warm weather elicits cravings for raw foods
buffalo tartare
pickled allium aioli
daikon white asparagus lime gelee
lime basil
Category: vegetables
allium triquetrum
These allium were sent to me from Oregon, simply labeled as "wild onions". Originally, I thought they were ramsons (Allium ursinum), which grow wild in my area in the early spring. However, the triangular stems were exceedingly long and lacked the characteristic broad leaves that often cause ramsons to be confused with lily of the valley (a toxic plant). Further research revealed that they are, in fact, Allium triquetrum, commonly known as three-cornered leek, a species of Allium indigenous to the Mediterranean. They are also reported to grow in temperate areas of Britain and Japan. In the US, they are only found along coastal Oregon and California, where they are classified as an invasive weed.
All parts of the plant possess a refined leek/garlic flavor and aroma. The bulbs are dense and crisp, like water chestnuts, and are mild enough to eat raw, as are the lower part of the stems. The dark upper stems are fibrous and need to be cooked. The loose clusters of white flowers are more delicate in flavor. After the petals fall, the developed bulbils resemble caper berries, but with a subtle sulphuric flavor.
I see an extraordinary Gibson Martini in my near future.
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.
green goddess
I heard from a reader who made the asparagus sauce. He wanted to tell me that it brought fond memories of something his mother used to make. That's about the nicest thing that anyone can say to me.
He said it reminded him of his mother's green goddess dressing. He said that she, too, made it in a blender and sometimes added avocado. I don't know about you, but that sounded really good to me.
Green goddess is a mayonnaise, herb, scallion and anchovy dressing, created in the 1920's at The Palace Hotel in San Francisco as a tribute to actor George Arliss, who starred in the stage play "The Green Goddess". Most often, it is found as a white mayonnaise flecked with herbs that (I think) doesn't live up to the promise of its name. This one certainly does.
This dressing was made using the asparagus sauce base, the lemon juice increased to 1 Tblsp and (taking a cue from James' mom) added 1/2 of a ripe avocado. I left the anchovies out of the dressing, instead I sauteed minced boquerones along with crumbled rye bread in brown butter. Now I want to put these savory toasted crumbs on everything.
The egg drops are simply lightly whisked egg yolks dropped into hot (185F/85C) clarified butter. At first, they drop to the bottom, then float to the surface when done like tiny dumplings.
Deep-fried asparagus florets are not nearly as entertaining as those of broccolini, but they are crisp, nutty and delicious nonetheless.
These components, along with a tender heart of butterhead lettuce and a long curl of nutty Parmesan, make an altogether agreeable salad.
Thanks to James and his mom for the inspiration.
asparagus goat gouda
I think I forgot to say… that asparagus sauce?
It goes great with asparagus too.
asparagus
asparagus sauce
midnight moon goat gouda custard
asparagus sauce
There are times when I buy asparagus only for the tips and am left with several inches of tender stalk. That is never a problem for me, they quickly become a base for my favorite springtime sauce.
I don't remember when I first started making asparagus sauce; it's one of those seasonal staples that I pull out of my culinary closet like a favorite pair of sandals. Like the sandals, the sauce goes with everything and puts a 'spring in the step' of anything it's paired with.
The sauce varies every time I make it, adapting to what I have on hand. Basically, it consists of asparagus, leafy greens, and herbs; quickly pureed in a blender and emulsified with extra virgin olive oil. The asparagus can be whole stalks or trimmings, cooked until tender. The leafy greens can be arugula, spinach, sorrel, or even lettuce leaves. Herbs can be anything you like, although I avoid basil because of oxidation. Invariably, I include a form of raw allium to lift the flavors: scallions, ramps, spring onions, shallots are all good.
I urge you to try it for its versatility. It's fantastic with eggs, grilled or poached fish, and even makes chicken breast taste exciting. Its a delicious dip for raw vegetables, dressing for potato or pasta salad and makes the best risotto when stirred in at the final stage of cooking. It's so good that even these tiny fried spearings are falling all over themselves to get a taste.
asparagus sauce
3 cups cold water
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups of roughly chopped asparagus
1 1/2 cups of leafy greens (spinach, arugula, sorrel, lettuce), loosely packed
1/2 cup of fresh herbs (parsley, chervil, tarragon, cilantro), loosely packed
1 medium shallot, scallion, small spring onion, or small bunch of chives, roughly chopped
1 tsp salt
20 grinds black pepper
1/4 cup water from cooked asparagus
1 tsp lemon juice or vinegar
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
Bring water and salt to a boil. Add asparagus and cook until tender. Place leafy greens, herbs, shallot, salt and pepper in a blender. Drain hot asparagus, reserving 1/4 cup of cooking water, add both to blender along with lemon juice. Blend on high speed, slowly drizzling in the olive oil until it is all incorporated and the sauce is smooth. Adjust seasoning to taste.
If it is to be served hot, serve immediately, or chill to serve cold. Sauce will keep in refrigerator for up to 5 days.
earthy potatoes and magic ham
After two years, this blog still challenges me to poke and prod and go places I haven't been before. It reminds me that despite what I think I already know, the only thing I really know is that there is always more to know.
I'm grateful for that.
I wouldn't want it any other way.
I'm also grateful to those of you that take time out of your busy, busy lives to drop me a line. To ask questions. To say hi. To send encouragement. To take me to task. And sometimes, after I respond, you respond back. And so on. And the next thing I know, I have a new friend.
I'm grateful for that, too.
Sometimes, my new friends send me things. Special things. The kind of things you can't buy in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Sometimes, they send me inspiration. Or boxes of sunshine. They even send me magic.
And just in case there was any doubt, it was clearly labeled POP'S MAGIC HAM.
Uwe's pop is a magician. On his farm in Texas he transforms pork loin into something not of this world. Uwe and Chad describe the magic far better than I could. I can tell you, though, that with a smoke whisperer for a father, Uwe has a lot to be grateful for.
And so do I.
If you've ever received food that promises magic, you'll know that the first thing you want to do is eat it. And if it's good, you'll want to eat it all. That's part of the magic.
And if you, like me, showed heroic restraint and stopped yourself short so someone else can enjoy it too, then you know that magic is meant to be shared.
Some time later, you may find yourself with a few handfuls of tiny fingerling potatoes that are intended to share a plate with the magic ham. And you wait patiently to roast them because your oven is currently full of dirt (after all, it's early spring and you need sterile soil to start your seedlings). And as you wait, your nostrils fill will the smell of roasted earth, and you look at the potatoes and slap yourself upside the head (gently, of course) and think DUH. And you grab a trowel and head for the garden and fill a casserole dish with damp earth.
Back in the kitchen you bury the potatoes in the earth and it just feels right. You put them in the oven and set a timer. You hope against hope that they turn out tender and fragrant, but they don't. You look with despair at the shriveled hard pucks and realize that they are victims of the hygroscopic properties of silica. You try again with a fresh batch of potatoes, this time soaking the soil thoroughly, and you smile, remembering how you used to make mud pies as a child and you realize that you've come full circle.
They turn out perfect: soft, tender, earthy by design. You give them a quick rinse in hot water, sad that you had to do so because you like the way they looked with bits of soil clinging to them. Then you remember the crispy cream and crumble some over the hot potatoes with a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper. You toss them and watch the bits of toasted milk solids soften and melt, coating the potatoes with butterfat and you are satisfied.
You arrange the potatoes on a plate and shower them with ultra thin slices of the magic ham (because it came with clear instructions: SLICE ULTRA THIN). You taste and think that the flavors of earth and smoke need something to bounce off of. Something fresh. Something green. You scan the herbs that you have growing on a windowsill and under lights. Thyme (nah)… mexican oregano (maybe)… nutmeg geranium (could be interesting)… oxalis (probably not)… ram rau (definitely not)… tahoon (bingo!). You taste the tahoon, just to be sure. Green. Herbaceous. Sun-warmed earth. Oily beechnuts. Perfect. You pick a handful of leaves and whirl them in a blender with olive oil and a pinch of ground sumac, working quickly before the potatoes cool.
You eat the earthy potatoes and magic ham and come to a sudden realization. It is this:
In your entire life, you've cooked with fire. Sometimes with water. Sometimes with air. And now you can add earth to the list.
Somehow, that makes you feel complete.
artichoke fresh cheese cherry
A plant is a chemical universe unto itself.
Even an innocuous blade of grass produces more natural compounds than we can properly appreciate. Some compounds contribute to the plant's growth and development. Some combine to attract pollinators and seed dispersers. And yet others exist to deter predators and pathogens. These complex systems of chemicals all work together to help the plant achieve one thing: survival.
The artichoke doesn't need to rely on its chemical arsenal for protection from predators; nature has bestowed it with cellulosic armor and barbs for that purpose. But even those haven't deterred the indomitable human curiosity and our insatiable appetite once we discovered that beyond its armament, there is something good to eat inside. Our attraction to the artichoke's buried heart is a chemical one; phenolic, to be precise.
Plant chemistry, simplified
All living organisms produce compounds that are essential to life. In plants, these can be divided into two metabolic groups:
Primary metabolites support growth, development and reproduction. Included in this group are carbohydrates, amino acids, polymers, lipids, etc.
Secondary metabolites are organic compounds of low molecular weight (often produced at less than 1% dry weight) that are not vital to growth but allow plants to attract pollinators and defend itself from herbivores and pathogens, but not from humans. Often, these compounds are what attract us to certain plants in the first place— they define its flavor and aroma. Secondary metabolites can be classified into three groups: Alkaloids, Terpenoids, and Phenolics.
Phenolic activity in artichokes
Anyone who has cut into an artichoke has witnessed oxidation; a reaction that takes place when phenolic compounds are combined with enzymes (through cutting or bruising) and exposed to oxygen, turning the exposed surface brown. Applying acid by rubbing with a lemon wedge only slows down the reaction. The only way to prevent it is to cut off its exposure to oxygen by submerging in water or vacuum sealing. Heating to temperatures above 212F/100C destroys the enzyme.
phenolic oxidation/ reaction to acid— both cups contain artichoke tea; the one on the right changes color after adding a few drops of lemon juice
Phenolic compounds are a rich source of phytochemicals (nonessential nutrients that are beneficial to health) such as antioxidants, flavonoids, and tannins. Artichokes are a primary source of cynarin, a compound that is believed to promote good health, including liver detoxification. Cynarin's ability to lower cholesterol was first documented In the 1970's, and many promising studies have taken place since.
Artichokes are notoriously difficult to pair with wine, thanks to cynarin and chlorogenic acid. These two phenolic compounds inhibit sweet receptors on our tongues, causing subsequent ingestion of foods or liquids to taste sweet. This taste perversion is similar to the one produced by miraculin, a protein found in miracle fruit, though it is significantly more short-lived and occurs only in a portion of the population, suggesting that it may be a genetic predisposition.
Cynarase, another enzyme found in artichokes, is believed to aid in digestion because of its ability to curdle milk. In parts of Europe and North Africa, coagulating milk for cheese with cardoon (a close relative of artichoke) is a long-standing tradition that is still carried out today.
Over a decade ago, while in Portugal, I learned that a popular cheese, Azeitao, is made from unpasteurized sheep's milk curdled with cardoon. It wasn't until earlier this year that I discovered that cynarase was responsible. As artichokes came into season, I began experimenting with their various parts, cooked in milk, with no success— lots of artichoke-flavored milk, but no curds. It wasn't until further research revealed that it is the mature thistle flower that is used to form milk curds that I tried again with the isolated choke (the undeveloped flower). Finally, I was able to produce enough curds to press into a small fresh cheese. These curds were very small, scarce, and soft, producing an impossibly fragile, but wonderfully herbaceous-flavored cheese. I haven't had much luck growing artichokes in Zone 5, but I'm willing to try again, if only to harvest the flowers. Barring that, there are other alternatives to explore— other flowers in the Cynareae tribe that do grow in my zone.
I wanted to build a dish around this very small, fragile, and delicious cheese that would represent all of the interesting things that I've learned about the artichoke. I started by pairing the milky cheese and the tender inner scales and ribbons of vegetal artichoke heart with the flavor of cherries. The ephemeral cherry blossoms hearken the nature of the artichoke-as-flower and whisper softly of benzaldehyde, while a soft gel of Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico gives the dish alacrity and vibrance. The artichoke tea, made by steeping the outer scales in boiling water, exhibits phenolic oxidation by changing from bright green to yellow when poured over the acidic cheese and gel. The herbaceous tea has a bitter edge that not only disappears, but is made sweet after taking a bite of the taste-altering heart.
artichoke
cynarase-curdled raw milk cheese
Villa Manodori Dark Cherry Balsamico
artichoke tea
cherry blossom
artichoke bergamot green garlic
I'm a big fan of artichokes that are carefully trimmed and presented whole. Piercing the dense flesh with a fork, and then a knife, is a sensation akin to carving a steak.
Revisiting citrus gama (cooking in an aromatic vessel).
Here, the aroma is infused in reverse— from filling to vessel— with bergamot lemon zest in the savory custard.
The aroma is reinforced with a few strips of zest in the steaming water and the finished artichoke is dressed with the juice.
The brightness of the green garlic olive oil puree cuts through the richness of the custard and the maillardized crispy cream.
Hmm… kinda looks like a ranunculus, no?
artichoke pizette
After working through piles of tough scales, we arrive at the tender heart of the matter.
Continuing with the artichoke-as-flower theme, rosettes of thinly sliced artichoke hearts were arranged on top of crisp olive oil-enriched dough. I've used a mayonnaise based sauce, knowing full well that it wouldn't be heat stable— unless, of course, it was held together with copious amounts of cheese.
The sauce— which is really a garlic, parmesan, and thyme flavored mayo— also makes a fantastic garlic bread when slathered on thick slices of baguette and glazed under the broiler.
Download recipe: artichoke pizette
Playing with Fire and Water 