Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean

The sweet corn that we enjoy today is far removed from its ancestor. It is thought to have originated from teosinte, an ancient wild grass native to Mexico. Centuries of cultivation and hybridization has transformed it into the more palatable and versatile species that we continue to grow today. This was not a natural occurrence— it took careful selection and sophisticated horticultural skill to achieve. How primitive cultures had the knowledge to accomplish this continues to perplex scientists and researchers.

The domestication of corn is thought to have started 7,500 to 12,000 years ago in the Balsas river valley in lower Mexico. During the 1st millennium, cultivation of maize spread into the Southwestern United States. It took another thousand years for it to reach the Northeast and Canada, where Woodland Indians cleared forests and grasslands, creating large fields to plant the new crop.

Native Americans did not practice monocropping as we do today— cornfields belong to modern agriculture. Instead, they employed a more sustainable system of interplanting three crops: corn, beans, and squash— a triad that is deeply rooted in Native American mythology, known as "The Three Sisters".

To the Native Americans, The Three Sisters were sacred goddesses that could not bear to be separated. Among the tribes, there were varying versions of the legend that revolved around a creation myth. According to one legend, Sky Woman, who lived in the Upper World, fell through a hole in the sky towards an endless sea. Animals scurried to dig mud from the bottom of the sea and spread it on the back of a giant turtle to cushion her fall. Sky Woman gave birth to Corn Mother, who bore three daughters that were inseparable until their death, when they were buried together on Turtle Island (North America). Out of their graves sprouted corn, beans, and squash— their gift to humanity.

Like most myths, The Three Sisters sounds far-fetched and fantastical, but in fact, their relationship is scientifically sound.

Throughout the Old World, corn, beans, and squash were sown together in small mounds of earth that were scattered through fields. The beans would wind around the corn as they grew, using the cornstalk as a support, while simultaneously supporting the tall, slender stalks from toppling over in the wind. The nitrogen-fixing nodules on the roots of the beans fed the nutrient-hungry corn and the squash vines that covered the ground at their feet. The squashes shallow roots and copious foliage shaded the ground, preventing weeds and preserving moisture. Together, they formed a perfect symbiosis.

This same symbiosis carried over from horticulture into nutrition— when eaten together, The Three Sisters form a perfect food. Corn provides protein and niacin, while beans and squash contribute the amino acids necessary for digestion. Native Americans also nixtamalized their corn to produce hominy by soaking it in alkaline water (made with wood ashes), thereby liberating the niacin and making it more nutritious. The importance of The Three Sisters and nixtamalization was supported when pellagra (a disease brought on by niacin deficiency) spread through non-indigenous cultures who adopted corn as a staple food without the ancient wisdom to accompany it. Again, the scientific community was left marveling at the primitive ingenuity.

Gourds are related to pumpkins and squash and were cultivated by Native Americans to use as dippers, spoons, cups, medicine holders, bottles, canteens, sacred honey containers, and ceremonial rattles. I grew these to use as birdhouses— dried, cut with a saw, and lightly sanded, they make interesting organic bowls.

The Three Sisters

corn beans pumpkin

popcorn sage broth

hominy chip

Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include: sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts.

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash
that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population.

Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.

autumnberry

I equate the back half of my property to the side of a mountain. I'm probably being overly dramatic but it does feel that way when I climb it. When I brought my father up there, he said it would make a fine vineyard. He was right— it had good drainage and a southwestern exposure, but I had different kinds of fruit in mind: cherries, pears, apples, plums… I wanted to plant a mountain orchard.

The second spring after we moved in, my husband and I cleared an area on the lower rise. We took down a few mature trees, numerous saplings, and a ton of unidentified shrubs that dominated the understory. They were attractive as far as wild shrubs go— long arching branches, silvery leaves, and insignificant yellow flowers that perfumed the mountain with their sweet scent. I would have hesitated to cut them down, but honestly, they were everywhere.

That spring, I planted six semi-dwarf fruit trees with the intentions of planting six more the following year. It was too far from the house to bring in water, but I managed to get a large tub up to gather rainwater for dry spells. That first year, I checked on the trees frequently, though there was little to do except to adjust their supports and weed around their base. By midsummer, the stumps of the shrubs that had been cut to the ground were sending out multiple shoots that began to encroach on the trees. It seemed that the more severely they were cut, the more vigorous they became. They were tenacious— I gave them that— but so was I. That first year I was confident that I had them under control [insert Nature's mocking laugh].

It was August of the following year when I finally made my way back up to the orchard. Plans to plant more trees were thwarted; other things took priority. In the wild overgrowth that ensued in my neglect, I had to look hard to find the fruit trees. Half of them were dead and the remaining three didn't look so good. I suppose that I should have felt defeated, but I had more invested in the orchard than the hours of labor and cost of the trees— I was chasing a dream of my own private Eden; trying to fulfill a plan that would bring me closer to the land and further from the grid. Stubbornly, I resolved to reclaim the orchard and waged a quiet, but violent war with pruning saw and shears.

I went back to work full-time the following year. In the restaurant biz, that means 14-16 hour days, leaving little free time for gardening. I didn't make it back to the orchard until late in the season, then I wished I hadn't. It's never easy to admit defeat. Or to let go of dreams.

I let a few years pass before I ventured back up the mountain. With the fruit trees dead, there didn't seem much point— until last month, when I found a reason to return.

You see, I finally identified the tenacious shrubs. It turns out that my nemesis and the squasher of my mountain orchard dream is the Autumn Olive (Elaeagnus umbellata)— a close relative of Russian Olive, a native of Asia (Aki-gumi) and cultivated by the Europeans who introduced it to North America. Originally intended as an ornamental, its tolerance of a wide range of environmental conditions and nitrogen-fixing root nodules that allows it to thrive in poor soil and drought, made it attractive to public works horticulturists, who planted it along highways to prevent erosion and attract wildlife. They didn't account for its highly viable seed, spread by birds, and its tendency to overcrowd native species, landing it squarely on the federal invasive species list. Here, in the Northeast, Autumn Olive is classified as an invasive exotic gone feral. I can certainly vouch for that.

It does, however, have a saving grace— it produces edible fruit.

In late fall, the green drupes begin to blush. Their color deepens and darkens with the onset of cold. When green, they are tannic and unpalatable— much like raw green olives. As they ripen, the tannins give way to tartness and eventually sweetness, which doesn't occur until they are threatened by frost. When fully ripe, as they are now, they straddle a balance of sweet and tart, with a flavor that is reminiscent of pomegranates, currants and cranberries.

The fruit has captured the attention of the USDA, who gave it a new name, Autumnberry, and opened an Autumnberry research lab in hopes of promoting their rich nutritional value. The berries contain high levels of vitamin A, C, and E, as well as flavonoids and carotenoids, but it is their particularly high levels of the antioxidant lycopene that makes them unique. With 30-70 mg of lycopene per 100 g of fruit, it surpasses (by up to 17 times) the levels found in raw tomato.

And so, after identifying the plant and learning of its edible fruit, I watched and waited. At least once a week, I climbed the mountain to check on their progress and taste for the developing sweetness. Last week, on a cold, windy day following a light frost, they were ready. I picked a few quarts, forcing myself to stop when my bare fingers became too cold and stiff to continue. It felt completely surreal and unnatural to be harvesting fruit in November— but aren't the sweetest things in life the ones that take you by surprise and not the ones you plan for? And even though Autumnberry robbed me of my dreams of cherries, pears, apples, and plums, I forgive them because— in an entirely unexpected way— I have my mountain orchard after all.

aged gouda
autumnberry cheese
comice pear
pumpkinseed oil

plantago

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

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

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

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

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

scallop milkweed curry

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.

scallop ceviche

milkweed

cucumber

curry

salad burnet

green beans fried shallots

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.

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.

patchouli

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.

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.

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?

chive blossom tempura [the real blooming onion]

the meadow

"No voice calls me to order as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel to earth and, moving east to west, second the motion only of the sun…. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold or promise rain. In time, outside of time, the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers."

"Planting the Meadow" by Mary Makofske

Dame's rocket (Hesperis matronalis) is a biennial wildflower that is often confused with phlox. The most obvious distinction is that phlox blooms later in the season and the flowers have five petals whereas Hesperis has only four.

Because of its tendencies to self seed and escape cultivation, it's considered an invasive species in parts of the country where it has crowded out native species. In my state of Connecticut, it is illegal to move, sell, purchase, transplant or distribute Hesperis. And, because I always follow the law [ahem], I resist the temptation to transplant them to a more conspicuous part of the garden. For now, they live on an unmown patch of earth that I call "the meadow", where they happily coexist with sumac, asters, mullein and goldenrod.

Dame's rocket belongs to the Brassicaceae family of plants that include cabbage and mustard.

The flowers throw off a sultry vanilla scent that intensifies as the sun goes down (Hesperis means evening in Greek) and has a two-part flavor that starts as honeyed pears and ends with a mild sting of mustard.

This dish, built on a foundation of peanut butter ganache and peanut brittle-enrobed roasted banana, covered with elderflower and green tea whip displays an intriguing juxtaposition of harmonious flavors.

It looks a bit wild and unkempt. Just like the meadow.