elderflower

I once found elder growing on our property. I came upon the single straggy specimen while clearing a patch of the hillside to plant fruit trees. It was struggling in the dense overgrowth and I had hoped that its new situation of light and air would help it along. But the following summer, and the one after, when our lives filled with other priorities, the wild reclaimed the orchard and swallowed up the elder.

After that, I considered cultivating elder on a more hospitable part of the yard— there are many ornamental hybrids with unique characteristics for the home gardener and elder enthusiast. For now, I'm happy to harvest flowers and berries from the naturalized specimens that grow abundantly along the roadsides of Northwestern Connecticut.

For most of the year, elder's dark green foliage blends in with the understory and is hard to spot. But there's a two to three week window, just after the last of the June strawberry harvest and just as the first blueberries ripen in July, when elder bursts into bloom, and elderflowers become like beacons to bees and foragers alike. That's when I stop to pick flowers from the dozens of mature trees that I pass on my daily travels, leaving enough behind to return for ripe berries in late September.

Elderflowers have a musky honey aroma that is both fruity and floral. Picked early in the morning (when most flowers have a heightened scent), they smell to me of muscat grapes. That may be why I like my elderflower cocktail with moscato wine instead of champagne, and certainly what inspired this bavaroise, served with St Germaine-glazed blueberries and honeycomb candy.

elderflower ambrosia

Ambrosia often refers to an orange and coconut concotion, but can also be used to describe something that is particularly delicious and nectar-like— a fitting description for this dessert.

elderflower moscato bavaroise

250g moscato
60g sugar
2 egg yolks
40g St Germaine
60g creme fraiche
1 sheet gelatin, softened in cold water
200g heavy cream, chilled and whipped to soft peaks

Cook the moscato and sugar to 100C/212F. Whisk together the yolks, St Germaine, and creme fraiche. Slowly drizzle the hot syrup into the yolk mixture while whisking, then transfer to saucepan and cook over medium low heat until bubbly and thickened. Remove from heat and whisk in the drained gelatin until dissolved. Cool to room temperature, then fold in the whipped cream. Pour mixture onto a parchment lined sheetpan and spread to an even thickness of 2.5cm/1". Chill for 2-3 hours, until set.

elderflower white chocolate shards

100g white chocolate, melted
2.5g freshly picked elderflower blossoms, plus more for garnish

Spread the white chocolate on parchment or silicone in a thin, even layer. When it has cooled, but not yet solidified, sprinkle blossoms over top of chocolate, pressing lightly to adhere. Chill until chocolate can be peeled from parchment and broken into shards. To preserve the color/integrity of the blossoms: do not freeze or assemble more than 30 minutes in advance of service.

St Germaine glazed blueberries

65g St Germaine
25g unsalted butter
150g blueberries

Bring the St Germaine to a simmer and whisk in the butter. When the mixture returns to a simmer, add the blueberries. Toss well to coat berries and continue cooking over gentle heat for a minute or two, just until they are warmed through. Keep warm until ready to serve.

honeycomb candy (see recipe here), broken into shards

To serve: Using a long, offset spatula, and a single motion, cut and scoop up a 2.5cm/1" wide slice of the bavaroise. Drop onto a serving plate, right of center. Embed upright shards of the elderflower white chocolate alternately with the honeycomb candy. Sprinkle the blueberries to the left and over the top of the bavaroise, then drizzle some of the glaze over the top of berries. Garnish with a sprinkle of fresh elderflower blossoms.

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".

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.

sumac

Sumac is often regarded with fear and suspicion because of its toxic namesake— poison sumac. Caution should always be exercised when dealing with harmless plants that have harmful counterparts, but in this case, these two plants are distinctly different in appearance. The surest way to tell them apart is by the color of their drupes: poison sumac (Toxicodendron vernix) sports hanging clusters of white berries, while harmless varieties (Rhus) display erect panicles of brick-red berries.

The variety that I'm most familiar with, Staghorn Sumac (Rhus typhina), is native to northeastern US and Canada. At this time of year— with the leaves nearly gone and the silvery splayed branches exposed— it's easy to see where it gets its name.

Culinarily, sumac has a long history in the Middle East and along the Mediterranean, where it is ground and used in powdered form to add sour notes to mezze and meat dishes. A popular seasoning, Za'tar, is a blend of thyme, sesame seeds, and sumac.

In North America, sumac is rarely used outside of ethnic dishes, although it was widely used by indigenous people to make a sour beverage similar to lemonade. The late Euell Gibbons, who introduced Americans to wild foods, was very fond of the beverage and dubbed it Rhus-ade. There is a story that tells of his use of an old washing machine exclusively purposed for Rhus-ade, in which he made large batches by loading the tub with sumac panicles, running them through a cold water cycle and catching the liquid as it drained.

Sumac has little aroma and a flavor that can be almost entirely defined as "sour"— largely due to malic acid, and, to a lesser degree, citric and tatric acids. The acids are concentrated in the tiny hairs that cover the berries and are water soluble. Most recipes that I've seen recommend cold water infusions, warning that hot water draws out the undesirable tannins. This, I assume, is true when using the panicles where the berries are still attached to the stems, as the bark and leaves are richly tannic. Historically, sumac was used to tan hides and is still used today to produce high quality leathers such as Morocco and Cordovan.
To test flavor concentration in various temperatures of infusion, I made three controls of just berries and one with berries still attached to the stem. All were strained after 3 minutes, then chilled for 30 before tasting.

sumac-water infusions, left to right:

berries in cold (5C/40F) water— faint color, bright flavor, pleasant acidity, no aroma
berries in warm (38C/100F) water— pale color, bright flavor, pleasant acidity, faint aroma
berries in hot (90C/200F) water—medium color, bright flavor, slightly sharper acidity, faintly musky, faint cider vinegar aroma.
panicles in warm (38C/100F) water— faint color, less bright flavor, slightly less acidity, no aroma

In conclusion, I favored the hot water infusion. It was barely perceptively more acidic— which suggests that higher temperature does not extract more acid (wish I had ph strips to know for sure), but heat seemed to draw aroma from the sumac and coax out more of its essence.

A sweet and sour syrup is a useful thing to make with sumac.

sumac syrup

2 parts water
1 part sugar
1 part sumac berries

Measure quantities by weight. Bring the water and sugar to a boil. Pour over sumac berries in a heat resistant vessel. Allow to infuse for 5 minutes. Strain, first through a sieve to remove berries, then through a micro filter or several layers of cheesecloth to remove fine hairs. When cool, bottle and store in refrigerator.

And, a cocktail is a useful thing to make with a sweet and sour syrup.

sumac-lemongrass vodka sour

2 parts lemongrass-infused vodka
1 part sumac syrup
ice
fresh lemongrass stalks

Pack a cocktail shaker with ice. Add vodka and syrup. Shake. Strain into tall glass. garnish with lemongrass stalk.

the simple charm of wild carrots

A new attitude is really just a change in perception. It's what makes one man's rags another man's riches. It's how a weed becomes a charming flower.

And, yes, the wild carrot has many charms.

Take, for instance, one of its common names: Queen Anne's lace.

OK, maybe you have to be a girl (or an Anglophile) to appreciate that one.

And then there's the flowers, all lacy and white, but they can be any color you like. If you put the cut stems in water stained with food color, the blossoms will change color right before your eyes. They're chameleons that way.

What it doesn't have, at this stage, is a lot of edible parts. But because it's so aromatic, it has plenty of extractable flavor.

Simple infusions are one way to capture the flavor. In these very busy days of summer, simple is good.

And it doesn't get more simple than this. The only hard part is the waiting.

I picked my first cucumber and serrano pepper from the garden on the day that the vinegar was ready. It made sense to toss them together in a light salad. Cool cucumbers and hot peppers are a nice contrast.

I let the syrup infuse for just over a week, until the wild carrot flavor was good and concentrated. I have lots of fun, simple plans for this syrup. One of them is to drizzle it over grilled carrots: wild carrot-candied carrots.

But since the cucumbers are coming in fast and furious, my attention went back to them. This time, I pickled slices of the cucumber in the vinegar, spiked with serrano, then topped them with a dollop of syrup, whipped with 5% versawhip. The whipped syrup looks like a rich whipped cream, but with pure, clean flavor and a lightness that cream cannot imagine.

I served the sweet-tart-spicy-cool-creamy bite in a nest of fuzzy wild carrot seeds so that when my fingers rubbed against it to pick it up, they carried the scent of wild carrots to my nose.

Quite simply, wild carrots have me charmed.

wild carrot

My attitude towards weeds has changed so much in recent years that I hardly recognize myself.

I used to be a weed warrior, indiscriminately pulling anything that I didn't plant. I realize now that it was a futile attempt at controlling my environment. Me vs. Nature. My new attitude laughs.

The shift came from an understanding of weeds and the roles that they play. I had to step back, ask questions, and look at the big picture. I had to be reminded that Nature is a consummate designer.

Left on her own, Nature creates self-sustaining communities of plants where nothing is random or arbitrary. Because Nature hates a void, exposed soil quickly covers with plants— the intention, ultimately, is to turn it back into woods and forests. Shallow-rooted annuals move in to prevent erosion and run-off of precious water. The long taproots of perennial plants burrow deep into the soil to collect minerals. Above ground, natural selection plays out as a timeless, tireless game of offense and defense.

To gardeners and farmers, weeds are just a plant in the wrong place. To Nature, it is absolutely the perfect place. Understanding why has allowed me to become much more lax about weeds and we're both the better for it.

Wild carrot (Daucus carota), also known as Queen Anne's lace, is the progenitor of the common carrot that we eat. All parts of the wild carrot exhibit pungent carrot aroma, made up of over 100 volatile compounds. The white roots are only tender when very young, turning woody by the time that they flower. The leaves are also tender when young, but must be cooked when mature.

Wild carrot is native to Europe and Asia, but has become naturalized in the US, where it's categorized in some areas as a beneficial weed (because their umbels attract parasitic wasps), and in others as a noxious weed (because of it's prolific, long-lasting seeds). It also bears a close resemblance to the deadly poison hemlock (Conium), though the carrot aroma is only present in Daucus.

In the Northeast, wild carrots are ubiquitous plants that favor patches of sandy soil where land meets pavement. When in bloom, from June through August, they form foamy white swathes along the roadside that look like flower surfs. When the tiny white petals drop, the umbels form chartreuse fuzz-covered seeds that have a unique way of propagating themselves. Instead of dropping their seeds like most members of Umbelliferae, the pedicels curl up like a bird's nest, detach from the stem and fall to the ground, where they roll around like tumbleweeds in search of a spot to take root. Quite genius, and [I think] explains their proclivity for roadsides.

For as long as I've lived here, I've routinely battled a tenacious patch of wild carrot that grows along my driveway. Every spring, I would pull them out by the roots from under the lilacs to plant more desirable flowers. Without fail, everything dies in that spot. Everything. Except for wild carrot.

When it comes to gardening, I realize that I can be as stubborn as the weeds that I've fought so hard to eradicate. It's that control thing. But this year, I let Nature have her way. And, you know something… I'm glad that I did… that spot has never looked better.

buffalo tartare

warm weather elicits cravings for raw foods

buffalo tartare
pickled allium aioli
daikon white asparagus lime gelee
lime basil

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.