Meyer Lemons in a Bob Brady bowl.
A heavy box arrived just before Christmas, delivered by my trusty UPS man who always has a warm hello for my pesky little dog as he searches the big brown truck for cookies. It was from chef Charlene Badman of FnB, (as in Food and Beverage). Charlene is one of my favorite chefs. Anywhere. In addition to serving up some very good dishes, FnB also has a bodega where some of those good and unusual ingredients used in the restaurant can be bought, and a wine shop to boot. It makes such good sense. FnB happens to be in Scottsdale, Arizona, and Scottsdale is also a place where Meyer lemon trees grow along with other citrus fruits.
I suspected that this large, well-taped box might be filled with Gillfeather rutabagas, a vegetable Charlene and I share something of a passion for. But once I cut though all the tape that held the cardboard together, it was lemons that came tumbling out, lemons of a deep yellow hue, lemons that were exceptionally large and that spewed fragrant oil into the air when nicked with a fingernail or sliced in half. These were the lemons I grew up with in California. Charlene couldn’t have known – or maybe she did – how very happy her citrusy gift made me, especially in winter when I tend to be more homesick than usual for California produce.
Don’t get me wrong – we are grateful to have snow on the ground and we’re happy to have it be cold outside because fruit trees need their chill hours to bear fruit next summer. Nine degree mornings aren’t the easiest for dog walks, but the sunny cheer of these winter fruits seemed to warm up the air with their glow.
First I put them in a bowl –one of my favorites— (see the picture) and it’s made by Robert Brady in Berkeley (www.traxgallery.com) to admire. Nestled there, they lit up the darkness of winter. Even in sunny New Mexico we do have grey, overcast days. I also left some in the refrigerator so that they wouldn’t get slack and soft, and now that the official holidays are nearly over, my lemony lights will join them in the chill. I do treasure them so I know there’s a danger of keeping them far too long instead of using them, but I intend to overcome that, starting now. I know there are many things I can do with Meyer lemons, besides look at them.
There are lemon sorbets and ice creams to make, lemon curd and lemon tarts, which David Lebowitz (www.davidlebowitz.com) has recently written about, or, turning to one of my favorite dessert books, Lindsey Shere’s Chez Panisse Desserts, I’m reminded of how to make a Meyer Lemon Meringue Pie and her Meyer lemon Ice Cream. And of course these fragrant fruits can be used wherever lemons are called for. For the moment, though, I will use at least some my lemons in sauces and vinaigrettes as the holidays have brought a surfeit of sweets and the beginning of the New Year does inspire a break.
So here’s a simple Meyer lemon sauce from Local Flavors, Cooking and Eating from America’s Farmers Markets, that I’m inclined to spoon over avocado and pomelo salads, toss with shaved fennel, or spoon over poached or roasted fish or use to dress a frikeh and beet salad—on the menu for tomorrow, I think. In short, you can use this sauce wherever you want a complex tasting but simply made dressing. Now is one time I splurge on buying fresh tarragon, as mine has crisped up and fallen away with winter and its freezing temperatures.
Meyer Lemon Sauce with Tarragon
Makes 1/3 to 1/2-cup.
1 large Meyer lemon
1 shallot, finely diced
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, or more, to taste
2 tablespoons fresh tarragon leaves, finely chopped
Remove the zest, juice the lemon and put both in a small bowl with the shallot, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Let stand for several minutes, then whisk in the oil and add the tarragon. Season with a little freshly ground pepper. Taste and add more oil if needed. Meyer lemons are generally sweeter and less acidic than Eurekas so 2 tablespoons might be enough.
A recipe from Marie Simmons book, Taste of Honey.
Having neither parents nor children, and siblings who live 1000 miles away, I am sometimes ambivalent about Thanksgiving; it’s simply not a family event. But I do have a family of friends to celebrate with, and there is much to be thankful for. It seems important to share a meal with others, to bring something if not many things to the table, and so we do. And it’s a pleasure.
This year I am especially struck by generosity of others, especially farmer and producers.
I just unpacked a large box that arrived from California. It was filled with Satsuma Mandarins, the very first of the season. This friend has sent us mandarins for many years. An email shows up in late November that says expect them in the next few days, and that’s it. They arrive. We eat four or five at a time so they don’t get a chance to spoil, we share them others, and we don’t get colds. They pleasure they give us is enormous.
A late freeze decimated my apple crop once again, but yesterday I made applesauce from a gift of apples that came from friends. I have made eight batches of applesauce that are now lying in snug little packets in my freezer, plus I’ve made a few tarts and galettes. A compote of dried plums rests in the refrigerator, a gift from the same couple. In my cupboard stands an elegant bottle of best balsamic vinegar I’ve ever tasted, which they also make and which I use, by the quarter teaspoon, as suggested.
Neighbors are dropping by and I’m serving them paparadelle with a ragout of grass fed beef and wild mushrooms. The beef is a gift from a rancher friend, the mushrooms from neighbors who brought them back from Italy. And, as it turns out, the tomatoes in the dish, red, dried and broken into pieces, are a gift from a friend who farms in upstate New York. He also supplied the honey that will be used in a dessert of roasted Bosc pears, a recipe of Marie Simmons from her book, A Taste of Honey, that is a great gift indeed as it has become my favored winter dessert.
At breakfast we might have toast with exquisite blackberry jam, a gift from a farmer in California, or perhaps it will be a Yuzu marmelade, an equally exquisite delight from my sister-in-law. My brother’s olive oil graces out salads. And the list goes on, back through the year— cases of endive, packages of Sonoran wheat and Purple Tibetan Barley, a dozen Gillfeather turnips, a bottle of wine. But this isn’t just about foods being given. I also feel that the foods I buy weekly at the farmers market are also gifts.
The thought of these many presents of food is humbling. The generosity of others is so big, I find myself wishing I had something that I grew enough of to gift others. (This may well become a goal to accomplish in 2015.) In the meantime, I am grateful for my friends and family for their generosity, for the hard-working producers of food and books, for good recipes, for wisdom, for foods born of hard work and sustained passion.
It’s all a gift and I will raise a special glass to all of you, strangers and friends alike, in gratitude on Thursday, this Thanksgiving.
In The Greens Cookbook there’s a recipe called “Zuni Stew.” It was inspired by my first trip to New Mexico in the l970s, but memory of the exact source has pretty much disappeared. I suspect it’s from either a book called Southwest Indian Cookbook by Marcia Keegan, or from The Pueblo Indian Cookbook by Phyllis Hughes, both books I bought on my first trip to New Mexico. In any event, my recipe had little to do with Zuni, or with Zuni dishes as described in either of those books. I had made changes to make it more lively and contemporary, and it proved to be a good and well-liked dish at Greens. But was it Zuni? Probably not so much. But then, what is today?
Recently I went to Zuni with the intention of looking at their waffle gardens. I had seen one at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe and it left me hungry to see more and talk to people who had experience gardening in them. By chance, an invitation came a few days later. There was going to be a health fair at Zuni and would I come and speak a bit? Of course, I would! So I drove to Zuni, where I met a lot of women involved in various government programs meant to insure or create paths to health. They were all at the Health Fair with tables of information and foods to taste. The WIC program, breast feeding support services, programs to combat diabetes, senior programs and one for teen health, healthy babies and a Zuni family preservation program were all represented. One group had designed a Jeopardy style program that the Zuni kids enthusiastically took part in. There were signs for non-competitive runs, walks, bike rides. Gifts and rewards are given to attendees of anything health related, and it seems that the community shows up. They did that night. And I was given a handsome long-sleeved t-shirt that’s just perfect for the now cool mornings.
One sees large hornos (adobe ovens) throughout Zuni, as many as 3 to 5 in a yard. I was told the reason there were so many and that they were so large was because they were used for community feast days when they needed to cook a lot of food. There is one market and one restaurant that serves pizza, subs, hamburgers, surf and turf and enchiladas. A lone Boca burger is the most healthful option. There are no native foods on the menu. There’s no McDonalds or such, either in Zuni pueblo, but the kids apparently know and like fast food. So at the fair there were samples of alternatives to the high fat/sugar/soda offerings of the outside world. I tried a popsicle made with water and fruit that was extremely refreshing in that dry place, and also waters that were infused with fruit, in this case ample amounts of raspberries, strawberries , pineapple and such. They were eye-catching and delicious. I can easily imagine the appeal of lots of fruits, especially red ones.
An alternative to sugary carbonated drinks.
A woman at the table devoted to combating diabetes was preparing strawberries with a topping of lightly sweetened low fat Greek yogurt. Everywhere the emphasis was on low fat or non-fat dairy and how to use USDA foods. There was but one table that showcased native foods through both a picture display of various native corn, squash and beans, the actual foods themselves, then three stews. The recipes weren’t exactly Zuni. I was told, but cobbled together from Lois Ellen Frank’s first book on native cooking of the Southwest. But they were food – real food. Delicious and light, or filling and robust stews that were based on beans, meat (in one), and various forms of corn were offered. My favorite was a corn and posole stew with sunflower sprouts. The fresh corn was cut into chunks; the sprouts were added at the end, and posole was another form of corn and the liquid was chicken broth, I believe from a box. There might have been onion in it — but whether it did or not, it was pretty, good to eat and very satisfying. I would have loved to have been able to orders such a soup at the restaurant. Or the infused waters. Or the fruit icicles.
My doctor was, when I described it to her, very dismissive of the carbs. in the corn soup. They were the problem, as she saw it, with diets and food in general, especially in the pueblo communities. But I couldn’t help but think if these were the carbs. you ate, along with other traditional foods and pretty much only those, it would be indeed as nourishing as it tasted, and quite possibly, not a problem at all. Try making it fit with USDA provisions and modern American tastes, and it does get confusing and is problematic. I felt that the Zuni, among the loveliest, kindest, and most happy people I have met anywhere, are caught in the tensions between their traditions and the modern world.
As for the waffle gardens, I saw one. It was very small, sadly limited by the high cost of water. But in the museum there were some great depictions in a mural, and in movies made in the l920s, so in a way, I did see them. And more about them, later.
Costata Romanesco zucchini, whole and sliced.
Costata Romanesco is hands down my favorite zucchini.
I know that might sound strange, for zucchini isn’t the most interesting, vibrant, or glamorous of vegetables. Plus everyone likes to complain about how they have just way too much of it. I say to those lucky complainers, “You don’t have squash bugs, for if you did, you’d treasure each and every squash and blossom!” For some of us, the effort to grow zucchini means encounters with hoards of creepy grey bugs and the inevitable early death of one’s struggling plants. So if I’m going to open myself to squash bugs and anxiety over the early demise of my summer squash, then I’m going to grow a zucchini I get excited about. And Costata Romanesco is it.
There are three things that are special about this old variety. Each squash has ribs, the ridges that run along the long body of each one. A little hard to capture in a photo until you slice them, then you can see them as the ruffled, sculptured edges of each round of squash. I think they look wonderfully fetching and are truly so when a mass of the rounds is jumbled together. It doesn’t matter whether you steam or sauté them, either, because they will taste good.
Another virtue of the Costata Romanesco is its density. Somehow, this variety is less watery and the texture more firm, which makes it a much more satisfying summer squash to eat than others. Add to that the flavor, and you’re home. The flavor is, well, simply more squash-like. Some describe it as nutty. I think of it as down-to-earth. In any case, it’s there, and it has real taste, which cannot always be said of more modern squash.
The Costata (meaning ribs) is an Italian heirloom. Lots of companies stock seed packets for this gem. (Johnny’s, High Mowing Organic Seeds, Sustainable Seed Company, Fedco). Like many heirlooms, it doesn’t always produce as heavily as other zucchini, but the plants are big and robust and if you don’t want a glut of zucchini, why not choose the best and go with what it produces? Actually, I’ve always found that mine make plenty.
And one squash makes a a fast and neat little lunch for one.
A One-Zucchino Lunch for One
Time required: about 4 minutes
1 7-inch Costata Romanesco squash
Good olive oil
Fresh herb, such as dill, basil, marjoram
Freshly ground pepper
Lemon if you wish
Slice the squash crosswise into rounds about ¼ inch thick or a little more if you like it heftier.
Steam over boiling water for about 3 minutes —taste to make sure it’s done enough for you.
Turn it out onto a plate or better, a shallow bowl. Season with sea salt, a drizzle of good olive oil, some fresh herb, a few pine nuts, some pepper and a squeeze of lemon if you wish.
That’s it. Sit down and enjoy. Mop up the juices with a piece of bread.
And this is just the beginning. You might add halved Sun Gold tomatoes, thin shavings of Parmesan or aged Gouda cheese, a shower of very young arugula leaves, a slivered squash blossom —or just leave it as is.
My friend, Joseph Shuldiner, who wrote a beautiful sexy book called “Pure Vegan” and I decided to a joint book signing for our books (“The New Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone” for me) in the Real Butcher Shop, a new store in Santa Fe brought into being by Tom Delehanty. Tom has been a chicken farmer in New Mexico for the past 20 or so years. The meat he sources for his shop is all from the West, grass fed, raised with care, and definitely not from CAFOs. He also sells the offal, and he also makes vegan/vegetarian stocks, gives space to a baker who is making breads from ancient grains, and he has a few excellent raw milk cheeses and other raw dairy. He plans to feature vegetables as the season progresses (and a farmer was present that day) and the store finds its stride. In short, he’s mixing things up while offering wholesome, nourishing food that’s traceable and has integrity. And since Joseph and I feel that we try to do the same in our work, only without the animals, we thought, why not join forces with Tom? I posted about the event on Facebook and those who were offended were free to let me know. And I do understand.
But I believe in the open table, a place where people can come to eat regardless of preferences, labels, and such, where vegan, vegetarian and omnivore can sit down together and break bread together. Exploring inclusiveness has always been the intention behind my work, and while I thoroughly enjoy the meatless meals I cook, I don’t like a label that pushes others away so I’ve never really felt comfortable with the word “vegetarian.” I don’t use it to describe an exclusive lifestyle, but more as an option. (That’s why it’s “Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone.”) We can all enjoy plant foods and have meals that are without meat whether we do so everyday, only on Monday’s, or on more or less frequent occasions.
Today, more than any other time, plant based way of eating is respected and even seen as valuable to one’s health and well-being. A meatless meal is now a viable option to the usual menu offerings of lamb, salmon, chicken and beef, regardless of who is eating. When recently interviewed by a graduate student who was doing a project on plant-based diets I was taken aback when he said, by way of introducing a question, “Nutritionists today say that with a plant based or vegetarian diet you’ll get all the nutrition you need.” I had to ask him if I had heard him correctly, because that’s a huge change. The questions used to be, “Do you get enough protein?” And the assumption was you weren’t. (Another reason for saying I wasn’t a vegetarian – I didn’t want to answer that question all my life.) Nutritionists, dieticians, and doctors were very concerned about all the lacking elements in a meatless diet. No more, apparently, and that’s terrific. Now it’s a plus not to eat meat.
In the 30 plus years I’ve been involved with cooking dishes based on plants rather than meat, vegetarians have gone from being weirdos who had to defend their diets to something entirely more mainstream. Now it’s not a big deal if you say you’re a vegetarian or a vegan. And one might be a hardcore or simply experimenting. I have a niece who says she’s a vegan because she doesn’t trust or like the animal foods that are offered as part of the meal plan in college. She grew up on a farm and has parents who discern the differences between industrial food and well-raised food. Does that mean she’s really a vegan? For the moment, it’s a strategy. It might stick or not. I’ve taught more than one vegetarian cooking classes in which someone confesses that although they’ve been a strict vegetarian for twenty years they now dream of eating turkey. It’s possible that we change. I also know a 3rd generation Australian vegetarian (unlikely, when you think about it) who doesn’t even know the taste of meat and isn’t curious about it nor does he think of its absence as a lack. Others might be happy little vegetarians until they smell that roast pork shoulder studded with garlic and laced with rosemary or that roast chicken being pulled from the oven, then they succumb to something larger and possibly more fundamental than their ideals.
It’s also quite possible that one can be truly offended by the smell of meat. And the thought of animals being killed. After all, none go willingly to slaughter. I think about this a lot. Such people shouldn’t come to a butcher shop for a vegetarian book signing, but others might come and also take advantage of those vegan stocks, those nutty-chewy breads, that raw milk and amazing raw milk cheeses—even if they don’t eat meat. Hopefully there is room for all kinds in this world. In fact, the event was included a great big happy mix of people. Some ignored the meat. Others ignored me and Joseph. But it all felt good. Kind of like family.
I know, a vegetarian author in a butcher shop. Sounds weird. But it doesn’t stop there. I’ll be there with Joseph Shuldiner, the author of “Pure Vegan”, a gorgeous book that came out from Chronicle last year. We both thought, why not mix things up a bit? After all, what we are about in our work is offering vegetarian and vegan food that’s free of any diet fundamentalism. And we are both about integrity in the foods we cook with, and the same is true of Tom Delehanty, who is the man behind Pollo Real and the owner of the newly opened Real Butcher Shop in Santa Fe.So really, it just made sense.
We all all be there so come join us!
Collected Works will have copies of “The NEW Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone” and “Pure Vegan” and there will be tastes from our books to sample.
Sunday, 5-8, May 25, at the Real Butcher Shop in Casa Solana, between the co-op and A Better Day coffee shop.
The NEW Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone is coming out on March 11, and since people are asking how it’s different from the older book, I thought I’d tell you.
For the most part it is the same book you already know. The point wasn’t to write an entirely new book, but to bring its contents up to date. There are 150 new recipes, but there is also a greater emphasis on tempeh (and other fermented soy foods) than tofu, which we now see as being more beneficial than we once thought. There is a designation of those recipes that are vegan and more vegan options as well. Recipes that were especially rich or challenging for other reasons were either eliminated or adapted to reflect today’s tastes. A section on vegetable sautés replaces some of the more complicated stir-fries, and among the breads is now a no-knead recipe with some great variations.
That foods have changed along with our tastes is reflected in this new volume. Ingredients like smoked paprika and smoked salt, shichimi togorashi, rau ram (Vietnamese coriander) and curry leaves are more familiar and available than they once were. We now have coconut oil and a coconut beverage along with almond, rice, hemp and other dairy substitutes. Shishito, fushimi and padron peppers are as familiar to some as jalapeno and serrano peppers once were. Kale was not eaten as salad when VCFE first appeared. Now it is. We may have cooked wheat berries before, but we didn’t cook “farro” until recently, and so it goes. Forbidden rice, frikeh, cracked, pearled and whole farro, unhomogenized dairy have all arrived and today we know about “tartines” as well as sandwiches. Another thing that has changed are the countless authors who are truly expert in a single area, be it bread, curries, Asian vegetables, which means that this volume doesn’t really have to contain everything—for there are many other books to choose from when our expertise in a particular culinary culture grows.
So while there are many changes (plus a new design within and without), it’s also true that many things have remained the same. You’ll find your old friends here and hopefully discover some new ones. (I’ll get that cover up as soon as I figure out how to.) Continue reading What’s New about The New Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone
A Gilfeather rutabaga (above) and regular rutabaga (below).
I first heard of this vegetable as the Gilfeather Turnip, but it’s actually a rutabaga. Like other members of the rutabaga group (Brassica napobrassica) it has a long tap root and rootlets issuing forth in two bands that run down the opposite sides of the tuber. Unlike other rutabagas we know it is white skinned and white fleshed whereas the usual rutabaga has a purple band of skin on the outside and inside the color is a delectable creamy yellow. (Also, a turnip is round and doesn’t have those rootlets or taproot.) The flavor of the Gilfeather is rooty sweet with a bit of a peppery twang, much like any rutabaga, but many say, so much better.
When the Slow Food’s Ark of Taste first got going in the USA, this was one of the earliest members to board. Seeds were scarce since the Vermont farmer, John Gilfeather, who grew this vegetable, was so protective of his favorite vegetable that he cut off both the tops and the long roots so that they couldn’t be cultivated. Seed of course, was out of the question, but it’s hard to possess anything in full and a few seeds did get away. Thanks to the Ark of Taste and a few intrepid farmers, you can buy the Gilfeather turnips/rutabaga not exactly everywhere, but in a few select farms. (Find them by going to slowfoodusa/arkoftaste. Look up Gilfeather turnip then go to Local Harvest to find who is growing them. There are a few farmers.)
John McClendon, a farmer in the Phoenix area, is one who grows Gilfeather rutabagas. He placed a hefty specimum in my hand before we each packed up our books and vegetables at the Scottsdale Eileen Fisher store. (We were both showing our wares in this clothing store, but that’s another story.) I was thrilled with the gift and a tucked it carefully into my suitcase to take home.
But the next day I was lucky enough to taste one at FnB Restaurant, also in Scottsdale, grown by Mr. McClendon and prepared by the talented chef Charlene Badman. I can’t give away her secret, but I can say that it was a delectable dish—golden, caramelized, and oddly enough, heart shaped, but not through any contrivances on Charleen’s part. Cut a rutabaga lengthwise and you might just get a big heart. And if you turnout to be a real fan of the Gilfeather rutabaga, this might just be your Valentine’s special. And keep your eyes open for this special heirloom vegetable.
It’s been a long, hard, hot, dry summer and I’ve tried many times to write about it, but it always gets too moany-groany. So here’s the abbreviated version of what I learned from this summer’s drought, which is actually year 3 of a longer dry period.
When it’s dry, plants die. The world is brown instead of green. It’s easy to become depressed.
When it’s dry, there are no mosquitoes, so it’s a pleasure to sit outdoor in the evening.
During the drought the lilac buds just dried up without opening.
There are very few larkspur, although their blooms are welcome.Usually there are hundreds of them.
Leaves on the fruit trees yellow and fall early.
Those plants that do come up seem feeble. They’re shorter. They don’t feel robust, even when watered.
One carries a lot of water from the kitchen to the garden. Where will a gallon of water be most effective?
Plants don’t thrive under hose-water, even if it is drip and is from a well. It’s just not like rain.
There are no weeds during the drought. No sprouting elms, no native sunflowers, no buckwheat or mountain spinach (orach), amaranths, pigweed, and tumbleweeds. There are however lamb’s quarters and purslane. A lot of each.
The first monsoon rain drenching the garden.
When it finally does rain, which, miraculously it did, we are ecstatic. Strangers talk with one another with hope and happiness in their voices.
I actually think for the moment that the crisis is over, that our weather world will be normal again.
The world turns greens. Or at least greenish.
There are mosquitoes. Lots of them.
And there are weeds. Hundreds and thousands of them. They were just waiting for that moisture to fall from the sky. I tug at this grassy carpet pulling up elms, sunflowers and amaranths especially, by the handful. If these little green plants were insects or mice, their sheer number would be alarming. Even as plants, go, it’s alarming. The fecundity of annual plants is such that one year when I didn’t weed then went into the far back yard, I was frightened by their sheer density. (The next year is when I started a garden.)
And now that the mosquitoes have driven me inside, I check my e-mail, and there’s notice for a conference —next February, which is six months hence—whose topic is “Drought, Opportunity for Change.” And that’s the same conclusion I’ve come to this summer. Despite the puddles in the driveway, drier times will continue and I’ve come to believe that the most important thing to cultivate is not this plant or that, but a rising mind, one that looks for and finds those opportunities that must be met if we wish to continue gardening for pleasure, growing food, and finding joy in our drying world. The conclusion?
I’m not moving to a rainier clime (at least for now). And I’m going to tackle gardening in hard times with gusto.
One question people ask me when we’re talking about ‘Vegetable Literacy’ is, “What is your favorite plant family?”
“Do you mean to grow or to eat?” I ask.
“To admire for its flowers or for its curvaceous membership?” I wonder.
“Or for its eccentricity, or colorful stories?” I hope.
These botanical families are all quite wonderful and also, quite different, and it’s hard for me to choose a favorite. They’re all favorites.
Some are large, others small. Some common and trustworthy, others strange and eccentric. But the family that is now captivating me most right now is the aster (daisy, or sunflower) family. The word Asteraceae, the name for the family, comes from the Greek word for little star. Think of an asterisk (*), another little star, or an asteroid, a somewhat larger one yet quite little in comparison to our big star, the sun. Jerusalem artichokes are in this family and I once wrote a piece in which I referred to them as “star flowers.” I didn’t know about the word Asteraceae meaning little star, or even what family they were in. They produced sunflowers, but lean and articulated ones, and they struck me somehow as stars, especially those on the ends of eight-food branches, nodding against the sky. How curious that they belonged in the family known by the same name. We know without knowing.
This family intrigues me. Its members are prickly, spiny, hairy, bitter, but with innocent looking daisy-like flowers along with variations on the composite flower theme, such as the tufted purple artichoke and thistle blossoms.
Consider cardoons, artichokes, salsify, burdock, chicories and endives, lettuce grown in too warm a spot. These are plants that in many cases emit a thick, latex like liquid which, if you taste it, and I have, is bitter indeed. You can tear your fingers along the edge of cardoon spine or prick them on an artichoke leaf, and you’ll astonished at all the roots that sprout off a long root called salsify, which give it its other name, “goats beard.” Sometimes my radicchio is almost too bitter to eat. And those strange subterranean creatures, sun chokes, will take over your garden. They might have flowers like little stars, but they’re aggressive in their march towards dominance. Burdock dwells here, too. It was long considered a medicinal plant before it was regarded as a vegetable. Its root grows to such length that harvesting is the challenge. I was once sent a burdock root that was three feet long which said as much about the harvester as about the soil. It was like having a large snake it the kitchen.
The culinary herb in this family is tarragon, which also goes bys the name dragonwort. Or dragon’s mugwort. Artemisia dracunculus. Why dragon? The name dates back to a time when the idea of the Doctrine of Signatures, a system that looks for correlations between a plant and its possible uses. As the roots of tarragon are snaky in appearance, it was thought they were useful for treating snakebites, which were thought of as small dragons.
The Milky Way seems especially well peppered with little stars against the desert night sky, my asters are already up though many months away from making their galaxy of lavender blooms, and there’s enough tarragon to use in an egg salad made with my neighbor’s perfect eggs. Spring is creeping, however slowly, towards its own lush moment.
Egg Salad with Tarragon, Parsley and Chives Makes about 2 cups
I had somehow forgotten about egg salad, but with the tarragon and chives emerging in the garden, eggs becoming more numerous with the lengthening days, and some very good bread in the house, egg salad suddenly came sharply into view. I also add a small, finely diced pickled shallot to egg salad just to insert a little zing into the creamy richness of real farm (or backyard) eggs.
6 farm eggs (likely to be on the small to medium size)
1 tablespoon minced tarragon leaves
1 tablespoon finely snipped chives
1 tablespoon minced parsley or lovage
3 tablespoons mayonnaise
Sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1 small shallot, finely diced and tossed with a little vinegar
chive blossoms, if available
Cover the eggs with cold water in a saucepan, bring them to a boil and boil for 1 minute. Turn off the heat, cover the pan, and let stand for 7 minutes. Pour off the hot water, rinse with cool, then peel and chop the eggs.
Put them in a bowl with the herbs, and mayonnaise. (If you used commercial mayonnaise you might not need much salt.) Taste, add ¼ teaspoon, then taste again. Season with pepper.
If you want the zesty hit of the shallot, toss it, once diced, with just a few drops of vinegar and let stand for a few minutes. The color will change right away to a soft pink. If there is excess vinegar, drain it off and add the shallots to the mix. Pile the egg salad into a serving bowl and garnish with chive blossoms, if you have some.