artichoke flower

Artichokes make me wonder about the human spirit and its unbound curiosity. I mean— who was the first person to look at the hostile thistle with its sharp thorns and leathery scales and think “hmmm… that might be good to eat“?
Most likely, that person was from North Africa, where the wild thistle is thought to have originated. While I’ll never know his/her identity, I am grateful to them and the legions of people who have cultivated it since.

The Globe artichoke (Cynara carunculus) is, in fact, a flower bud that is harvested before blooming. The immature flower is the mass of inedible fibers, known as the choke, found in the center of the bud. The edible part— the heart— is the thickened, fleshy receptacle located at the base.
To get to the meaty heart, the scales must be removed, the choke scraped out, and the fibrous exterior peeled away. This process leaves a pile of fractal scales that are often needlessly discarded. The inner pale scales are delicately-flavored and tender as flower petals when the purple papery tips are trimmed away. The dark outer scales are too tough and fibrous to eat, but they retain a nugget of the heart at their base which is delicious and fun to eat when dipped into a sauce and scraped out between the teeth.

Layering the scales with a sauce in a bowl is one way to present them. While the intention of this dish was to save them from the bin, it was directly inspired by the artichoke’s form and true nature as a flower. Amusingly, the restructured scales, or flattened artichoke, comes off looking like a water lily or lotus flower— yet another testament to the recurring designs found in nature which are never arbitrary or isolated.

Artichokes and eggs are a great marriage, especially when piqued with acid. Sweetened with black garlic and crowned with sieved egg yolks, a classic sauce gribiche fits the bill nicely.

black garlic sauce gribiche

Hard boil 3 eggs. Peel and cool the eggs, then separate the yolks from the whites. Pass the yolks and the whites through a sieve separately into 2 bowls. Add 1 raw egg yolk to the bowl with the cooked yolks along with 1 Tblsp (16g) of Dijon mustard, 1 Tblsp (14g) of white wine vinegar, 1 tsp (5g) of salt, and pepper to taste. Whisk well until mixture becomes a smooth paste. In a slow, thin stream, add 1 cup (190g) of safflower oil, whisking constantly, until mixture thickens and mayonnaise is formed. Whisk in 1 Tblsp (16g) of black garlic puree (peeled black garlic cloves pureed with a little hot water into a smooth paste). Stir in 2 Tblsp(30g) chopped capers, 2 Tblsp (30g) chopped sour pickles, 2 Tblsp (20g) chopped fines herbes (fresh parsley, chervil, chives, and tarragon), and the sieved egg whites. Adjust seasoning.

artichokes

Have you noticed how gorgeous the artichokes are this year?

Since they made their appearance a few weeks ago, I've gone through a lion's share.

With all of the paring, trimming, quartering, slicing, dicing, and pureeing, I've forgotten that artichokes are flowers.

tomato kumquat olive

One more dish inspired by similarity of size and shape.
Traditional mediterranean flavors with a few twists:
black olives which are really octopus heads
kumquat rind stuffed with roasted red pepper mousse

confit baby Romas confit kumquat rind roasted red pepper

octopus olives picholine olives fregula sarda

safffron kumquat fumet garlic shoots

kumquat tomato cilantro

I've always loved the combination of tomato and orange. One of my go-to sauces for cheese ravioli is a simple reduction of tomatoes and orange juice, emulsified with fruity olive oil. The sweet and acidic fruits bring out the milkiness in the ricotta.

Although tomatoes and oranges are available year round, their seasons aren't concurrent. In the Northeast, the only fresh tomatoes worth eating in the winter are the small sweet cherry and grape varieties. This year, I've been enjoying baby Romas; indulging in their rich, concentrated tomato flavor. It didn't escape my notice that they are the same size and shape as kumquats and I'd feel remiss if I let citrus season pass without bringing the two together in a sweet preparation.
Cilantro and coriander, which taste to me of orange, adds herbal brightness and warm spice.

kumquat and tomato confiture
coriander gel
olive oil pastry
cilantro ice cream

fish tale

creamy soft quenelle
garlicky pillow of fish and milk
encrusted in garnet jewels
donning a dusky tail

he's an amalgam of sea and earth

straddling both worlds
he drinks from a scented pool
an elixir of sweet and savory

I pretend he's a happy fish
leading a charmed life

brandade beets oxalis ginger lime fennel shallots olive oil

ginger lime fennel marmalade

Although the citrus are now long gone, they linger in my memory. I managed to preserve a few specimens— some in salt, some in sugar— to keep the memory alive.
Typically, I make fruit preserves at the peak of their season to remind me of summer on a wintry day. This may be the first time I've intentionally preserved fruit to remind me of winter.

ginger lime fennel marmalade

Ginger lime (Citrus assamensis) is thought to be a hybrid of citron (Citrus medica) and a variety of lemon from Assam, India. In India, it is known as ada jamir, in China a da ya mi, and in Japan as adajamiru. The juice is very tart and scarce. The albedo is thick, dense and bitter. The zest is pale yellow, sweet, and highly aromatic. It's fragrance is more related to a lemon than a lime, with a distinct ginger tone and a whisper of eucalyptus.
Ginger lime is not widely cultivated or commercially grown. A combination of lemon and ginger can be substituted for the ginger lime.

3 ginger limes, or 3 lemons and a 2" piece of fresh ginger root
1 medium fennel bulb
2 shallots
850g (30 oz) water
708g (25 oz) sugar

Remove zest from ginger limes or lemons with vegetable peeler and slice into thin strips. Cut away albedo (white pith) and discard. Roughly chop pulp, discarding seeds, and place in deep pan along with zest. If using lemons, peel and finely mince the ginger root and add to pan.
Trim the top and bottom of the fennel bulb. Cut into quarters and slice thinly across the grain. Add to pan.
Peel and trim the shallots. Cut in half and slice thinly across the grain. Add to pan along with the water.
Place pan over high heat and bring to a boil. Lower heat to a simmer, cover and cook until contents are soft, about 35-40 minutes. Add sugar and raise heat until mixture boils and sugar dissolves. Adjust heat to maintain a gentle boil and cook, stirring frequently until mixture reaches 220ºF/104ºC, about 45 minutes.
While marmalade cooks, sterilize 3 1-pint canning jars in boiling water. Spoon hot marmalade mixture into the jars, leaving 1/2" headspace. Seal with lids and bands and process in a boiling water bath for 15 minutes. Store in a cool, dark place. Makes 3 pints

ginger lime fennel marmalade
goat ricotta
beet blood orange relish
brioche lardo sablé

yuzu miso

"At night with the 'kettle' of yu-miso on the fire I hear it reproaching me"
—Ryota

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a a way of life that transcends rituals and customs. Throughout its four hundred year history, it has inspired philosophies and aesthetics that have come to define the Japanese culture. One aesthetic principle that arose from the Zen influence is wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi is an intuitive appreciation of the transient beauty that exists in the humble, modest, imperfect, and even in decay. It is finding refinement in the unrefined.

It might be said that wabi-sabi is seeing a flower in a dying bulb.

Or, maybe even, finding poetry in a citrus kettle.

Yuzu miso, as the name implies, is a yuzu-scented miso from the Shizuoka and Nagano prefectures in Japan. It is typically used in Dengaku, an ancient form of miso cuisine, where various foods are lightly grilled, glazed with miso, then finished grilling.

Commercially prepared yuzu miso is made by simmering white (shiro) miso with sugar, then blending in yuzu zest. The ancient preparation, yuzu gama (literally, yuzu kettle), where the seasoned miso is cooked in a hollowed-out yuzu, is far more romantic in concept and exemplary of the Japanese approach to cooking.

To make yuzu gama miso: Blend together 150g shiro miso, 38g sake, 50g mirin, and 17g sugar. Slice the tops off of 4 yuzu. Remove all of the pulp and membranes from the insides, leaving only the rind. Pack the seasoned miso into the hollowed-out yuzu and replace the tops. Place on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes at 350F/178C, or until miso is bubbly. Will keep in refrigerator for up to a month.

Over the years, I've attempted to grow nearly every type of allium that I could find seeds for. Shallots and cipollini are perennial favorites because they require little space to grow and will keep throughout the winter when stored in a cool, dark place. I'm still experimenting with garlic, looking for a variety that will flesh out into plump heads instead of the paltry ones that I've been getting. And with onions being so readily available, I don't usually grow them unless I find an interesting variety.

Last fall, a friend gave me a bag of a sweet onion variety called "Candy", which I promptly deposited in a makeshift root cellar. Months later, I found they had begun to sprout. Sweet onions, because they have a higher water content, are not great keepers.

When bulbs sprout, the new growth draws on the energy that is stored in the parent bulb. In the case of alliums, the quality of the edible flesh becomes compromised and, eventually, consumed. Instead of composting them, I decided to force them like hyacinths, if for no other reason than to watch something grow.

Many flowering bulbs such as hyacinth, tulips, and narcissus can be forced to flower out of season, provided that they have been exposed to temperatures between 35-45F for a minimum of 12 weeks. I buy bulbs in the fall and store them in bags of peat moss in a spare refrigerator to force after New Years. To start them growing, simply place in a vessel with a mouth that is just narrow enough to allow only the base of the bulb through. A glass with tapered sides is perfect. Fill the glass with just enough water to cover the base of the bulb (left image). Submerging the bulb will cause it to rot. Alternately, bulbs can be supported by filling bowls with small stones and maintaining the water level. After about a week (center image) the roots begin to emerge and the shoots start to take off. After 2 weeks (right image) the bulb sends out multiple roots to support the vigorous growth. Bulbs forced in water can take 3-5 weeks to bloom.

I had intended to watch them grow— perhaps to flower— but upon tasting the new shoots, I found they were mild and sweet and begging to be braised with yuzu miso.

turbot broccolini cauliflower

Historically, the Brassica family, whose members are collectively known as cabbages, has seen its ups and downs. At its high point in ancient times, cabbage was prized by the Greeks and Chinese. It hit its low point in the Middle Ages, when medieval superstition suspected leafy greens of causing disease and it was deemed too coarse for the delicate European aristocracy. For centuries following, cabbage and its ilk were regarded as food fit only for peasants and livestock.

Today, the genus Brassica has the distinction of containing more important agricultural and horticultural crops than any other genus. The Brassicaceae family is remarkable in that all parts of their species have been developed for use as food:

    seed- mustard and canola/rape
    flowers– cauliflower and broccoli
    leaves– cabbage, kale, collards, brussels sprouts, mizuna, bok choy,
   arugula, and watercress
   stem- kohlrabi
    roots- turnips, rutabagas, radish, horseradish, wasabi, and daikon

All of these plants are united and identified by their four-petaled flowers that form the shape of a cross (hence, the old classification of Cruciferae) and by their pungent flavor attributed to glucosinolates.

Glucosinoltes are a type of organic compound that contain both sulfur and nitrogen. Plants use this compound as a powerful defense system. Nutritionally, glucosinates are dichotomic— on the one hand, they can be toxic to humans and animals when consumed in massive doses, but in subtoxic quantities they become beneficial and are even known to produce anti-cancer enzymes. Glucosinolates are directly responsible for the strong, bitter flavor of Brassica that we either love or hate. I have to side with the Greeks on this one.

Brassicas, in one form or another, are always present in my vegetable bin. I'm a fan because they lend themselves to many different preparations. I love them all.

There is something fundamentally satisfying about the snappy texture of barely-cooked broccoli and cauliflower that appeals to the grazer in me. When I want something heartier, I slowly braise them in stock until they practically melt. Braising works well with leaves, stems, flowers, and roots, though vivid colors turn murky when cooked this way. Alternately, I toss the blanched, fleshier Brassicas in olive oil, spread them out on sheet pans and roast them in a hot oven. Their frizzled, dark edges are irresistible.

Brassicas contain varying levels of glucosinolate depending on their species, with brussels sprouts leading the pack and cauliflower trailing at the end. Cooking methods directly affect the levels of pungency. A quick plunge in boiling water leaves the flavor molecules intact, while a long, slow braise leaches the molecules into the liquid, and gradually transforms them to a mellower, but funkier goodness. The dry heat of roasting intensifies flavor and adds a layer of complexity from the caramelized sugars.

Last spring, I tried the deep fried brussels sprouts at Momofuku. The outer leaves were blistered and singed, nearly black with char; their cores soft and pungent. It was a level of flavor— intensely bitter-sweet and nutty— that once experienced, you are changed forever.

turbot with a blanket of braised green cauliflower, white beans, preserved buddha's hand citron,
and black truffle
blanched broccolini stems, deep fried flowers

broccolini flowers

Something extraordinary happens when deep-frying broccolini flowers:

At first, they sing [some would say hiss].

And then they dance [look out for the high kicks].

For the Grand Finale, they burst open in bloom.

Delightfully entertaining, they are.

[I'm easily amused]

deep-fried broccolini flowers

buddha's hand citron salt

Indian Summer :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean

The sweet corn that we enjoy today is far removed from its ancestor. It is thought to have originated from teosinte, an ancient wild grass native to Mexico. Centuries of cultivation and hybridization has transformed it into the more palatable and versatile species that we continue to grow today. This was not a natural occurrence— it took careful selection and sophisticated horticultural skill to achieve. How primitive cultures had the knowledge to accomplish this continues to perplex scientists and researchers.

The domestication of corn is thought to have started 7,500 to 12,000 years ago in the Balsas river valley in lower Mexico. During the 1st millennium, cultivation of maize spread into the Southwestern United States. It took another thousand years for it to reach the Northeast and Canada, where Woodland Indians cleared forests and grasslands, creating large fields to plant the new crop.

Native Americans did not practice monocropping as we do today— cornfields belong to modern agriculture. Instead, they employed a more sustainable system of interplanting three crops: corn, beans, and squash— a triad that is deeply rooted in Native American mythology, known as "The Three Sisters".

To the Native Americans, The Three Sisters were sacred goddesses that could not bear to be separated. Among the tribes, there were varying versions of the legend that revolved around a creation myth. According to one legend, Sky Woman, who lived in the Upper World, fell through a hole in the sky towards an endless sea. Animals scurried to dig mud from the bottom of the sea and spread it on the back of a giant turtle to cushion her fall. Sky Woman gave birth to Corn Mother, who bore three daughters that were inseparable until their death, when they were buried together on Turtle Island (North America). Out of their graves sprouted corn, beans, and squash— their gift to humanity.

Like most myths, The Three Sisters sounds far-fetched and fantastical, but in fact, their relationship is scientifically sound.

Throughout the Old World, corn, beans, and squash were sown together in small mounds of earth that were scattered through fields. The beans would wind around the corn as they grew, using the cornstalk as a support, while simultaneously supporting the tall, slender stalks from toppling over in the wind. The nitrogen-fixing nodules on the roots of the beans fed the nutrient-hungry corn and the squash vines that covered the ground at their feet. The squashes shallow roots and copious foliage shaded the ground, preventing weeds and preserving moisture. Together, they formed a perfect symbiosis.

This same symbiosis carried over from horticulture into nutrition— when eaten together, The Three Sisters form a perfect food. Corn provides protein and niacin, while beans and squash contribute the amino acids necessary for digestion. Native Americans also nixtamalized their corn to produce hominy by soaking it in alkaline water (made with wood ashes), thereby liberating the niacin and making it more nutritious. The importance of The Three Sisters and nixtamalization was supported when pellagra (a disease brought on by niacin deficiency) spread through non-indigenous cultures who adopted corn as a staple food without the ancient wisdom to accompany it. Again, the scientific community was left marveling at the primitive ingenuity.

Gourds are related to pumpkins and squash and were cultivated by Native Americans to use as dippers, spoons, cups, medicine holders, bottles, canteens, sacred honey containers, and ceremonial rattles. I grew these to use as birdhouses— dried, cut with a saw, and lightly sanded, they make interesting organic bowls.

The Three Sisters

corn beans pumpkin

popcorn sage broth

hominy chip