playing with fire and water

discovering herbs

As long as we're on the subject of herbs and plant classification, there's something I'd like to share.
I hope you find it useful. 

 

Herbs (short for herbaceous plants) are defined as "seed-producing, non-woody plants that die back to the ground annually". 

The problem with that description is that it would include nearly every plant in existence except trees, shrubs, mosses, ferns, and funghi, while excluding obvious ones like rosemary, savory, bay, and sage, which develop woody tissues.

An even broader description, "a useful plant", could be applied to any of the 400,000+ species that make up the plant kingdom. All plants have purpose; some are just waiting to be discovered. 

Culinarily, herbs are considered green leafy plants, whose leaves are used to add flavor, aroma, and color to food. Plants like lettuce, onions, broccoli, and tomatoes are all technically 'herbs', but we tend to categorize them as 'vegetables'. When cooks speak of herbs, we speak commonly of plants like parsley, dill, cilantro, etc.
 

 

When I began cooking with herbs eons ago, market selections were limited to fresh parsley, dill, basil, and mint. I quickly learned that the only way to gain access to a wider variety was to grow them myself. My first garden, in fact, was a culinary herb garden, where I strived to grow varieties that were esoteric at the time. 

Herbs, I had been told, were the easiest plants to grow. I lost so many plants in those early attempts that I began to question my ability as a gardener.

But there were successes, and they led to an exciting period of discovery. Tasting things like lemon verbena, cinnamon basil, and anise hyssop for the first time opened up a new universe of flavor.  

While I believed that the flavors and aromas found in herbs were varied and unique, I began to see similarities in their forms and in the way that the plants developed: 
Thyme looked exactly like miniature oregano.
The leaves of green shiso and anise hyssop were nearly identical.
And the flowering heads of dill, parsley, cilantro, fennel, and chervil all resembled little umbrellas.

It was these observations (and many others) that led me to discover that most common culinary herbs belong to one of two families: Lamiaceae or Umbelliferae.

 

Undoubtably, my little discovery is common knowledge to anyone who really knows plants. But to me, it was an epiphany— a moment of clarity in which chaos became neatly organized.

As a gardener, it demystified the cultivation of herbs, allowing me to successfully grow individual species according to the traits of its family. Knowing that Lamiaceae likes heat and hates wet feet, I plant them in sunny locations where the soil is light and friable. And I know, too, that the tall flowers of Umbelliferae attract predatory insects like lady bugs and parasitic wasps, making them good companions to more vulnerable plants.

As a cook, the relationship between these seemingly disparate plants provided me with a deeper understanding of flavor. Questioning why lovage tasted like celery, parsley like carrots, and basil like mint, led me to investigate aroma compounds, and another universe opened up.

As a hunter and gatherer of information, I've amassed a good amount of knowledge about herbs and plants, most of which I've already forgotten. More and more, it seems that it's the connections that are forged through personal experiences and discoveries that are the truly indelible ones.

And just like herbs, they are all useful.

agastache

For years, I've auditioned various herbs with figs, failing to find a winning combination. Mint and sage, in the right proportions, has been a close contender. But for now, Agastache takes the prize.

I was first attracted to the Agastache cultivar 'Dessert Sunrise' by it's color, then aroma. Agastache is actually an herb, although it is mostly grown as an ornamental flower because of its showy blooms. In my experience, most Agastache species display aggressive sage and salvia aromas, some with anise and licorice overtones. This one was different— it smelled light and citrusy, a trait which I was delighted to find echoed in the flavor of the leaves. Even more so in the flowers, with spicy notes of bergamot, but in the sweet, subtle way that is characteristic of herb blossoms.

Agastache is a genus of plants in the Lamiaceae family that is often confused with Hyssop, a closely related genus in the same family. I think it's the common names that throw people off.

There are over a dozen species of Agastache and many of them are commonly known as hyssop. For example: the common name for Agastache foeniculum is Anise Hyssop and Agastache mexicana is known as Mexican Hyssop. To further complicate the matter, some are known as mints: Agastache cana= Texas Hummingbird Mint, and Agastache rugosa= Korean Mint. 

Confused? Then let me introduce you to Agastache rupestris, commonly known as both Threadleaf Hyssop AND Licorice Mint.

Don't get me wrong, common names of plants are often charming and seemingly more descriptive than their scientific (Latin) name. Some of my favorites are romantic and whimsical: dame's rocket (Hesperis), queen anne's lace (Daucus), jack-in-the-pulpit (Arisaema), lady's slipper (Cypripedium), love-in-a-mist (Nigella). 

And then there are all of the archaic -banes and -worts: henbane, leopardbane, spiderwort, milkwort, whorlywort, that hearken the superstitions that once surrounded herbs and medicinal plants.

 

Learning the scientific names of plants, along with the common, and the hierarchy of the plant kingdom has helped me to understand individual plants, as well as their connection to one another. It's these connections, and the accompanying epiphanies, that keep me interested.

coconut fig curry

Coconuts were introduced to Europe by Portuguese explorers who brought them back from India. Vasco da Gama's sailors thought the round, hairy fruit (actually, a seed), with the black eyes and nose, resembled "Coco", a folkloric ghost/witch/monster; the precursor to the jack-o-lantern. When it reached England, "nut" was added to the end and the name stuck.

Although the coconut palm (Cocos nucifera) and the fig tree (Ficus carica) have little in common except for similarity of flavor and aroma, they sure taste good together. 

I can't help but wonder if 16th century Europeans, upon opening a coconut for the first time, thought that it smelled like fig leaves. I also wonder what they would've thought of this dessert: a familiar and beloved fruit, married to newly-discovered treasures from faraway lands.

 coconut fig terrine ✢ curry tea foam ✢ agastache blossoms 

Fig leaf tea makes a light and flavorful base for an aromatic curry broth. Further lightened into a foam, it lands weightless on the tongue and dissipates, leaving only an impression of warm spice.

Download recipe: coconut fig terrine with curry tea

the scent of fig leaves

I can say, with a degree of certainty, that one of my earliest memories is of the scent of fig leaves.

Coconut was not a food that I grew up with. My mother had no idea what to do with it and my brother and I both disliked it. We agreed that Mounds and Almond Joys were a waste of good chocolate and avoided houses that offered them at Halloween. 

With me, it was more of a textural thing that I eventually grew out of. My brother never did.

Yet there was something about coconut that haunted me. 

I distinctly remember the first time that I opened a can of coconut milk. It stirred something that was locked away and undefinable; a memory that I couldn't access.

My mother once gave me a large piece of the puzzle. We were on a crowded beach that reeked of coconut-scented suntan lotion. She said it reminded her of fig trees.

And later, as a teenager, I approached her wearing a new drugstore cologne that I thought made me smell exotic and tropical. In hindsight, I probably just smelled like a musky pinã colada, but she casually remarked that I smelled like figs.

I should have pieced it together from old photographs and stories of my grandparent's property in Portugal— my home for the first three years of my life. It wasn't until I returned as an adult, with husband and children in tow, and experienced it for myself, that it clicked.

 

In its heyday, my grandparent's property was a thriving farm, consisting of orchards, vineyard, and fields of grains, vegetables, and hay. There were chickens, rabbits, pigs, and oxen to work the fields. Water was supplied by a well; an enormous, deep hole in the ground, bordered by a low stone wall and covered with iron framework. The treillage, more ornamental than functional, soared high into the sky and was crowned with an iron horse that became the icon of the farm.

The stories that I heard throughout my childhood painted a lively picture of life on the farm: days governed by hard work, tempered by frequent celebrations and feasts, where family, friends, neighbors, and hired hands gathered together. 

After my grandparents passed away, the property was left to my father and his siblings, who all lived in the US. They hired caretakers, who were grossly negligent of their duties. When I returned, in the late 1990's, I was crushed by what I found. The once-grand house was in an advanced state of decay, too precarious to enter. There was nothing to see anyway, all of its contents had been pilfered and looted. The fields laid fallow and were overgrown with weeds. The grounds were thick with brambles.

But there were some vestiges; things that endured the ravages of time and neglect.

The carefully cultivated grapes had gone wild, but were still producing heavily, the dark clusters ripening in the August sun. 

The well and treillage were intact and the horse still galloped high in the clouds.

And near a concrete pool that was used to wash laundry, a fig tree thrived. It was heavy with fruit, still young and green. I mourned that I would not be there to taste them ripe. I picked some leaves, intending to press them between the pages of a book back home. It would be my only memento. 

I turned to leave and a breeze kicked up, carrying with it the sun-warmed scent of fig leaves. The old feeling stirred and I understood that it was nostalgia. 

I saw myself as a baby, laid out on a blanket under the shade of the fig tree. Nearby, my mother and grandmother washed linens in the pool and laid them out under the October sun to bleach. 

I've no idea what I was feeling or thinking, but I'm reasonably sure that I was content to just lay there, listening to the splashing of water and the chatter of familiar voices, inhaling the scent of fig leaves. 

I didn't know it then, but I do now— they smell a lot like coconut.

 
 

Some people think that fig leaves smell like cat pee. I suppose that could be true of some varieties, but most people detect creamy, nutty notes (like those in coconut), warm spice (as in cinnamon and nutmeg), and woody herbs (oregano, thyme and rue). 

Last fall, I brought some dried leaves back from a trip through the South for Alex of Ideas in Food.  I didn't tell him what they were because I wanted to let him guess. I think the first words out of his mouth were "smells like coconut".
 
In the perfume industry, fig-based fragrances are often described as "coconut aroma".

Despite the overwhelming similarity in scent, I can't find a direct link between the two. Figs and coconuts belong to different orders in the plant kingdom and research has turned up no common aroma compounds. 

So, is it a matter of perception? Or something more tenuous?

 

Of course, the next question is: Do fig leaves taste like coconut?

Nibbling on the fresh leaves, I could detect no coconut flavor. But an infusion (in hot water) released the aroma, and yes— a fresh, green coconut flavor. 

Fig leaf tea is not uncommon. It's best known for treating diabetes, helping to maintain proper insulin levels. It's also loaded with antioxidants and phytonutrients.

Regardless of the health benefits, I find fig leaf tea to be one of the best tasting 'herbal' teas in recent memory.

Maybe you would, too. That is— if you like coconut.

 

 

three little figs

Once upon a time, not so long ago or far away, there was a very special fig.

Figgy [as she liked to be called] was no ordinary fig. She was a fig with aspirations.

Indeed, all figs have aspirations; they all want to be immortal. In the glory of their ripeness, they put on their dusky makeup and most alluring perfume in hopes of attracting hungry birds and beasts to spread their seed. 
But our Figgy wanted something different for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and to live on as a fond memory.

To this end, Figgy placed ads in dozens of newspapers. She received many replies, but thought none earnest. [She was convinced that they were all just greedy bluejays.] Then she received a call from a chef who seemed genuinely interested. Figgy followed her instincts and agreed to a formal meeting.

The meeting was held at the chef's restaurant. Chef greeted her warmly and seated her at a table in the kitchen, then proceeded to present her with dish after dish of the finest food she had ever tasted. After dinner, Chef joined Figgy for a glass of Port and asked her about herself.
 
Figgy told Chef that her ancestors had come from a faraway land that was once called Persia, but is now known as Iran. They had lived there for centuries in the most splendid gardens that the world had ever seen.
"Did you know that the word paradise is from an ancient Persian word for walled garden?" asked Figgy.
From there, they migrated west to Egypt, then north to Greece, where figs were held in high esteem by both slaves and royalty.
"My forebears were among the figs that concealed the asp in Cleopatra's basket and flourished in King Alcinous' orchard during Odysseus' visit." 
"Fascinating", said Chef and begged her to continue.
"Successive generations continued westward along the Mediterranean: Rome, Provence, Andalucia, and finally the Algarve, where my grandmother settled. When my mother was just a sapling, she was packed in a box and shipped across the Atlantic to New England. That's where she lives now; in a pot on a terrace during the bearing season and winters in a heated greenhouse. She is happy and well cared for."
 
"And you?" asked Chef, "Tell me why you're here."
"I was born in the greenhouse and moved onto the terrace when I was still very young. The family that cared for us would gather there every night for dinner. From high up on one of my mother's boughs, I would watch them feast on the most sumptuous foods. With every bite, they all agreed that it was the best they had ever tasted and that they would remember it forever. It was then that I realized that I didn't want to be gobbled up by a hungry bird. I want to be savored, to be lingered over, to be remembered! I'm hoping that you can help me with that."
 
"I will do my best, but tell me... what would you like me to do with you?"
Figgy had thought long and hard about this. It's true; she was a dreamer, but she was also a sensible fig. She understood that in order to make a lasting impression, she needed some enhancement. In her haste to fulfill her destiny, perhaps she had left her mother too soon and was not as sweet and ripe as she could have been.
"I can fix that with a bit of honey." said Chef.
 
Figgy's mother had taught her many things about her history and her anatomy. She often lamented that figs are mistaken for fruit when they are actually flowers. She had explained that inside herself were hundreds of flowers that looked like long, thin filaments, and that each one held a seed. These seeds, she had said, were what perpetuated their species and held them in regard as an ancient symbol of fertility. But they were often cursed by humans for getting caught in their teeth and interrupting the sensual experience of eating figs.
Chef listened to her concern and suggested that a blender would break down her seeds, if she would allow it.
 
Figgy was not afraid of the blender or what it would do to her, she was ready to sacrifice herself fully. But she was adamant about retaining her form, of which she was fiercely proud, despite it's phallic shape that has been a source of embarrassment to both men and women throughout the ages. So much so, that the original Arabic word for figs is now considered an obscenity.
"No problem" said Chef "I can mold you so that you will look exactly like yourself, but better."
 
This pleased Figgy and she was anxious to get started, but Chef was hesitant.
"I think that to make you truly memorable, you will need to share the spotlight with other flavors. If we do it right, they will not rob you of your glory, but make you more delicious. Will you trust me?"
When Figgy seemed amenable, Chef continued, "Great! I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends that I think you will get along with very nicely."
 
Chef rushed into the kitchen, swept things up off the counter, and laid them out in front of Figgy.
 
"First, I'd like you to meet Onion Caramel. She may look cloyingly sweet, but she's surprisingly sassy."
"Yes, I like her." said Figgy taking a taste "She's got lots of personality!" 

"Next, there's Dark Chocolate. He's smooth, suave, mysterious and seductive, but with a bitter edge to balance your sweetness."
"Oh my, I'd better stand my ground with him or he will sweep me off my feet."

"And, finally" said Chef, lifting the lid off a round, wooden box "there's Epoisses."
Figgy shrieked and stepped back, holding her breath.
"Now don't be afraid. I know Epoisses seems offensive, but I assure you, it's only skin-deep. If you take some time to get to know her, you'll find that she's full of character and actually sweet and mild on the inside."
Figgy watched Chef cut through the rind and expose a pale, creamy heart. She tasted carefully and found Epoisses agreeable and lovely.

"So, when do we get started?" asked Figgy.
 

The next morning Chef entered the kitchen to find Figgy and her friends engaged in a lively conversation.
When Chef asked Figgy if she was ready, she pulled Chef aside and said in a hushed tone, "I really love my new friends. We couldn't get along any better, but I'm worried. They are all such wonderfully memorable characters, how can I stand out among them?"

Chef understood and said reassuringly, "Figgy, I promise you that when I present your dish tonight that it will only be you that they see. And from then on, when they remember your dish, it will be you that they reference."

Chef and staff worked steadily throughout the day in preparation for the special meal. Every seat for both sittings were full and expectations were high. Course after course of Chef's carefully planned and executed meal was dispatched from the kitchen with only a few minor glitches. Figgy's dish was the final course.
When the last plate left the kitchen, Chef congratulated the staff, cleared the pass, hung her apron, and entered the dining room. 

Late that evening, Chef was alone in the kitchen writing menus, taking inventory, and listing orders for the next day's deliveries. Intermittently, she paused to reflect on the evening's accolades. There had been so many kind words from her guests: enthusiastic bloggers snapped photos and offered praise, critics hinted at rave reviews. There was even conjecture of a Michelin star. But the words that pleased her most were: "...the fig dish...", followed by various adjectives, " fantastic!... delicious!... brilliant!... memorable!"

As Chef turned the lock on the restaurant for the night, she felt overwhelming gratification.
For giving her best.
For pleasing her guests.
For making her staff proud.
But most of all, for keeping her promise to Figgy.

 

left to right:
dark chocolate-covered epoisses
onion caramel 
Figgy