foragers and marauders

My neighbors raise chickens and turkeys that they allow to forage. When they get bored with the offerings in their yard, they wander into mine looking for a fresh supply of worms and seeds.

I don't mind their visits… they're amusing (especially to my dog)… and we all have to eat, right?

…even these sawfly larvae.

But my prized mugho pine? Really? These f'ers decimated a mature specimen in just 2 days.

I hope they enjoyed it… it was their last meal.

tree peonies

I have the good fortune to live near a peony farm. It's no ordinary farm and their peonies are anything but ordinary. In fact, at this time of year when the plants are in full regalia, the gardens are aptly referred to as "Peony Heaven".

Cricket Hill Garden is a world-renowned grower of rare Chinese tree peonies (Paeonia suffruticosa). The owners Kasha and David Furman were among the first to import the plants into the US and have grown hundreds of cultivars over the past twenty years on their seven acre farm. In conversations with David, it's apparent that he is a man completely fulfilled by a career that grew out of his obsession with the Chinese culture and a passion for their national flower. He speaks freely of his travels through China and the political tribulations of gaining permission to import the plants from a country that– at the time– was embarrassed by the sensual nature of the flowers.

Tree peonies do indeed arouse the senses. They unfurl their luminous petals slowly and luxuriously to reveal their flamboyant centers. The flowers are as large as a dinner plate, smell heavenly, and bear fanciful names such as "Purple Butterfly in the Wind" and "Green Dragon Lying on a China Ink Stone". At about 100$ per plant, they are expensive, but as they are known to live hundreds of years, I see them as an investment in the future.

One of my favorite salads involves shaved bulb fennel, fresh herbs, and olives, simply dressed with lemon juice and walnut oil. The addition of silky wisps of salami or a fresh tangy chevre rounds it out to a meal.

The ether anethole is responsible for the sweet (up to 13 times sweeter than sugar) anise flavor of fennel. Many of the tender annual herbs are united by this aromatic: basil, dill, tarragon, chervil, and hyssop all partake in anise love. Anethole is widely used as a flavoring for liquors. Because it is less soluble in water than in ethanol, it will produce a spontaneous microemulsion, a phenomenon known as "ouzo effect" when water is added– turning a clear solution milky white.

A deli slicer makes shaving fennel a breeze. I'm always fascinated by the forms that fall off the slicer. A cross-section of the heart, with its long gangly arms attached, look like alien sea creatures. The end-cuts reveal a succession of delicate petal shapes.

Typically, the shavings go directly into an ice bath to keep them crisp and hydrated. The swelling that occurs when their cells fill with water further distorts the shapes.

I knew what I was hoping for when I submerged a handful of the petal shavings into chilled rhubarb juice, but I wasn't sure that it would happen. A few hours later, I nearly squealed with delight as I lifted the petals and watched them fall onto a plate.

Pale pink. Curled and cupped. All I could see was peonies.

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.

asparagus morel fiddlehead

Did a signal go off in the night while I slept?

A silent command to egress?

Oh, the exuberance of youth…it's contagious.

What a difference a week makes.

white asparagus

green asparagus coulis

morel mushroom

fiddlehead fern

pea potato onion buttermilk malt

I've been thinking about the earth lately. Not so much on a global scale. Just a 2 acre slice.

Living in the foothills means that I get to experience a sense of protection provided by the mountains that loom in the background. It also means that in early spring, as the melting snow runs off the mountains, there will inevitably be a wet bog that forms in a hollow in my backyard. In the nearly 10 years that I have lived on this property, I have alternately celebrated and waged war on Mother Nature. Just when I dare to believe that I have one-upped her, she reminds me, every spring like clockwork, that I chose that hollow to plant a vegetable garden.

Gardening has taught me many things, not least of which is patience and hope. Patience is what gets me through 4 long months of winter and hope that when I can finally get a shovel in the ground that it will scoop up a glorious mound of loose, friable earth instead of a clump of sodden mud. Both patience and hope is what it will take to get me to try again next week. And the next.

Digging is to gardening what dishwashing is to cooking; ineluctable. Earth must be moved and displaced, there's no getting around that. I've moved vast amounts of earth around here with nothing more than a shovel, wheelbarrow, and the willingness of my back. Now, I'm beginning to imagine what a machine will do.

I've been on construction sites and watched backhoes at work. It amazes me how effortlessly they slice into the earth and reveal striations of soil, peat, rock and clay, like the layers of a cake. It makes me consider the mysterious world that lives under our feet. After all, treasure is found by digging. And so is history.

This morning, as I walked around the yard, I took note of how much of the earth is uncovered and exposed. I thought about all of the tubers, crowns, and roots that lie dormant just beneath the surface. I wondered if they have survived the winter; if they were protected and insulated and are now rested and ready to leave their subterranean home and emerge into the layers of light and air.

Soon, my attention will waver to the life that will occupy the space above the ground, but for now, I'm thinking about the hidden, underlying landscape beneath the earth.

buttermilk pea pudding

malt powder

new potato confit

spring onion granola

pea shoots

Download Recipe: Layers of Earth

for the love of radishes

In early January, the seed catalogs begin to arrive en masse. They appear unrequested as if the word has gotten out–the word that one of my great pleasures is to pore over these catalogs; dreaming, scheming, and planning. But there is also agony involved. The kind that comes from having to choose among a dizzying array of varieties within the constraint of limited time and space.

Each year, I attempt to grow something entirely new. Last year, it was garbanzo beans and artichokes–both failed miserably. But the Italian Annelino beans, red shiso and green Envy zinnias were magnificent. This year, I am casting my hopes on asparagus peas (aka Tetragonolobus, or winged bean), black kale, hops, and if all goes as planned–a brand new rose garden!

Of course, there are the standards–the vegetables and flowers that I can't do without–but which ones to choose? Do I stick with the tried and true? Go with the nostalgic heirlooms? Or try one of the new and improved?

Some things are no-brainers.

Radishes are the most generous of plants; they give so much more than they get. The seeds readily germinate within 2-5 days, even in tepid soil, freeing up premium space on the warming mat. Within a week, the thinned sprouts liven up salads and sandwiches. The rest are left to grow to maturity and are harvestable within a month. All this can even take place indoors if the weather doesn't comply and they are given plenty of light and kept moderately moist.

In the garden, radishes can be planted in the smallest of spaces or interplanted between slow-maturing crops like tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and peppers. They are natural cultivators, as are all root vegetables. When they are harvested, they leave a hole in the soil, allowing for aeration.

Radishes also make excellent companion plants because they contain glucosinolate–an organic compound that produces the sharp, pungent flavor of mustard, horseradish, and many members of the cabbage (Brassicaceae) family. Glucosinolate is a natural pesticide that keep the radishes, as well as their neighbors, free of most harmful pests.

Doesn't such a humble and giving plant deserve a little love?

To show my appreciation, I've fashioned these tiny, dime-sized orbs a little pot from luxurious cultured butter and sprinkled them with salty, aromatic douchi. Although this cue was taken from the French, who love their radishes with butter and salt, it's only logical…after all, what vegetable is not loved by a little butter and salt?

soybeans

The first time that I tried edamame was nearly a decade ago at a Japanese restaurant. My friend, who had been there before urged me to order them, but I declined. I mean… a bowl of beans cooked in salted water? Really? How was I supposed to get excited about that?

Of course, I tried them and of course, I loved them. There was something so fundamentally satisfying about sharing a communal bowl of humble beans, digging them out of their shells with our fingers. and popping them in our mouths. But it was not just about the ritual, it was also about flavor– delicate, buttery, nutty, addictive.

I searched for edamame in markets and health food stores but they just weren't available back then. At least not in my area. So I grew them. And have been growing them since.

Soybeans are an amazingly versatile food. From them, we can produce oil, butter, milk, yogurt, cereal, flour, cheese and meat analogs. And that's not even mentioning the umami-rich fermented products: soy sauce, miso, tempeh, funky natto, and fermented black beans, or douchi.

Douchi are made by fermenting and salting whole black soybeans. The process results in dry, soft, salty beans with a complex aroma profile similar to chocolate and coffee [which, if you think about it, are fermented beans]. The difference being that while douchi are salted, chocolate and coffee go on to be roasted.

When soybeans are in season in my garden, I treat them like corn. Before heading out to the garden, I put on a pot of salted water. By the time that I return, the water is at a rolling boil. The beans cook in their pods for 8 minutes, no more. These I like to eat scalding hot, burning my fingers on the shells, with a small bowl of salt or ground douchi [which, if you think about it, can act like salt]. But I always save some to chill down and nibble on later with a cold beer, much like peanuts [which, if you think about it, is also a legume].

Funny how things are connected.

the winter garden

Exactly one month ago, I took a walk on a snowy day to pick sage. I was making butternut squash soup for a client and toasting a garnish of tiny cubes of gingerbread brioche in brown butter. I knew the soup would need an herbal note to break the monotony of sweet and spice. I thought of sage; the only thing harvestable in my dormant winter garden.

Leaving the comfort of my warm kitchen on that cold day, even for a short jaunt, required effort. My psyche needed psyching and my body needed insulating. Motivated by the promise of soup, I went about the ritual of piling on the layers; the whole time longing for those other months and the seamless transition from indoors to outdoors. At times like that, I question the wisdom of living in a climate that robs me of that freedom, but Home is more complicated than weather and geography.

And so, on that snowy cold day in January, I set out to the garden, psyched and insulated. My intention was to make a quick exit and a quicker return, but I am easily distracted.

Snow has a way of slowing down time. Everything is muted and blurred, like going under anesthesia. Even the pain of cold eventually subsides. The act of walking on ten inches of ice-crusted snow feels awkward and surreal; every step calculated. That was the first distraction.

The next was the compost heap, which I neglect as soon as the weather turns cold, letting time and microorganisms do their job. Making compost is a lot like making lasagna–it involves the layering of carbon (dried material) with nitrogen (fresh material), controlling moisture, then letting it cook. And cooking it was; while everything else around it was white and frozen, the heap remained dark and soft. Even in the nose-numbing cold, I could smell warm humus–dark, rich, bittersweet, and mysterious–like the heart of the earth. It stood in stark contrast to the astringent and metallic scent of snow.

Satisfied that the compost was happy, I turned to the stand of behemoth pines that live behind a pair of sheds on my property. Those trees have been the bane of my gardening existence, their imposing height and girth forces the better part of my garden to grow in their shadow. I've considered cutting them all down, but I knew that I would regret the loss of their scented boughs and the void of green in the dead of winter. Having just removed my Christmas tree, I was missing its scent, so I broke off a few boughs to bring indoors.

I located the sage by their flagging tips that stuck out of the snow. I love the word "sage" and its connotations to age and wisdom. It perfectly fits this plant that is at least twenty years old and has been transplanted numerous times, yet it always adapts and still thrives. I used the broken ends of the pine to break through the ice that surrounded the sage, picked what I needed and headed back to the house.

At this point, you may be wondering why I am telling you about these ordinary events. If anything, they are a map that led me to what happened next:

I raised my hand to my nose to smell the sage, but I could only smell the oil and resin of pine on my gloves.

That's it, that's the climax… I expected to smell an herb, but instead I smelled pine and that simple act set off a synaptic storm that connected the two and made them interchangeable.

I've played with the flavor of pine and other conifers before, but with some trepidation. Until that moment, I thought of it as a distinct flavor in its own category; neither herb nor vegetable. In the context of an herb, it became approachable– friendly even. This revelation set off a month-long exploration that produced a dozen posts about conifers and extended to other aromatic trees. It took me on a journey through time into the history of salt, cod, beans, and spirits. It allowed me to revisit flavors from my childhood in a new light. It prompted me to delve deeper into the fascinating and complex world of aroma compounds. It introduced me to a delicious new product. It helped me to face the dire situation of seafood and use my power as a consumer and chef to implement change. It was a true inspiration.

Recently, I've received a number of emails asking about inspiration and how to acquire it, to which I rarely know how to respond. I apologize if my replies are inadequate. I am no authority on this, but I will say that inspiration is not exclusive and does not belong to the realm of the creative elite. Like grains of pollen that float through the atmosphere unnoticed, unless you are sensitive to them, they will not effect you. Sensitizing ourselves is simply being open to the myriad ideas, thoughts, and experiences that we encounter at any given moment and making a connection and expansion to what we already know about ourselves, our interests, and our perceived world.

I want to leave this exploration of conifers with a dish that is inspired by that significant walk to my garden on that snowy day. I hope that it reflects my connection to the earth and all of the wonderful food and inspiration that it provides– even while dormant in the dead of winter.

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.

tubers

Sunchoke (round) and Yacon (enlongated)

Sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosus) is a tuber native to the United States and first cultivated by Native Americans. Also known as Jerusalem Artichokes, they are a species of sunflower that are easily grown in a sunny spot but can become invasive if left unchecked. To keep the tubers vigorous and viable, they should be dug up in late autumn to harvest, saving some to replant in fertile soil. Their earthy flavor and texture is reminiscent of potatoes and are best lightly steamed or roasted.

Yacon (Smallanthus sonchifolious) is in the same family of plants as sunchokes and sunflowers. Indigenous to the Peruvian Andes where they grow as perennials, the tubers cannot survive harsh New England winters and must be dug up and stored in a protected area, to be replanted in the spring. Their flavor is mildly sweet and fruity with earthy tones. Their texture is crisp; a cross between jicama and water chestnuts and are delicious when eaten raw.