Solanaceae: the incredible [sometimes] edible nightshade family of plants

Have you ever cut into a plum tomato and [for a moment] thought it was a pepper?
Or had a similar moment with the seed patterns of eggplant and tomatillos?

Have you ever roasted peppers over an open fire or opened a bag of sun dried tomatoes and caught a whiff of tobacco?

Maybe you've walked through a vegetable garden and noticed how certain flowers resemble each other?

You have? Well, you're very observant. And you probably already know that these observations are not random but just some of the threads that link together the nightshade family.

Solanaceae, commonly known as nightshade, is a fascinating and diverse family of plants comprised of 102 genera and 2800 species, many of which are globally significant sources of food.

Popular edible genera and species:
Solanum: potato (S. tuberosum), tomato (S. lycopersicum), eggplant (S. melongena)
Capsicum: bell pepper and chili pepper (C. annuum)
Physalis: tomatillo (P. philadelphica)

lesser edible species:
ground cherry/cape gooseberry (Physalis peruviana), goji berry (Lycium barbarum), tomarillo (Solanum betaceum), pepino melon (Solanum Muricatum), naranjilla (Solanum quitoense), wonderberry/sunberry (Solanum retroflexum), Morelle de Balbis (Solanum sisymbriifolium).

Nearly half of all nightshade species are found in the genus Solanum, including two important foods: potato and tomato. The potato species, with over 4,000 varieties, is the world's fourth largest food crop, surpassed only by rice, wheat, and corn. It possesses all of the vitamins and minerals necessary for human survival with the exception of vitamin A and D. Think about this the next time you add butter, milk, or sour cream to potatoes: you're creating a nutritionally complete food.

The potato tuber seems an anomaly in this large, varied family of predominantly fruit (tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers are botanically fruits, but for culinary purposes are considered vegetables). That's because the plant is genetically programmed to direct energy to forming tubers instead of fruit. Only 8% of the potato's genes are responsible for this trait, the other 92% of its DNA is shared with the tomato.

Economically, the tomato can give its tuberous cousin a run for the money— 2 billion dollars worth in the US market alone. Not bad for a fruit that started as a wild green berry in the mountains of Peru (also the birthplace of the potato) and thought to be unfit for human consumption for a span of its existence. Even after domestication in Europe, it was regarded as a mere curiosity to some, while others thought them (as a Paduan physician declared in 1628) “strange and horrible things”. But that was a long time ago and we no longer find the tomato so disagreeable. Well, at least not all of the time.

From July through October, homegrown and small farm raised tomatoes are celebrated with cult-like vehemence. For the rest of the year, when our only choice is commercially grown fruit, we are left with… strange and horrible things. How are these even related and, for the love of Flavor, if we can (insert any modern technological advancement), why can't we buy a tomato from November through June that isn't an abomination? For an age-old lament, you would think that the answer is more complicated than it actually is— what it really comes down to is money. The commercial farmers in South Florida, who grow 90% of out-of-season supermarket tomatoes in the US, don't get paid for flavor, they get paid by the pound. In this monopoly, flavor is inconsequential— profit comes from yield, uniformity, shippability, and shelf life. It's a grim laundry list that the other stakeholders— the commercial tomato breeders— must fill in order to get their piece of the pie. In doing so, they have bred the flavor right out of the tomato.

But there is hope…

Earlier this year, two separate papers were published on tomato genetics that could have a positive impact on commercially grown tomatoes by satisfying the consumer's yearning for flavor and still maintain the grower's bottom line.

The focus of one paper, published in the journal Science, is a random gene mutation in tomatoes that turn them uniformly red. Older varieties, like the heirlooms, turn red from the blossom end to the stem, some even remain green around the stem when fully ripe. Although the mutation was discovered 70 years ago and has since been deliberately bred into modern varieties to make them more attractive to consumers and easier for growers to determine ripeness, it was the authors, led by Ann Powell, a plant biochemist at UC Davis, who discovered that the missing gene inactivated by the mutation is responsible for the alluring aroma and flavor of a ripe homegrown tomato.

In another paper, the genome of the tomato was decoded for the first time by an international consortium of 300 plant geneticists from 14 countries. Shortly after it was published in the journal Nature in May, a surprising discovery from the study— that tomatoes possess a whopping 35,000 genes— made headlines. That's about 7,000 more genes than you or me but it doesn't mean that tomatoes are more complex, they just manage their cells differently.

The monumental work, nine years in the making, illuminates a cheaper and speedier path to improving every aspect of the tomato— from flavor, to disease resistance (lacking in heirloom varieties), to nutrition, to yield— and the ability to isolate these traits separately. The information about the evolution and pathways contained in the genome sequencing also has implications for other fleshy fruits that share tomato characteristics.

All of this groundbreaking information may seem like it's clearcutting the way for genetically modified tomatoes. That's been tried already, back in the 1990's, and failed due to consumer confidence. Instead, it facilitates the selective breeding of new varieties, both for the home garden and commercial farms. But when will we see change? According to a member of the consortium, Professor Graham Seymour of the University of Nottingham, in a BBC article:

"I only work with a couple of companies but I know that they are putting through some of these new traits and they are going to their elite lines – but all tomato breeding companies will be taking this up now so you would expect to see a number of new products over the next 3-5 years."

Godspeed.

tomato poached in lime basil oil
stuffed with mozzarella curds and mascarpone
tomatine sauce: fermented green tomato and tomato leaf

More than tomatoes and potatoes and other good things to eat, nightshade has a dark, unsavory side that begot its name. Meet the shadiest members:
datura (Datura stramonium)
belladonna (Atropa belladonna)
henbane (Hyoscyamus spp.)
mandrake (Mandragora spp.)

These genera played a prominent role in early medicine and continue to be important today. During the Renaissance, Venetian courtesans dilated their pupils with belladonna, the source of the alkaloid atropine, to make them appear dreamy and seductive. The vain application of the past inspired the more practical modern use of atropine in routine eye exams.

The superstitious minds of Medieval Europe shrouded nightshade in mystery, magic, and the occult. Mandrake, whose forked root sometimes resembles a human form, was believed to release a deadly shriek when pulled from the earth and was only harvested through a complex ritual that involved tying the plant to a dogs' tail on a moonlit night. The witches of the time inhaled henbane smoke to induce hallucinatory trances necessary to cast spells and summon spirits. Many of these plants were included in their legendary flying ointments for the sensations of lightness that they produced.

Earlier still, datura was revered as a sacred visionary plant by ancient civilizations of the world and used ceremoniously to induce prophesies. Henbane was commonly used in Druid and Viking rituals, as evidenced by the seeds found in their graves.

History, folklore, and literature are all guilty of romanticizing deadly plants, but nightshade's deadly aspect is no joke. These genera are host to a potent chemical soup of psychotropic alkaloids that in the right dose can treat a variety of ailments from motion sickness to Parkinson. In the wrong dose, they are capable of inducing hallucinations, comas, and death. Solanaceae plants produce these alkaloids and other compounds as chemical defenses against predators and environmental threats. but if you think they are limited to the medicinal species, think again.

the many colors and shapes of Solanaceae

Everything we eat has consequences. The most blatant example is chili pepper, a food that we willfully eat that causes us both pleasure and pain. The pleasure comes from a release of endorphines. The pain comes from the volatile compound capsaicin that, in a twist, has the ability to relieve pain.

Though not a food, tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) is an important cash crop that produces the alkaloid nicotine, whose harmful and addictive nature has been well documented. But how many abstainers know that it is also present (in lesser degrees) in eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes?

Have you ever experienced an itchy or burning sensation on your tongue after eating eggplant? That's oral allergy syndrome, caused by protein histamines that affects sensitive individuals.

And those green spots on potatoes? Those are harmless chlorophyll, but they indicate something insidious just under the surface: the presence of solanine, a poisonous alkaloid that can cause severe nausea, and even death.

Just as science shines new light and understanding on naturally-occurring plant compounds and their implications to our health, it also exposes myths.

The strange and horrible tomato, once feared for its association with the dark side, is now known to contain beneficial phytonutrients, even as an increasing part of the population sensitive to their alkaloids is choosing to exclude them, and all nightshades, from their diet.

Solanine has been long believed to be the culprit that kept us from consuming tomato leaves. But as Harold McGee pointed out in a 2009 article in the New York Times, solanine belongs to the potato species, while the tomato's is tomatine, which "appears to be a relatively benign alkaloid". So, while it may not be a good idea to indulge in a heap of tomato greens, a few aromatic leaves used as an herb is likely harmless.

Perhaps the most misunderstood and controversial members of Solanaceae belong to the Solanum nigrum complex. Solanum nigrum, commonly known as black nightshade, is a morphologically distinct species and there are at least 30 other distinct Solanum species that are bundled into this complex. To quantify them all under the dark umbrella of black nightshade taints them with the perception that they are all deadly poisonous when, in fact, they are not. At least, not all of the time. And that's where the confusion begins.

Here, too, solanine seems to be the problem— or more accurately— the varying degrees of concentration among the species. Many (too numerous to list) have a long history as significant food sources, primarily in Africa and Eurasia. Most often, it's the leaves that are gathered and cooked as greens. In some cases the ripe berries are consumed as well. Unless we are willing to sift through a maze of mind-numbing toxicological data on the individual species, there is very little practical information available. Even so, conclusions given by plant scientists are typical to this:
"the development of toxic levels of these alkaloids is dependent on their growth under certain conditions or in certain localities, and even on the age of the plants concerned. Other reports suggest that the amounts of poisonous 'principles' vary greatly with climate, season and soil type." (Edmonds and Chweya,1997)

Could this be a case of poisonous terroir?

The fear and uncertainty surrounding black nightshade, at least in North American, prevents even the adventurous from gathering and consuming wild species— every field guide lists S. nigrum as toxic. But there is a cultivated species that was introduced in the early 1900's by plant breeder Luther Burbank, whose ripe berries are reputedly safe to eat.

Burbank claimed to have hybridized his 'Sunberry' by crossing S. guineense with S. villosum , and created Solanum burbankii, “a new food plant from a poisonous family”. In 1909, Burbank sold the rights to the seeds to John Lewis Childs, who rechristened it 'Wonderberry' and promoted it with extravagant claims as "the greatest garden fruit ever introduced ". Suspicion was cast when horticulturists claimed that it was nothing more than common S. nigrum. Controversy raged until the 1950's when the wonderberry was proven to be a distinct species native to South Africa. It was never known whether Burbank was aware of this or if it had been inadvertently introduced to his experimental gardens. Nevertheless, the damage was done and fear of black nightshade cast the wonderberry into obscurity. In recent years, wonderberry has been resurrected by seed companies and gardeners interested in 'new' heirloom varieties. Sometimes it is listed as the hybrid S. burbankii, sometimes as the correct species S. retroflexum, but by all accounts it is safe to eat the black ripe berries (green are recognized as poisonous), and by many accounts, they are delicious.

roasted eggplant and smoked potato custard
fire-roasted pepper petals
nightshade relish

Ever versatile, Solanaceae contributes more than food and drugs— it enriches our lives with beauty and scent through these ornamentals plants:
petunia (Petunia spp.) most widely grown ornamental nightshade • 35 species • flattened tubular flowers • available in many colors from white to black (dark purple) • spreading habit makes them popular in hanging baskets.
flowering tobacco (Nicotiana spp.) various flowering species of tobacco • small tubular star-shaped flowers open at dusk • older varieties are more scented than modern.
datura (Datura spp.) aka: angel's trumpet, moonflower, thorn apple • large erect trumpet flowers • produces spiny seed pods • highly toxic.
brugmansia (Brugmansia spp.) closely resembles datura, but with pendulous flowers and woody stems • grown as trees in the tropics • strongly scented • highly toxic.

The etymology of Solanaceae is unclear— there is conjecture that Sol- refers to their preference for sunshine and heat. Most genera originated in warm climates, where they grow as perennials. In cold climates, unless protected, they must be treated as annuals. Although they love growing in the sun, the flowers of these ornamentals only release their alluring scent at night. This trait allows them to attract nocturnal pollinators and, perhaps, contributed to the naming of "nightshade".

husk-covered nightshade: tomatillo, groundcherry, Morelle de Balbis

Among the edible species, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant are the most widely cultivated by home gardeners. They're certainly omnipresent in my vegetable patch, along with tomatillos. They are easy to grow if you provide them with rich soil, room to breathe, and at least 6 hours of sunshine a day. Potatoes require a little extra care as they need to have additional soil hilled up around them as they grow to allow tubers to form along the stem and to protect them from sunlight that triggers solanine.

I've always allocated space in the garden to experiment with new plant varieties. This year, it was occupied by three nightshade: purple tomatillos, groundcherries, and Morelle de Balbis.

The purple tomatillos got a late start and didn't fully ripen before the first frost, but I was able to harvest a decent crop of the green variety before they succumbed to the same fate.

Groundcherries were a delight (for the squirrel and slugs too). When ripe, their papery green husks turn brown and they fall to the ground. The berries within are edible when green and taste similar to tomatillos. They turn yellow when ripe and become sweet with a flavor reminiscent of pineapple. They'll definitely be on the roster next year.

The Morelle de Balbis were formidable plants to grow— the stems, leaves, and husks are covered with fierce thorns that like to grab onto clothes and hair, and prick exposed skin. The husks surrounding the berries make them appear to be physalis, but they belong to the genus solanum. They break open when the fruit ripens, exposing red berries that taste like a blend of tomatoes and plums, and take on sweet cherry notes as the fruit ages.

pineapple honey glazed groundcherries
cherry honey glazed Morelle de Balbis
lime tomatillo tuile sheeps milk gelato
sweet cicely chamomile

Even as I put my garden to rest for the year, I'm already thinking ahead to next.

I already know that nightshades will take up most of the real estate. I'll put the tall tomatillos towards the back, the low-growing groundcherries in the front, where they'll have room to sprawl. The potatoes will grow in a row along the wall that will retain the soil that I'll pile on them as they grow. There will be peppers, both hot and sweet, and petunias in hanging baskets on the porch, flowering tobacco in the border by the back door to perfume the night air.

I look forward to growing two new-to-me varieties: wonderberry, an edible member of black nightshade (see above), and naranjilla (Solanum quitonense), a shade tolerant plant that produces acidic orange berries, reputed to taste like pineapple and lime.

And yes, there will be tomatoes, as many as I can fit. They'll get the spot with the best soil and the most sun because the tomatoes that grow there will likely be the best that I eat all year. Maybe someday, with a push from science, that will no longer be true.

garlic mustard

As long as we've lived here, there has been garlic mustard in the woods at the back of our property. Over the years, I've watched it creep down the hillside and flirt with the backyard. I've managed to keep them apart because they can be terribly invasive, although their compact colonies don't bother me as much as pokeweed or knotweed.

I don't know how long I can keep them at bay. In the battle of the weeds, I just might let garlic mustard win.

Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) is a hardy biennial in the Brassicaceae family that grows to three feet in height. All parts of the plant are edible. The leaves are tender and mild, almost sweet, and taste of both garlic and mustard due to flavonoids that are enjoyed by humans, but despised by insects and herbivores— an efficacious trait that guarantees its proliferation.

Next to onions, garlic is the most used allium in my kitchen, though it's not a regular in my vegetable garden. That's because it needs to go in the ground in the fall when I'm more concerned with harvesting than planting. I did remember to plant a handful of cloves last September and recently dug up some immature heads. The baby-toe-sized cloves are tender and their translucent skins have not yet turned papery. When poached in milk, they become incredibly sweet and mild— a rare treat that only a vampire could resist.

Milk-poaching garlic always reminds me of brandade, a requisite step in making the salted cod and potato emulsion. The garlic-infused milk is used to poach the cod, which is infinitely better when salted just prior to cooking.

I piped the brandade from a parchment paper cone, using the exact same motion to fashion bite-size cones from garlic mustard leaves. A tiny smear of brandade on the underside of the outer leaf edge glues the cone together. Fried potatoes sticks were inserted into the cone before the brandade was piped in, because fried potatoes with [garlic and cod] pureed potatoes are doubly delicious!

brandade

Brandade is traditionally served as a dip or spread for bread. Other fish such as halibut, haddock, pollock, and hake can be substituted for the cod. Strong, oily fish like mackerel, herring, and sardines makes an assertive brandade that stands up well to pickled and brined condiments. In any case, the fish should be salted the day before. The salting process could go on for up to 24 hours, but I prefer the flavor and texture of 6-8 hours. I also prefer to use Yukon Gold potatoes over more traditional white as the don't get pasty when mechanically pureed.

400g cod (or other fish) fillet
kosher or sea salt

Sread a 1.25cm/1/2" thick layer of salt in the bottom of a shallow, non-reactive dish that is just large enough to hold the fish. Lay the fish fillet on top of the salt and completely cover with another 1.25cm/1/2" thick layer of salt. Cover dish loosely and refrigerate for 6-8 hours. Remove fish from salt and rinse thoroughly under cold running water. Pat dry. Cut fish into 2.5cm/1" pieces and allow to sit at room temperature while proceeding with recipe.

200g Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into 2.5cm/1" dice

Drop the potatoes into a pot of lightly salted boiling water and cook until very tender. Drain and keep warm.

600g whole milk
35g shallot, peeled and thinly sliced
10 black peppercorns
4 bay leaves
3 sprigs of thyme
12g garlic, peeled and thinly sliced

Place all ingredients except garlic into a large saucepan and bring to a bare simmer. Continue simmering (don't allow milk to boil), tightly covered, for 8 minutes. Strain through a sieve. Discard solids and return milk to saucepan. Add garlic and simmer for 4 minutes. Add fish to pan and simmer for 2 minutes (temp should be at about 80C/144F). Tightly cover pan and remove from heat. Let sit for 5 minutes or until fish is thoroughly cooked and flakes easily.

50g extra virgin olive oil

Lift the warm fish and garlic slices from the milk with a slotted spoon and place in the bowl of a food processor along with the olive oil. Process for in short bursts, sraping down sides, until a smooth paste is formed. Add about 1/3 of the milk and process for 30 seconds. Add the warm potatoes and process until smooth, adding more milk (as needed) in a stream through the feed tube until the mixture is smooth and the consistency of mayonnaise.

Japanese knotweed

On a former property, colonies of Japanese knotweed made themselves a home on a riverbank. By late summer— if left unchecked— they grew into a jungle that could only be penetrated with a machete.

Where pokeweed is a bully, knotweed is a Superbully. On steroids. If you've ever battled this plant, then surely you're nodding in agreement. I feel your pain.

On my current property, I've been graced with both of these scourges and they often grow side by side. Their shoots look similar when they emerge in the spring, but beneath the soil there is no mistaking pokeweed's long pale taproots for knotweed's sprawling network of russet roots. And, unlike pokeweed, knotweed is not a native plant— most invasive species aren't. It's likely that Japanese knotweed (Fallopia japonica) was imported from Europe for its dramatic plumes of flowers and robust growth.

knotweed shoots ✢ sheep's milk yogurt ✢ lamb bacon lardons
hot bacon dressing ✢ young spruce

As a food source, the significant difference between the two is that while pokeweed should be consumed with caution, knotweed is perfectly safe to eat. Though, in its raw form it's very sour (it belongs to the same family as rhubarb), a trait that indicates the presence of oxalic acid, and should be consumed in moderation by those prone to rheumatism, arthritis, and kidney stones.

Remarkably, knotweed is a concentrated source of reservatol, a natural phenol with anti-aging properties. How clever and appropriate of Nature to devise an indestructible weed whose tenacity is despised by humans and endow it with the potential to extend our lives!

The thick, hollow stems, divided by joints, give it the appearance of bamboo, though they're not related. Mature stalks become too woody to consume, but lengths that are cut between their knees make excellent straws.

pokeweed

Farmers say that a weed is just a plant in the wrong place and there's truth in that. Jewelweed, for example, look lovely in hedgerows, but gangly in a garden.

Unlike cultivated plants that fuss over the right conditions, weeds are opportunists just trying to survive. My issue has always been with the bullies that come out of nowhere and threaten to take over the neighborhood. They just don't play nice.

I'm all for giving Darwinian theories a stage in the wild, but not in my gardens.

Of all of the weeds that I've battled over the years, I'd classify pokeweed (Phytolacca americana) among the most obnoxious. Certainly, it would top the tenacious list for its long taproots that reach far and dig deep. Pokeweed waits until you turn your back to go from innocuous sprouts to monstrous copses that reach ten feet in height.

Pokeweed, though, is not without its charms. It is a native plant, so that gives it a right to stake its claim. Its long panicles of white flowers are attractive and even smell mildly sweet— and I'm a sucker for scented flowers. Songbirds love the deep purple berries whose juice was used as ink during the Civil War. In fact, the Declaration of Independence was written with poke ink and remains legible after two and a quarter centuries. So there's that. But all of those virtues aside, there is one other that undeniably endears it to me: pokeweed is edible.

Yes, pokeweed has a long and rich history as a wild food, but it is also potentially poisonous!

In the rural south, the young leaves (known as poke sallet, or polk salet) were collected in the spring and cooked in three changes of water to leech out the toxins, of which there are at least three different types. I can only guess at how many mountain folk fell seriously ill after consuming the highly toxic roots, and mature stems and leaves and eventually realizing that only the thoroughly cooked young shoots and leaves were safe to consume.

Despite the risks, the regional appeal of poke sallet was strong enough to inspire a folk song "Polk Salad Annie", recorded by Elvis, and a commercially canned product by The Allen Canning Company, who ceased production in 2000 because of "the difficulty of finding people interested in picking poke". Today, pokeweed is still celebrated in annual Poke Sallet Festivals that take place in Harlan, KY and Gainesboro, TN, and its legacy lives on in a new generation of foragers and interest in historical foods.

The internet is full of old-timers poetic waxings about pokeweed. But for every fond memory, there is an equally passionate warning against its consumption. Jean Weese, of the Alabama Cooperative Extension System, has this to say:
"The boiling process removes some of the toxins but certainly not all of them. I suggest that people avoid this plant no matter how many times your mother or grandmother may have prepared it in the past and no matter how good it tasted. Why would you want to eat something that we know is toxic when there are so many other non-toxic plants out there we can eat?"

It's a good question— one I've asked myself many times.

Plants are fascinating on so many levels. As the primary source of phytochemicals, they have the ability to do harm or to heal. It's not unusual for one plant to do both. Pokeweed contains chemical compounds that can make us sick, yet it is sold as a dietary supplement. And an antiviral protein unique to pokeweed (PAP) is being studied (and showing promise) in treatments of cancer, herpes, and HIV.

Minor ailments aside, I'm a physically healthy person (or so my doctor tells me). And let's assume that I'm also mentally sound, if only because I have no overwhelming desire to poison myself. Why then would I knowingly consume something that can harm me? It's not a decision I make lightly. My approach is careful and methodical:

Research, research, research. Proceed only when confident.
At first, take small bite, chew, spit out, wait 24 hours for side effects.
If there are none, go back for another small bite, chew, swallow, wait another 24 hours.

At the very least, it's a three day proposition. Only then would I consume a moderate meal of any questionable plant. But that's just the how. The why is more complicated.

pokeweed hush puppies ✢ smoked ham mousse ✢ buttermilk pokeweed puree

Eating plants that were prepared and enjoyed by people of a different time, place or culture matters to me because it connects us. Maybe that's purely idealistic, but it's this romantic attraction to food that keeps me engaged on an emotional level.

On another level, it appeals to my sense of discovery. Throughout history there have been food pioneers who consumed strange things for the first time and forged paths of deliciousness for the rest of us. Consider the brave individuals who dared to bite into a pungent gnarled root of horseradish or sip a foul-smelling fermented beverage before anyone else had. That would not have been me! When it comes to consuming potentially toxic substances, my curiosity is trumped by reason and altruism by self-preservation. My sense of discovery extends only to foods that are new-to-me, and must first be positively identified and known to be edible.

Perhaps, what most compels me to seek out and eat plants like pokeweed is simply to taste it. Every new flavor that I experience adds to my catalog of flavors— a tool that is more useful than a sharp knife. Flavor is the foundation and defining factor of any good dish. Without it, technique is gimmickery and composition is arbitrary. A chefs repetoire of flavors is no different than a painters palette or a writers vocabulary; diversity allows for a broader range of expression.

Cooked pokeweed has a mild vegetal flavor that's hard to describe. Who knows, maybe someday I'll eat something that I can say "tastes like pokeweed".

parsley oil

It's hard to imagine cooking without parsley. A workhorse in the kitchen, parsley's bright herbaceous flavor lets it go places where other flavors can't. Equally at home in the background or at center stage, it is perhaps most useful at bridging disparate flavors.

In the garden, it's one of the last herbs to succumb to frost, and quick to resurrect in the spring. As a biennial, it's life cycle is limited to two growing seasons, but letting the seeds ripen and self-sow in the second year ensures successive crops.

In my everyday cooking, I can think of few dishes that wouldn't benefit from a bit of parsley and I'll admit that I use it less judiciously than black pepper, whose distinct flavor can easily overwhelm and is often overused as a seasoning. With that said, crushed black pepper and freshly minced parsley make a fine seasoning.

It's so versatile that it's rare that I find myself with leftover parsley. In those instances, I stockpile the stems in the freezer and toss leaves into salads. Or, when there's a considerable amount, I make parsley oil.

Making parsley oil is as simple as pureeing parsley leaves in a blender with oil and straining through a coffee filter. The more oil used, the faster it will strain and the higher the yield, but there will be less flavor.

In spring, the oil is fantastic drizzled on seasonal fare: smashed new potatoes and peas (with a sprinkle of nutmeg), asparagus veloute, roasted fiddleheads, fresh ricotta with honey, and it will make anything that comes off the grill sing. It's also a flavorful medium in which to poach, or confit, fish if you keep the temperature below 50C so the flavor doesn't turn woody. That's where this cuttlefish tentacle was heading, but looking at the parsley root that it was to be served with, it made more sense to place the flavor there. Raw parsley root tastes a lot like fresh parsley, but becomes sweet and earthy when cooked. Gently cooking it in parsley oil and letting it macerate overnight transforms the flavor and color to a bright, beautiful green.

Celebrating the flavors of spring: cuttlefish, parsley root, meyer lemon, and toasted almond gremolata.

butternut squash fusilli

There's an hors d'oeuvre on our fall/winter catering menu that we refer to as "the squash box". It consists of a hollow cube of roasted butternut squash, filled with goat cheese and crushed pistachios. When we serve them inverted and lined up on trays, they appear to be simple bite-sized blocks of squash— the hidden filling comes as a surprise. The squash boxes exemplify the combination of appealing flavor and clean presentation that we strive for in our passed hors d'oeuvres, so naturally, we were pleased by their popularity. But back in the kitchen, they were a real pain in the ass to make.
At first, we hollowed them by scoring 1/4" thick walls with a paring knife, then meticulously removed the centers with a melon baller. This was manageable when making a few dozen, but when the numbers stretched into the hundreds, we had to rethink the process.
Chef Martin is a great thinker, a creative problem solver, and a lover of tools. His first attempt at a solution was to have a square metal die fabricated to score the inner wall. In theory, it should've worked perfectly, but in reality, the metal was too thick and split the walls of the boxes. Undeterred, he pulled out the power tools— specifically, a drill fitted with a Forstner bit. It was a beautifully quick and effective solution to a previously tedious task.
Here's a short clip of Martin in action. Please excuse his parting gesture—apparently, his hands are not a fan of the camera.

Delighted as we were by this streamlined solution and the clean holes, I was more interested in what came out of them: long, coiled ribbons of butternut squash that looked identical to fusilli pasta.
Here's a closer look:

In this by-product of the squash boxes, I saw an elegant alternative to vegetable pasta. But cooking the butternut squash fusilli posed a critical problem. I tried every possible application of heat: wet, dry, slow, fast, but in each instance, just as it passed into a palatably tender stage, they would go limp and lose definition. I knew the solution was somewhere in the folds of my memory, ready to access, but there I failed, too.
Memory is a curious thing. Sometimes it's as direct and linear as a gunshot, sometimes it's like fishing in a labrinth.
I felt a tug on the lure while reasearching nixtamalization for a pickling project. It bit down in my memory of the 2011 Star Chefs Congress. When I reeled it in, at the end of the line were 2 gleaming nuggets of information.
The first was courtesy of Andoni Luis Aduriz, who, in a workshop, demonstrated a fossilization technique where salsify was soaked in a lime (the mineral, not the fruit) solution to firm the surface before cooking. From my memory, his claim that "any fruit with pectin will react with lime to make calcium pectate".
The second nugget was from Paul Liebrandt's mainstage presentation from the later that day. In a similar technique, he used calcium lactate to form a skin on the surface of jerusalem artichoke, allowing it to keep it's shape while the interior cooked to a creamy texture, without loss of moisture.
So, it seemed there were two possible solutions that produced parallel results. One, alkaline and caustic, the other a neutral salt.
I went with the calcium lactate. In the photo below, you can see the results. In the foreground is the squash that soaked in a 1% calcium lactate solution for 2 hours, then air dried, and roasted— tender, but still defined. In the background is the untreated squash roasted on the same pan— limp in comparison.

Solutions, like a great catch, are worth waiting for.
That's an easy one to remember.

butternut squash ✢ black kale ✢ goat gouda ✢ kale stem

beet roses

If asked, I'd say that the rose is my favorite flower, but my husband knows better than to bring any home today. It's not that roses on Valentine's Day is a cliché… something so classic and eternally beautiful can never be that. I guess my objection is the mass-marketed, factory-farmed, ridiculously-priced aspect. Yet, as symbols of love and romance, they are undeniable. So, while there will be no long-stemmed, hothouse-forced, All-American Beauties in my house today, there will still be roses!

bull's blood beet chips on Couer de Bray (cow)

candy cane beet chips on Bonne Bouche (goat)

microwave beet chips

beets
1 quart water
1 Tblsp kosher salt
olive oil in a mister bottle

Slice the beets thinly on a mandolin so that they are slightly thicker than a credit card. (If your beets are round and you wish to make roses by embedding them in cheese, they will need to be tapered on one end like a rose petal.)
Add the salt to the water (yes, it's a lot of salt, but neccessary for proper dehydration) and bring to a boil. Drop in about a dozen beet slices at a time and boil for about 3 minutes, (adding more water to maintain the level or it will become too salty as it evaporates) or until they become flexible. Remove beets with a slotted spoon and spread out on paper towels. Blot the tops dry with additional towels. Transfer slices to a sheet of parchment paper on a flat, microwave-proof dish in a single layer. Spray the tops lightly with olive oil. Flip them over and mist again. Place beets in microwave and cook on high power for 1-2 minutes, depending on the wattage of your microwave (run a trail with a few beets to confirm the time— they should become crisp within a minute of removing them from oven). Repeat with remaining beets. Store in an airtight container at room temperature.

salmon pumpernickel leek

A variation of the previous dish with salmon sausage, chocolate rye pumpernickel (in pudding form), micro leeks, and oca.

pumpernickel pudding

50g charred leeks, cooked through
30g pumpernickel bread, trimmed of crusts and crumbled
50g kefir
35g water
20g beer
2g salt
15g neutral oil

Place all of the ingredients except the oil in a blender or food processor and blend until smooth. Slowly drizzle in the oil with the motor running. If necessary, add more oil to thicken, or water to thin. Adjust seasoning.

Oca (Oxalis tuberosa) is a species of oxalis that has long been cultivated in the Andes, where it is the second most popular tuber next to the potato, and more recently in New Zealand. Unlike common oxalis (wood sorrel), oca forms prolific fleshy tubers that can be eaten raw or cooked. In its raw form, they are crisp and moderatly acidic, like an apple without the sugar.

Oca contains fairly high concentrations of oxalates, an organic acid that can lead to kidney stones. Because the oxalates are found mostly in the skin, they can be diminished by peeling, cooking, or by exposing the tubers to direct sunlight for several hours.

Cultivating oca requires a long growing season. To get a headstart, they were sprouted in a bright, moist environment. And now that they're off to a good start they'll go directly into pots, where they'll live until the ground warms up. By late autumn, I hope to have a new crop of these delicious nuggets.

salmon sausage

Sausages need a casing.

That conclusion was reached while considering a naked and unappealing cylinder of poached salmon paste. It might've been acceptable had it not been about to be presented as a sausage.

Clearly, it needed a casing. The casing needed to be vegetarian. And with service quickly approaching, it needed to be fast.

Looking at vegetables to encase the sausage, there were two ways to go about it: wrapping or stuffing. Stuffing into a seamless casing was aesthetically preferable, but short of whitling a long, thin tube from a vegetable, there were no quick or easy alternatives that I could think of.

Wrapping, by far, offered the most doable options. Blanched leaves were considered, but rejected for their unwanted color and opacity. Translucent paper-thin sheets (which would have required breaking out the mad knife skillz) of potato, cucumber, zucchini, or daikon seemed the way to go, until a simpler technique involving leeks sprung to mind. The technique, as learned from a chef long ago was as follows:

Trim the top and roots off of a long, fat leek. Cut halfway through the leeks lengthwise and dislodge the outer layers. Blanch, shock, and lay the leek sheets flat. Pipe the filling on the leek sheet, roll tightly around filling to encase, tie ends with string, wrap tightly in plastic wrap, and poach in barely simmering water.

With the leeks trimmed, I made the first cut. It wasn't until I began seperating the layers that I realized my folly: I was making a sheet to avoid making a tube, yet I had cut through a tube to make a sheet.

And that's how the most perfect vegetable casing that Nature could provide had almost eluded me.

salmon sausage

These sausages are a great way to use up trimmings. The flecks of smoked salmon give it a more dimensional flavor, as would the addition of fresh herbs, dried spice, grated aromatics, etc. They can be served hot, cold, or finished in a pan with butter.

2 leeks
500g salmon, cut into chunks and well chilled
130g cold cream cheese, cut into chunks
4g salt
70g smoked salmon, minced and chilled

casings: Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Trim the root end off of the leeks and cut the tops where they begin to seperate and turn green. Drop the leeks into the boiling water and remove after 3 minutes. Using a dishtowel, pull the outer layer of the hot leeks up and over the tops until they're free. If they don't slide off easily, return to the boiling water for another minute or two. Repeat until you have enough casings to hold the filling, about 6- 8, depending on their width and length.
filling: Place the salmon in the bowl of a food processor. Process in short bursts, scraping bowl 2-3 times, until reduced to a smooth paste. Distribute the cream cheese and salt over the top of paste and process again in short bursts, until the cream cheese is no longer distinguishable. Scrape paste into a bowl and fold in the smoked salmon mince.
stuffing: Slide a leek casing over the extension tube of a sausage stuffer, taking care to not tear the leek. Feed the paste through until it fills about 1" of the end of the casing (enough to release air pocket), then tie filled end with string. Continue feeding paste until casing is filled. Remove from tube and tie open end with string. If sausage stuffer is not available, fill casings by piping filling through a pastry bag fitted with a long, wide tip. Or, do it old school (like my mother still does), by forcing the filling with thumbs through a funnel fitted into one end of the casing.
cooking: Drop tied sausages into a 50C water bath and cook for 20 minutes (no bag needed).

sweet potato pie

glazed baby sweet potatoes ✢ kieffer lime marshmallow
sweet potato crumble

glazed sweet potatoes

150g peeled baby sweet potatoes, or mature sweet potatoes cut into .5" x 3.5" batons
30g unsalted butter, melted
30g maple syrup
10g dark rum
10 gratings of tonka bean on microplane
pinch of salt

Pack sweet potatoes in a single layer in a vacuum bag. Combine the remaining ingredients in a small bowl and pour over sweet potatoes. Pull a vacuum on the filled bag and seal. Cook in an 82C/180F water bath for 25 minutes. Empty contents of bag into a saute pan and set over med-high heat. Cook, tossing frequently, until liquid has reduced to a glaze and coats the sweet potatoes. Keep warm until ready to assemble.

sweet potato crumble

100g grated sweet potato
8g butter
35g orange juice
35g water

Melt the butter in a saute pan set over medium high heat. Add the shredded sweet potato and toss to coat evenly with butter. Add the orange juice and water and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook for about 5 minutes or until the potato shreds are just tender. Uncover and raise the heat to high. Cook until all liquid is evaporated and the shreds begin to sizzle. Immediately remove pan from heat and transfer contents to a parchment-lined baking sheet. Carefully separate and spread the shreds out in a single layer, ensuring that there are no clumps. Bake the shreds in a 76C/170F oven for about 90 minutes, or until they are dry and crisp, tossing, separating, and re-spreading the shreds several times. Cool completely.

30g pecans
60g flour
15g muscavado sugar
15g malted milk powder
2g microplaned gingerroot
1g salt
a pinch each of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and allspice
45g unsalted butter, cut in small dice

Place the cooled, crisp sweet potato shreds and the pecans in food processor and process in short bursts until reduced to sandy consistency. Add the remaining ingredients except for the butter, and process just until blended. Sprinkle the diced butter over top and process in short bursts, stopping when mixture forms small clumps. Transfer the crumbled dough onto a baking sheet and shake the sheet to evenly distribute the crumbs. Bake at 325F for 15-20 minutes to set the crumbs. Keep warm in a low oven until ready to assemble.

kieffer lime marshmallow

170g sugar
5g kieffer lime leaves, chopped
1g kieffer lime or persian lime zest
28g water
185g liquid glucose (or substitute corn syrup)

Place sugar, lime leaves, and zest in food processor and process until lime leaves and zest are reduced to fine pieces. Transfer contents to a small saucepan and add water. Cover and place over low heat until sugar is melted and liquid. Remove from heat and allow syrup to infuse for 15 minutes. Strain mixture through fine sieve and return syrup to saucepan. Add glucose and heat mixture to 120C/248F (firm ball stage).

67g water
7g powdered gelatin
2g vanilla extract

While syrup is heating, place the water in the bowl of a stand mixer and sprinkle the gelatin over the top. Position the bowl to the mixer and fit with the whisk attachment. When the syrup reaches 115C/240F, turn the mixer on low. When syrup reaches the firm ball stage, immediately remove from heat and begin to pour the syrup slowly down the inside surface of the mixer bowl, with the mixer still on low. When approximately 1/4 of the syrup is in the bowl, turn the mixer up to high speed and continue slowly pouring the syrup down the side of the bowl, being careful to not pour it onto the whisk. Scrape the remaining syrup that is clinging to the saucepan (heat briefly if it has begun to harden) and add to the bowl. Continue beating the syrup on high speed until it is white and fluffy and has tripled in volume, about 10 minutes. Beat in the vanilla.

60g confectioner's sugar
40g cornstarch

While the syrup is being whipped, combine the confectioner's sugar and cornstarch and place half of it in a sieve. Line a baking sheet with parchment and dust thickly with the mixture. Place the remaining mixture in the sieve so that it is ready to dust over the top of marshmallow.
If the marshmallow is to be piped, have a bowl of hot water ready, large enough to insert the mixer bowl, to keep the marshmallow fluid. As soon as the marshmallow is ready, Place the mixer bowl in the bowl of hot water to keep the gelatin from setting, and immediately transfer about 1 cup of mixture to a piping bag fitted with a 3/8" tip. Pipe elongated shapes that mimic the baby sweet potatoes onto the dusted baking sheet. Forming the tapers takes a little practice: start by piping a small amount onto the surface of the marshmallow in the bowl and pulling the piping bag away quickly to form the leading taper. Then begin forming the marshmallows by piping about 2.5" onto the dusted baking sheet and anchoring it with the tip of a small knife while slowly pulling the remaining length into a fine taper from the piping bag until it breaks off. Dust the tops with the additional confectioners sugar/cornstarch mixture and allow the mixture to cool and firm before rolling in mixture to coat all sides.
Alternately, the marshmallows can be formed by scraping the entire mass (while still warm) onto the dusted baking sheet and quickly spreading with a heated spatula to .5" thickness. Dust the top with the additional confectioners sugar/cornstarch mixture and allow the mixture to cool and firm before cutting into .5" x 3.5" batons with a heated knife.

To assemble: Spread a thin layer of the warm sweet potato crumble on a serving dish. Top with an alternating row of warm glazed sweet potatoes and marshmallow. Brulee the top of the marsnhmallows with a torch. Serve immediately.