 30 seconds. Add the warm potatoes and process until smooth, adding more milk (as needed) in a stream through the feed tube until the mixture is smooth and the consistency of mayonnaise.

Japanese knotweed

On a former property, colonies of Japanese knotweed made themselves a home on a riverbank. By late summer— if left unchecked— they grew into a jungle that could only be penetrated with a machete.

Where pokeweed is a bully, knotweed is a Superbully. On steroids. If you've ever battled this plant, then surely you're nodding in agreement. I feel your pain.

On my current property, I've been graced with both of these scourges and they often grow side by side. Their shoots look similar when they emerge in the spring, but beneath the soil there is no mistaking pokeweed's long pale taproots for knotweed's sprawling network of russet roots. And, unlike pokeweed, knotweed is not a native plant— most invasive species aren't. It's likely that Japanese knotweed (Fallopia japonica) was imported from Europe for its dramatic plumes of flowers and robust growth.

knotweed shoots ✢ sheep's milk yogurt ✢ lamb bacon lardons
hot bacon dressing ✢ young spruce

As a food source, the significant difference between the two is that while pokeweed should be consumed with caution, knotweed is perfectly safe to eat. Though, in its raw form it's very sour (it belongs to the same family as rhubarb), a trait that indicates the presence of oxalic acid, and should be consumed in moderation by those prone to rheumatism, arthritis, and kidney stones.

Remarkably, knotweed is a concentrated source of reservatol, a natural phenol with anti-aging properties. How clever and appropriate of Nature to devise an indestructible weed whose tenacity is despised by humans and endow it with the potential to extend our lives!

The thick, hollow stems, divided by joints, give it the appearance of bamboo, though they're not related. Mature stalks become too woody to consume, but lengths that are cut between their knees make excellent straws.

tahoon pork jowl beechnut

There are plants that can be described as tasting earthy— mostly roots and tubers that absorb the minerals and organic matter of the soil in which they grow buried. Rarely is earthy attributed to a green leaf, which is why I was stunned when I tasted tahoon sprouts. Just days out of the soil, the tiny green leaves emit an intense flavor of sun-baked dirt, humus, and wood, with an oily background of roasted nuts.

Tahoon (Toona sinensis), aka Chinese Toon, is a member of the Mahogany family, native to China, where the young leaves and sprouts (xiang chun) are enjoyed as a vegetable.

Upon tasting tahoon and then learning that the plant was hardy in my northern climate and could eventually develop into a tree, I became curious about the mature leaves and aromatic wood.

But locating the elusive tahoon seeds proved to be a challenge. Eventually, I found them at a Canadian seed company that specializes in Chinese vegetables.

The seedlings that I planted that summer, three years ago, didn't survive the winter. I planted another round the following year on the edge of a garden, near a stand of sumacs, that were forgotten until this spring when I noticed new growth on what I thought were sumac suckers, whose pinnate leaves closely resemble those of tahoon. It wasn't until I tasted them that I realized that the neglected plants had not only survived a harsh winter, but at nearly four feet in height, they were well on their way to becoming trees.

The mature tahoon leaves display the same aromatic properties that are found in the sprouts, but in a more diffused way. Instead of delivering the characteristic flavor up front, it saves it for the end, when you've nearly given up on it, then lingers on and on. The wood is richly aromatic, reminiscent of cedar, and full of promise.

The flavor of tahoon is often likened to beechnuts— a comparison that eluded me until recently. Though I'm always on the lookout for the nut of the American Beech (Fagus grandifolia), a native tree proliferate in the eastern United States, it's temperamental when it comes to producing fruit. Some years it produces nothing at all, while in other years, the beechnuts are scarce and out of reach on the upper limbs and the cupules are dry and hollow by the time they hit the ground. I guess I just had to stop looking because that's how I finally found them. And, yes— now that I've tasted them— I can say [with conviction] tahoon does indeed taste like beechnuts. Actually, dirty beechnuts.

Thin, bias-cut slices of pork jowl, sandwiched between tahoon leaves. A quick saute in a hot pan renders the fat and crisps the leaves. Crispy on the outside, juicy and succulent on the inside.

What I've learned about cooking mature tahoon is that it doesn't do well when subjected to moist heat— the volatile aromas all but disappear. Dry heat preserves the flavor and draws out the already low water content from the leaves, making them crispy. And I like crispy.

pork jowl tahoon sandwich with roasted beechnut/jerusalem artichoke puree

kinome

I've been in hot pursuit of this plant since I first tasted its young leaves over a year ago. Nearly gave up until http://www.raintreenursery.com came to the rescue.

Kinome is the young leaf of Zanthoxylum piperitum, a species of prickly ash. It's the same plant that produces sichuan pepper. The leaves taste lemony fresh and produce a mild tongue-tingling sensation.

Although I bought it for its leaves, I'm curious to see it bloom and fruit. Hope I can stop myself from stripping it before that happens.

green squash

Squash belong to a family of plants known as Cucurbitaceae which also includes pumpkins, gourds, melons, and cucumbers. Unlike their summer counterparts, winter squash are harvested when they are fully mature. The fruit of cold weather varieties start out green and are ready to pick when their leathery skins turn uniformly orange or yellow. However, color is not a reliable indication of ripeness with varieties that remain green, such as acorn, hubbard, and some turbans. Regardless, pumpkins and winter squash will continue to ripen during the curing stage, when the fruits are stored at warm temperatures to develop flavor and thicken the skin.
Properly cured, pepos are notoriously long keepers. I once displayed an enourmous Hubbard squash, its skin like ceylon porcelain, as a piece of sculpture for nearly a year before it eventually rotted from within. My parents kept an offspring from their compost heap in a corner of their living room for well over two years before it succumbed to the same fate. True story.

Over the decades of cooking in restaurants and catering, I've processed more than my fair share of winter squash, but I can't say that I've ever encountered an unripe one before this particular hubbard, grown in a heritage squash garden. It's unclear whether it was picked immaturely or not properly stored— I'm guessing it was a combination of both. Of course, I had to taste it.

The inner ripe layer was creamy and sweet, with typical squash-like vegetal flavor (why are there no studies on the aromatic properties of winter squash?). The outer green part was where it got interesting— it was denser in texture and also sweet, but in a fruity, estery way that instantly brought to mind a ripe honeydew. Not surprising, I had to remind myself, considering their close relationship. And then it got fun when I realized that through carefully calculated cuts, I could control the play of fruity and vegetal flavor in the distinct layers. Slant the knife one way and I'd get a bite of melon-on-squash, slanted the other way, and I'd have squash-on-melon.

I chose a decidedly fruity slant for this dish: green squash, asian pear, watermelon-sumac, pine nut milk, pumpkinseed oil, calendula petals, and a final flourish of grated long pepper.

lime basil tomato martini

There is transient beauty in a dying garden; an intimacy that is gained by observing its natural progression.

Looking around at the tracery of brittle stems, shriveled leaves, and the determination of fruit clinging to withering vines, I see the loveliness of imperfection, the quiet dignity and grace, the stamp of passing time.
The Japanese call this wabi-sabi.
I call it the poetry of decay.

There is, however, nothing poetic about cleaning up all of this decay. It's hard work. It merits the reward of a libation.

It seems that anything can be called a martini these days. I'm not a purist, but to me, a martini is not defined by the vessel that it's served in, but by the inclusion of gin and vermouth. Beyond that, any added flavor is fair game.

lime basil tomato martini

2 oz. lime basil-infused gin, chilled
1/2 oz. dry vermouth, chilled
1/2 oz. filtered tomato water, chilled
2 cocktail tomatoes, speared on a sprig of basil

Place liquids in chilled cocktail shaker with 2 cubes of ice. Shake and strain into chilled martini glass. Garnish with cocktail tomatoes.

To make lime basil infused gin: Pack an isi whipper with fresh lime basil that has been lightly crushed. Half-fill the canister with gin. Cover and charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Shake slowly for 1 minute. Rapidly discharge gas. Uncover and allow to stand for 3 minutes before straining. Chill.

To make tomato water: Cut Ripe tomatoes in half horizontally. Set a sieve over a bowl and squeeze out the seed sacs and liquid from tomato halves. Reserve the tomato flesh for another use (if you peel the tomatoes beforehand, the flesh can be diced into concassé). Press on the solids in the sieve to extract as much liquid as possible. Pass the liquid through a micro filter or a coffee filter, without pressing, to produce clear tomato water. Alternately, the sieved liquid can be allowed to stand until the solids settle to the bottom, and the clear liquid can be spooned from the top.

To make cocktail tomatoes: Cut a small, shallow slit in the stem ends of cherry tomatoes (I used Sungolds and Sweet 100s). Drop them into a pot of boiling water for 5 seconds, or until the skins rip open. Immediately remove to a bath of ice water. Slip the skins off each tomato and layer them in a sterilized glass jar with coarse salt (1 teaspoon per pint). Pour in enough dry vermouth to cover the tomatoes by 1/2". Let the tomatoes cure in the refrigerator for 2 days before using.

a good year for peaches

I don't know what happened to the peaches this year.
Did the stars and/or planets align just right? Or were my unwitting prayers answered by a peach fairy?
I have no explanation, but I'm convinced that something super natural took place.

My peach tree is now seven years old. It was just a whip with roots when my father gave it to me; no thicker than my thumb or longer than my arm. Looking at that stick-in-a-pot, it should have taken an elastic imagination, or a leap of faith, to believe that one day it would produce bushels of fruit, but I knew better. I had seen him nurture these things; spent a lifetime watching sticks turn into trees.

I planted it even though I had given up on growing fruit. The loss of a half dozen fruit trees, along with the dream of an orchard, was still painfully fresh.

It was three years before the tree bore fruit. Just enough for a few pies at first, the yields continued to increase with each passing year. Quantity was never an issue, but if I'm being completely honest, the quality of the fruit has been unremarkable in flavor. Last year, they were insipid, at best.

If anything, gardening is an investment of hope. I take the time and effort to grow plants with the hope that they will produce something extraordinary. When they don't, I assess the circumstances, make adjustments, and try again. Or, if they require something beyond my control, I move on.

A tree is different.

Trees take years, sometimes decades, to hit their stride. When there is so much time and effort and hope invested, it's not so easy to just start over.

Last fall, after the disappointing harvest, I was pruning the tree and considered taking a saw to the trunk and starting anew. But I didn't. I confessed my intention to my father, hoping he wouldn't be offended. He just shrugged and suggested I waited another year.

I was acutely aware on the day that I picked the first of this year's peaches that it was the two month anniversary of my father's passing. I won't get into whether I think that he, in spirit, had anything to do with the transformation. I won't even get into whether I believe such things are possible. I will only say that every peach that I picked off my tree this year was extraordinary: intoxicatingly fragrant, embarrassingly juicy, a flawless balance of sugar and acid. They were everything I hoped for.

summer pasta

In these, the last days of summer, autumn encroaches clever and lithe.

I try to ignore the signs, but it's worse than that.

I see the chlorophyll drain from the leaves and tell myself it's just the sun. I notice the flowers looking dry and wan and say it's because I didn't give them enough water. And… isn't the goldenrod blooming extra early this year?

I'm in denial.

It's not because I dislike autumn. I don't. But because I will miss summer.

It's not even that it's been a good summer. It hasn't! Losing my father cements it as one that I will poignantly remember forever.

Still… I hate to see it go.

I think what I'll miss most is the bounty at my fingertips.
The joyful sight of fruits on the vine.
The perfume of herbs baking in the sun.
The many colors of ripe.
Nature, in all of her white-hot intensity.

But it's not over yet.

As the sun arcs lower in the sky and night grows longer and cooler, summer vegetables rush to put out their last flush. It's a well known fact that leafy greens, crucifers, and root vegetables taste sweeter when nipped by cold, but I would swear that late-season tomatoes and corn are the best of all. They are only sweeter in memory.

Colors and flavors, the icons of summer, are arranged atop a swath of emulsified tomato milk like notes on a scale. A seasonal keyboard.

Tucked in between are tubes of parmesan pasta. I'll tell you about those next time.

These are covered by a strip of reduced corn juice, thickened by its inherent starch and bursting with flavor. Its form is controlled by freezing, then tempered to a fluid sauce.

Just for this dish, I ignore my tendency towards minimalism, my carefully managed urge to over garnish. I lay it all out. Let nature play all of her notes at once. A crescendo of flowers and herbs.

This is my tribute. An homage. A celebration.
The swan song of summer.

bread and tomato water

While it's true that fruits and vegetables are often at their best at a certain time and place, I'm not a slave to eating seasonally or locally or [insert buzzword]-ly. There are so many opinions and discussions on the topic, but as far as I'm concerned, quality gets the final word.
Right now, on my patch of earth, there's a whole lotta quality to be found.

In late August, the local tomatoes clearly demonstrate the tenet of simple preparations. They are of optimum quality and so abundant that they make their way into nearly every meal. A quick and satisfying lunch involves nothing more than thick slices, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with good olive oil. The best part comes at the end— the umami-laden tomato water that collects at the bottom of the bowl. When meals are that casual, etiquette is tossed aside, and the savory juices are noisily slurped directly from the bowl.

If there is good bread at hand, a hunk is used to mop up the juices. The yeasty, malty flavor and chewy texture changes the taste entirely— transforms it into something else. If I had been brought up in an Italian house I would compare it to Panzanella, but my bread and tomato association leads to Açorda.

Açorda is a rustic bread soup from Portugal. At its most basic, it's made by pouring a water, garlic, cilantro, and olive oil broth over day-old bread. Typically, the bread used is Broa— a dense, round loaf made with wheat flour, enriched with cornmeal.

There are gussied-up versions of Açorda; my favorite involves prawns cooked in the broth with tomatoes. For today, I've ignored the prawns and the cooking, but kept the impression of the dish with a hunk of my mother's excellent Broa soaked with seasoned red and yellow tomato water, olive oil, garlic bulbils, green coriander seeds and sprigs.

Outside of summer, it would never occur to me to attempt a dish whose sheer simplicity relies entirely on an ingredient used at its pinnacle of flavor. Like it's inspiration, it's a humble dish— the food of peasants. But it's also profoundly good and begs a revision to an old adage:

[wo]man can live [happily] on bread and [tomato]water alone!