garlic bulbils

When garlic scapes are left to mature on the plant, they form bulbils that are like miniature garlic cloves. These are not true seeds, but they can be planted as such. Although they take two to three seasons to develop heads, I find they're a more reliable way to propagate garlic than starting with individual cloves. For one, [because they're airborne] they don't harbor soil-borne diseases. And two, they produce a truer strain of the parent plant— and isn't perpetuating a species an important reason to save seeds?

Some of these bulbils will go back into the garden once they have hardened off, but many will find their way into the kitchen. I can't resist playing with these tiny, tender bursts of mild garlic flavor.

Freshly harvested, they add fantastic flavor and texture when simply sprinkled on a dish.
Pickled in a vinegary brine with a pinch of sugar, they become succulent.
They soften and mellow in an olive oil confit with seeds and spice. Today I added green fennel seeds, grains of paradise, crushed sumac berries, and fleur de sel.
Or, they can be flattened with a rolling pin between sheets of silpat and dehydrated. The flakes will keep their flavor and crisp texture if sealed in a jar, though I doubt they'll be around for too long.

lamb coconut yogurt garlic

Garlic scapes are the flowering seed heads and stems of hard neck garlic varieties. It used to be that farmers removed them to direct the plant's energy into developing the bulb rather than the seeds, and would discard them. At some point, an enterprising farmer thought the mildly-flavored scapes were a marketable novelty, and now they are popular seasonal treats at farmers markets. Incidental crops like these are often a win-win situation.

When harvested just as they begin to curl, the stems are tender and mild. By the time that the seeds begin to form, they harden and become tough. At that stage, I like to use them as skewers for grilled meats and vegetables, allowing heat to release their aroma and infuse the food from within.

This dish is loosely based on souvlaki, with deliberate Greek flavors. Instead of the ubiquitous oregano, I used winter savory (Satureja montana), an under-utilized perennial herb that tastes like a blend of thyme, pine, and lemon, to season the lamb and tzatziki.

The tzatziki was made with yogurt curds, which readily form when yogurt is gently heated to 170F/76C. The process is identical to making ricotta, but as the yogurt is already acidic, it doesn't require the addition of buttermilk. The curds are folded into coconut milk, along with savory, garlic and cucumber.

The ground lamb is blended with minced aromatics (savory, onion, garlic scapes) and coconut powder, then wrapped in a blanched fig leaf and grilled.

I know that gif's are sometimes annoying, and even though these shots are overexposed, I thought that it effectively demonstrated the leaf-folding technique.
Actually, I'm kind of mesmerized by it. I'm alternately disturbed and amused by the furling and unfurling. As it folds up, I think "Silencing of the Lamb", then it pops open, exposing itself like a Cypriot burlesque queen.

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.

allium triquetrum

These allium were sent to me from Oregon, simply labeled as "wild onions". Originally, I thought they were ramsons (Allium ursinum), which grow wild in my area in the early spring. However, the triangular stems were exceedingly long and lacked the characteristic broad leaves that often cause ramsons to be confused with lily of the valley (a toxic plant). Further research revealed that they are, in fact, Allium triquetrum, commonly known as three-cornered leek, a species of Allium indigenous to the Mediterranean. They are also reported to grow in temperate areas of Britain and Japan. In the US, they are only found along coastal Oregon and California, where they are classified as an invasive weed.

All parts of the plant possess a refined leek/garlic flavor and aroma. The bulbs are dense and crisp, like water chestnuts, and are mild enough to eat raw, as are the lower part of the stems. The dark upper stems are fibrous and need to be cooked. The loose clusters of white flowers are more delicate in flavor. After the petals fall, the developed bulbils resemble caper berries, but with a subtle sulphuric flavor.

I see an extraordinary Gibson Martini in my near future.

heat wave

I knew it was coming [the heat and humidity].

The change of weather had been forecast for days and discussed with the same fervor as an impending snowstorm. That's how it is in these parts. Weather rules.

But I didn't need a weather report to tell me that summer is quickly approaching. My dog does a fine job of that. His built-in barometer is fine tuned to low pressure systems, particularly the ones that bring oppressive humidity and summer storms. It causes him to pace the house restlessly until he drops from exhaustion. He's a dog of many talents (he can open doors and does a wicked Chewbaca impression) but when the sky starts to rumble, he has yet to figure out a way to fit his massive body under a bed.

Even without meteorologists and an anxious dog, I can always rely on the garden to tell me what part of the season we're in. The soil is finally warm and dry enough to plant summer vegetables. In the rock garden and perennial borders, the warm colors of spring bulbs and blooming shrubs give way to softer, cooler blues and pinks. And everywhere, there is green.

It's humbling to admit that a few days of hot, hazy sunshine does more to advance a plant's growth than all my fussing, nurturing and organic fertilizer put together. At this stage, my role becomes more passive; it's more about keeping up with the weeds. It feels a lot like raising teenagers.

And just as the garden changes with the weather, so, too, does my appetite. When it's hot and humid, all I want is cold and wet.

And, so, the change came: the heat and humidity descended, weather reporters congratulated themselves, the dog paced on cue, the garden flourished, the weeds rampaged, and I craved nothing but watermelon and iced tea.

With some disdain, I faced a pot of stock that I had made the night before from vegetable trimmings and herbs from the garden: asparagus, pea pods, wild onions, celery, lovage, chervil, ferns, yarrow, chives, and a handful of Parmesan rinds. A hot soup had seemed like a good idea in the cool of the evening, but on a sweltering afternoon, I re-imagined it as a cold tisane. While the cold, flavorful stock strained clear through a coffee filter, I dashed outdoors to collect a handful of leaves and petals: sedum, yarrow, fern, oxalis, dianthus, hesperis, chives. Along with some willowy stalks of asparagus, it was just what I craved— a cold, wet tonic on a hot, humid day.

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.

citrus

High up on a remote mountaintop on the coast of central California, there lies a paradise of citrus with over three hundred different varieties of rare and exotic cultivars from all corners of the earth. The fruit there is not grown for commerce, but out of a strong interest, curiosity, and love by Gene Lester, a citrus-enthusiast.

This box of sunshine comes to me via Chef David Kinch, whose longstanding friendship with Mr. Lester and mutual interest, curiosity and love of exceptional product allows him access to the private collection of trees.

Chef Kinch's two-Michelin-star Manresa is among the handful of restaurants in this country* that offer a true farm-to-table experience. The diversity and quality of the produce that is grown for Manresa at Love Apple Farm is stunning, as shown in this video.

These are exceptional specimens—each one a jewel— and I am grateful to the spirit of generosity and sharing that brought them to me. In the same spirit, I'd like to share them with you— in the only way that I can— through pictures and words.

For further information and descriptions of these cultivars, I've compiled a downloadable catalog.

Download catalog: Citrus Cultivars

*the T&L article fails to recognize McCrady's in Charleston, where Chef/Farmer Sean Brock grows an amazing array of vegetables for his kitchen, among them heirloom varieties indigenous to the lowcountry, as well as raises pigs for an extensive charcuterie program.

yuzu miso

"At night with the 'kettle' of yu-miso on the fire I hear it reproaching me"
—Ryota

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a a way of life that transcends rituals and customs. Throughout its four hundred year history, it has inspired philosophies and aesthetics that have come to define the Japanese culture. One aesthetic principle that arose from the Zen influence is wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi is an intuitive appreciation of the transient beauty that exists in the humble, modest, imperfect, and even in decay. It is finding refinement in the unrefined.

It might be said that wabi-sabi is seeing a flower in a dying bulb.

Or, maybe even, finding poetry in a citrus kettle.

Yuzu miso, as the name implies, is a yuzu-scented miso from the Shizuoka and Nagano prefectures in Japan. It is typically used in Dengaku, an ancient form of miso cuisine, where various foods are lightly grilled, glazed with miso, then finished grilling.

Commercially prepared yuzu miso is made by simmering white (shiro) miso with sugar, then blending in yuzu zest. The ancient preparation, yuzu gama (literally, yuzu kettle), where the seasoned miso is cooked in a hollowed-out yuzu, is far more romantic in concept and exemplary of the Japanese approach to cooking.

To make yuzu gama miso: Blend together 150g shiro miso, 38g sake, 50g mirin, and 17g sugar. Slice the tops off of 4 yuzu. Remove all of the pulp and membranes from the insides, leaving only the rind. Pack the seasoned miso into the hollowed-out yuzu and replace the tops. Place on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes at 350F/178C, or until miso is bubbly. Will keep in refrigerator for up to a month.

Over the years, I've attempted to grow nearly every type of allium that I could find seeds for. Shallots and cipollini are perennial favorites because they require little space to grow and will keep throughout the winter when stored in a cool, dark place. I'm still experimenting with garlic, looking for a variety that will flesh out into plump heads instead of the paltry ones that I've been getting. And with onions being so readily available, I don't usually grow them unless I find an interesting variety.

Last fall, a friend gave me a bag of a sweet onion variety called "Candy", which I promptly deposited in a makeshift root cellar. Months later, I found they had begun to sprout. Sweet onions, because they have a higher water content, are not great keepers.

When bulbs sprout, the new growth draws on the energy that is stored in the parent bulb. In the case of alliums, the quality of the edible flesh becomes compromised and, eventually, consumed. Instead of composting them, I decided to force them like hyacinths, if for no other reason than to watch something grow.

Many flowering bulbs such as hyacinth, tulips, and narcissus can be forced to flower out of season, provided that they have been exposed to temperatures between 35-45F for a minimum of 12 weeks. I buy bulbs in the fall and store them in bags of peat moss in a spare refrigerator to force after New Years. To start them growing, simply place in a vessel with a mouth that is just narrow enough to allow only the base of the bulb through. A glass with tapered sides is perfect. Fill the glass with just enough water to cover the base of the bulb (left image). Submerging the bulb will cause it to rot. Alternately, bulbs can be supported by filling bowls with small stones and maintaining the water level. After about a week (center image) the roots begin to emerge and the shoots start to take off. After 2 weeks (right image) the bulb sends out multiple roots to support the vigorous growth. Bulbs forced in water can take 3-5 weeks to bloom.

I had intended to watch them grow— perhaps to flower— but upon tasting the new shoots, I found they were mild and sweet and begging to be braised with yuzu miso.