tahoon cress

I returned from ICC laden with gifts. The best one– a brainload of ideas and information– I continue to unwrap and savor a little each day.

There were also tangible gifts:

A big glossy book containing bios, interviews and recipes of all of the presenters.

A gift package from Heston Blumenthal. In true theatrical form, they were hidden under the seats. The velum envelope contained two packets that were to tie in with his presentation of The Perfect Christmas Dinner, inspired by the gifts of the Magi. The first was a Listerine strip flavored with frankincense and was immediately savored. The second was a newborn baby-scented communion wafer. Despite my fascination with babies, this just felt wrong to put in my mouth.

A flat of micro sprouts from Koppert Cress containing Affilla (peashoots), Mustard, purple and green Shiso, and the unfamiliar Tahoon.

The flavor of Tahoon took me aback. I was not expecting the deep, complexity of wood, humus, and nuts (it's said to taste like beech nuts), trailed by a sting of onion. There are defined elements of earth and fire with aromas that evoke freshly-tilled earth, baked by the sun, along with roasted tree bark. I don't know if this even sounds good, but it is. My taste buds say umami, but I could find no documentation on this.

What I did find is that Tahoon (Toona sinensis) is a tree, native to eastern and southestern Asia, where the young leaves and shoots are enjoyed as an aromatic vegetable. It is more commonly known as Chinese Toon or Chinese Mahoghany.

As I munch on Tahoon, I am visited by a flight of dishes: caramelized onion flan with foie, pomegranate, and Tahoon; roasted potato ice cream, bacon dust, hamachi,and Tahoon oil; Tahoon-infused beets with curried chicken terrine; a dessert of pear, chestnuts, and chocolate–haunted by Tahoon.

My quickly dwindling supply led me to find a source for seeds. I can now grow a steady supply of sprouts through the winter. Maybe I'll even let some grow into plants that I can transplant into the garden come spring. Maybe, in a few years, I'll have a Tahoon tree of my own. But even as I sit here, typing and munching, thinking about steak, mushrooms, corn and Tahoon, I doubt that they'll ever make it past sprouts.

harvest

What grows together…goes together?

Are the tomatoes more intense this year because 5 years ago, I built raised beds from recycled lumber and filled them with black gold (black gold indeed…that truckload of compost cost me more than some jewelry)? Or is it because of the soft rock phosphate (so finely ground that the wind threatened to blow it away) that promised to raise the mineral content of the soil and increase the cell density of the crops?

Are the peaches extraordinarily sweet because 3 years ago, I took the time to dig a hole much larger and deeper than I needed to? Or can it be attributed to the carefully blended brew of blood meal (nitrogen), bone meal (phosphorous), wood ash (potassium) and compost tea that I apply each spring?

Or is Mother Nature being extra generous with her blessings this year?

phlox

Late summer, in Northeastern gardens, is when most flowers decide to call it a day. Spent by their explosive displays, they leave the show before the grand finale. Few flowers will wait this long to bloom, but phlox hold out patiently for their turn in the limelight.

Phlox (Phlox paniculata) possess all of the qualities that I look for in flowers:

They…

grow in part shade (I've got plenty of that)

like moist soil (ditto)

display deep, saturated colors (haughty hussies that they are)

bloom for a prolonged period (up to 6 weeks!)

require little care (yay for that)

have a heavenly scent (mmmm)

are edible (jackpot)

If you're wondering what phlox taste like, think barely ripe bananas and pears. Add to that the sweet muskiness of figs.

Cooking with phlox is a study in flower pigmentation. When heat or extreme cold is applied, the anthocyanin (water-soluble pigment responsible for pink, purple and blue color in plants) bonds with other compounds already present in the flower, turning the petals from pink to blue. As the reaction continues, the blue mellows to a lavender-mauve. This is the same chemical reaction that occurs with red cabbage and onions.

raclette potato

I have a confession to make:

I am a sucker for babies. They reduce me to a pile of cooing, quivering jelly. When I encounter a neonate, i have to fight the urge to stuff their pudgy cheeks, fists, and feet into my mouth. This may seem bizarre, but I'm willing to bet there are some of you that are nodding in recognition.

This same compulsion applies to baby vegetables (just ask Sid Wainer). These, I recognize, are OK to put in my mouth.

My first vegetable garden was largely dedicated to the cultivation of baby root vegetables. I planted miniature varieties of white turnips, red and yellow beets, cylindrical and round carrots, and red and white pearl onions in neat rows. It was a garden fit for a dollhouse.

I also planted Yukon Gold potatoes that were intended to be full size, but when I prematurely dug them up, I was delighted to find tiny, marble-size potatoes clinging to the roots. Within minutes, I was in my kitchen, rinsing off the still-wet earth, their skins so thin that the force of the water nearly peeled them away. After a few minutes in boiling, salted water, they went into a saute pan with fruity olive oil, smashed cloves of garlic and sprigs of thyme. Heavenly, they were; creamy inside, crisp and earthy outside. Later that day, I made a simple dinner of roasted baby potatoes with melted raclette cheese, good bread and wine. I will never forget those humble meals; they rekindled my love affair with the potato.

Nowadays, I seldom grow potatoes, mainly because I don't want to sacrifice the space in my garden required to grow and hill them. At this time of year, I am on the lookout for new crops of spuds that appear at the market and will rummage through bins and baskets, picking out the tiniest specimens.

The newborn fingerlings that I found, just hours old I was told, were prime for simple preparations. But, of course, I had to play.

raclette potato

Methocel SGA forms a firm gel when heated and reverts to it's original state (here, a soft puree) as it cools. For best results, allow it to hydrate overnight.

160 g hot potato puree

75 g milk, cream, or buttermilk

15 g butter

salt

100 g water

5 g methocel SGA150

raclette cheese, cut into thin slices.

To make potato puree: Peel potatoes and cut into chunks. Drop into boiling, salted water and cook until very tender. Drain and pass through a ricer, tamis or sieve 2-3 times or until a very smooth texture is achieved. This is best made just before proceeding with recipe, while still hot.

Combine hot potato puree with milk, butter, and salt, stirring vigorously until butter melts.

Add methocel to water and blend it in with an immersion blender. Combine gel with potato mixture, stirring until well blended. Cover and chill overnight in refrigerator.

The next day, preheat oven to 250F. Fill molds with potato mixture and bake for 8-10 minutes, or until firm. Remove from oven and unmold onto baking sheet lined with silpat.

Lay slices of cheese alongside potatoes and return to oven just until cheese softens and begins to spread.

Peel cheese off silpat and drape over potato. Lift potato and mold the cheese around the bottom, pressing into place.

If desired, the raclette potato can be painted with strongly-brewed, finely-ground coffee. Serve warm.

pickled lilies

Try saying that 3 times fast. Or, instead, go to your backyard, or your neighbors, or down any country road and pick some of these common flowers to munch on or to pickle. Just don’t pick them from the mall parking lot or other commercial venues where they proliferate, as they would indubitably be treated with pesticides. Hostas and Daylilies are ubiquitous in suburban landscapes because of their ability to thrive and bloom in a variety of soils and in hostile growing conditions. Their adaptability is why they live in my garden. That, and the added mega-bonus of ediblity.

Hostas and Daylilies belong to the Order Asparagales, which include asparagus, hyacinth, iris and orchids. Within that Order, they are classified into different Families.
Hostas (left) belong to the Family Agavaceae and the Genus Hosta and are commonly known as Plantain Lily. In the Western Hemisphere, they are cultivated for their sculptural leaves that are available in various sizes and colors. In the East, where they are believed to have originated, they are prized for their flowers. The young shoots and flowers of this plant are edible.
Daylilies (right) belong to the Family Hemerocallidaceae and the Genus Hemerocallis. The common orange species found growing along roadsides are H. Fulva. The name Daylily refers to the limited life of each flower, which bloom only for a day. Fortunately, there can be up to 50 buds on a mature clump, which assures a prolonged blooming period. The flowers, roots and young shoots of this plant are edible. But don’t confuse them with Tiger Lilies or other ornamental lilies from the Family Liliaceae, which are potentially poisonous. The surest way to tell them apart is by their leaves: Daylilies long, narrow leaves grow out from the ground, while their harmful look-alike’s leaves are short and grow along the flower stem.

Pickled Lilies

1 shallot, thinly sliced
5 whole cloves
5 whole allspice berries
5 whole black peppercorns
lily buds
1 3/4 cups cider vinegar
1/4 cup apple juice
2 tsp salt
1 tsp sugar
Place the shallot and spices in the bottom of a sterilized 1 pint canning jar. Fill the jar with lily buds. Bring the remaining ingredients to a boil. Cool completely, then pour over contents of jar. Seal and store in refrigerator for 2 weeks before using.

fireworks

Rain has threatened to call off fireworks tonight, though it hasn’t stopped the garden from putting on a tasty display.

Pickled Leek Flower

1 large flowering leek head
1 1/2 cup rice wine vinegar
1/2 cup water
2 T. kosher salt
1 tsp. sugar
Place leek head upside down in a 1 pint sterilized canning jar. Bring remaining ingredients to a boil. Cool completely and pour into jar. Seal and refrigerate for at least 1 week before using.

rain

5 days of rain and thunderstorms
the dog is inconsolable
the river looks ready to flood
at least the gardens are happy
and the weeds are delirious

rue

Rue is the eccentric old aunt of the herb family. When you lean in to greet her with a hug, she kisses you full on the mouth, leaving you shocked by her intensity. Your attempts at small talk are met with Shakespearean wit and exotic tales of far away and long ago in the ancient language of terpenoids: lime, pine, and cumin. You may want to feel sorry for poor aunt Rue, thinking her archaic and forgotten, but she is no shrinking violet or wallflower. She stands proud and erect, erudite in her role as protector and purger, reveling in her former days of bitter/sweet glory, waiting to be rediscovered.

In the gardens of my childhood, my mother planted herbs among the flowers. The border that flanked the entrance to our house contained perennials as well as parsley, chives, and thyme for cooking, and chamomile and lemon balm for tea. I never understood the purpose of the strange-smelling plant that she referred to as herba ruta and why it held the place of honor by the door. I never thought to ask.
My mother encouraged my interest in gardening and one year I was allowed to plant in the flower and herb border. I decided to dig up the Rue and move it to the far end of the garden in order to showcase the peony in its spot. The next day, the peony had been moved and the Rue was back in its original position. Again, I didn't ask.
When I moved into my first house, my mother showed up with something wrapped in wet newspaper. I wondered why she was bringing me a fish. I was puzzled when she revealed a freshly-dug Rue plant. This time, I asked.
According to my mother, and Portuguese folklore, herba ruta planted by a house's entrance will keep evil spirits from crossing the threshold.
So far, so good…

oxalis

In the early spring, after months of looking at the frozen earth

through a window, I am grateful for anything green and living that sprouts from the newly thawed ground, especially if it can be brought into the kitchen. Even the weeds capture my attention; mild and tender dandelions that have now turned coarse and savagely bitter, succulent little sprigs of purslane, and the prolific oxalis that I pay tribute to now, but by midsummer will become the bane of my existence.

Oxalis, commonly known as wood sorrel or sour grass, is a genus of over 800 species. It belongs to the family. Oxalidaceae, which includes the fruits bilimbi and carambola. The name comes from the Greek word for sour (oxys), which refers to the Oxalic acid that provides this plant with it's characteristic tart, lemony bite. The entire plant is edible; from the blossoms to the stems and leaves, right down to the tuberous root. In South America and the Andes, the tubers of the species O. Tuberosa are called oca and are consumed like potatoes.

While the consumption of oxalis is historical (sailors used to chew it to prevent scurvy, lending it the name scurvy plant), it is not until recently that it has made it's way into fine dining. I believe this trend can be attributed to modern Scandinavian chefs, particularly chef Rene Redzepi of NOMA in Copenhagen, who features it prominently in his New Nordic Cuisine.

The good thing about oxalis is that you don't have to go far to find it. It is an aggressive invader with spring-loaded seed pods that have the abilitiy to launch seeds as far as 10 feet away, and will quickly take over any available patch of dirt. Oxalis proliferates all over the US and many other countries, growing in lawns, garden beds, and along roadsides. I've even seen them sprouting up from cracks in sidewalks in NYC and Seattle. This is only good news from a culinary viewpoint…gardeners have a different take on it and view oxalis as a noxious weed. The less invasive varieties are being cultivated as ornamental plants that come in an array of colors and leaf sizes. I've found some striking cultivars at a local nursery that I've planted in the rock garden and intend to keep a close eye on their spreading habits.

optimism

"Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius"— Pietro Aretino