a living soup

Milkweed is a useful plant, entirely edible in its early stages. The young shoots are a delight when they emerge in the spring. Later, the tender young leaves are worth seeking out, but it's the reproductive parts that start out as buds, then open into sweet-scented flowers, and develop into tender-crisp pods that interest me most.

By mid-summer the plant toughens as it directs its energy into producing seeds. Though the mature pods are too cellulosic to consume, they're beautiful to look at. Pulling one apart, I am reminded of the recurring motifs found in nature: the seeds, perfectly shingled like feathers and fish scales, the 'cobs' composed of lustrous filaments— finer than silk— that unfurl into ghostly flowers to carry the seeds into perpetuity. Genius!

Although I had managed to harvest and pickle some flower buds while they were in season, I thought I had missed the window for the young pods until I found a stand of stunted plants growing in deep shade. The pods must be blanched to draw out their milky sap. I served them as crudites with a kefir-based dip and made some new milkweed (and kefir) converts. I saved a few to garnish a cold soup that I'm excited to tell you about.

All summer long my blender had been busy making raw, green gazpacho-style soups. Packed with good flavor and nutrients, they were a savory on-the-go alternative to smoothies, yet with some prudent garnishes they easily transitioned to more formal meals. Mostly, I made them with whatever was fresh and on hand, with variations of the basic components. Here's my framework recipe with percentages based on weight:

45% english cucumber, unpeeled
20% liquid– water, white wine, veg broth
15% fruit– green grapes, melon, avocado, white peach
8% fat– evo, almond oil, avocado oil
3.5% greens– lettuce, herbs, arugula, spinach, sorrel
3% nuts– almonds, macadamia, pistachio, sunflower seeds
2.75% acid– citrus juice, vinegar
2% aromatics– garlic, shallot, scallion
.75% salt

A few weeks ago, I made what would likely be the last cold soup of the year. I packed the blender with cucumber, nasturtium leaves, Crenshaw melon, almonds, garlic, scallions, and olive oil. I didn't have any open white wine or vegetable broth, but I did have a lot of fresh kefir whey left over from making kefir cheese. Since it was more than moderately acidic, I used it to replace both the liquid and the acid in the soup. In doing so, I realized that I was adding an ingredient that was alive with lactic acid and yeast, and that if given the right conditions (time and temperature), they would be capable of fermenting the soup. After consuming part of the soup, I put the rest on my front porch on an 85℉ day. Four hours later, the soup was notably transformed. The texture had lightened, almost to the point of being 'fluffy'. The sharp edges that I remembered from the soup that I had consumed earlier had rounded out (except for the acidity), yet the flavor had amplified. The difference was like listening to a CD versus a attending a concert; the raw soup was good, but the fermented soup tasted alive.

miso-cured quail eggs

The earliest tsukemono (Japanese pickles) are believed to have been made with miso. The simple process, known as misozuke, involves embedding food in a bed of miso and allowing it to cure for at least 3 months. The most prized misozuke are cured for a year or more.

Over the last several weeks, I've been curing a variety of plants and proteins in miso. My spare refrigerator is full of misozuke— bananas, apples, dried apricots and tomatoes, garlic, daikon, pumpkin, shiso leaves, kombu, bacon, pork skin and fatback, beef marrow, lamb breast, parmesan, gouda, and more. Though it'll be a few months before they're ready, I'm currently enjoying the egg yolks that cured in 4-5 days.

These are quail eggs yolks after 4 days of curing in red miso. Counter-clockwise from bottom is: a pair of raw yolks, 62C, 63C, 64C, and 65C in the center with part of the albumen still attached. After curing, the raw yolks collapsed and were soft and sticky, while the rest retained their shape. The differences in texture among the 62C-65C yolks were subtle— all of them reminiscent of soft cheese with a rich, umami flavor.

bahn pho ✢ sauteed pea sprouts ✢ scallion ✢ buna shimeji
miso-cured quail eggs ✢ red chili
roasted chicken stock finished with kombu

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.

corn langoustine plantago

There's a prevalent flavor in raw plantago that intrigues me. It's the same nutty oiliness that is found in arugula. It's reminiscent of a nut oil that is starting to go off– not rancid, but strangely pleasant. Unlike arugula, it's not followed by a sharp bite. Like arugula, it matches well with corn.

Anything cold and easy is all that I crave on these dog days of summer. Fresh corn, put through a juicer along with a chunk of fresh coconut, seasoned with salt and a squeeze of lime, requires little energy to prepare and even less to consume. Swirling on fresh plantago juice and brown buttermilk allows the flavors to meet and mingle on the palate and not be muddied on the plate. A quick salad of langoustine tails, dressed with a light and tangy brown buttermilk vinaigrette completes the dish.

clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair.

The conversation around the table is lively. A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud.

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go– just the way you like 'em…lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam–it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

minestra primavera

One of my clients recently returned from an extensive trip through Italy. She called this morning to discuss tonights dinner party and the foods that she sampled in her travels, particularly the minestre. When she began listing things like minestrone, zuppa di pesce, ribollita, risotto, spaghetti al pomodoro, and even lasagna, I became confused. In my ignorance, I believed that minestre were simply soups. It was sobering to learn that minestre refers to any food that is cooked in broth or a base sauce and is always served at the beginning of a meal. A liquid minestra (in brodo) is served as a first course, while a dry minestra (cooked in sauce) is served as a second course. This classification blurred the lines of what I formerly thought of as soup.

She was especially excited to tell me about a minestra di verdura that she was served in Emilia-Romagna that consisted of barely-cooked vegetables and legumes in a proscuitto and parmesan broth. Of course, this meant that the menu for the dinner party needed to be altered, which creates a domino effect. And although I have already shopped and prepped for the long-established menu, I'm up for the challenge and aim to please. I'm just gonna roll with this one.

prosciutto consomme, parmesan sponge, parmesan biscotti, young spring vegetables (new potatoes, zucchini, pattypan squash, cavolo nero, garlic shoots), legumes (haricots, green ceci, borlotto, cannellini), herbs (dandelion, basil, marjoram, chervil)

Download recipe: Parmesan sponge