playing with fire and water

tahoon pork jowl beechnut

There are plants that can be described as tasting earthy— mostly roots and tubers that absorb the minerals and organic matter of the soil in which they grow buried. Rarely is earthy attributed to a green leaf, which is why I was stunned when I tasted tahoon sprouts. Just days out of the soil, the tiny green leaves emit an intense flavor of sun-baked dirt, humus, and wood, with an oily background of roasted nuts.

Tahoon (Toona sinensis), aka Chinese Toon, is a member of the Mahogany family, native to China, where the young leaves and sprouts (xiang chun) are enjoyed as a vegetable.

Upon tasting tahoon and then learning that the plant was hardy in my northern climate and could eventually develop into a tree, I became curious about the mature leaves and aromatic wood.

But locating the elusive tahoon seeds proved to be a challenge. Eventually, I found them at a Canadian seed company that specializes in Chinese vegetables. 

The seedlings that I planted that summer, three years ago, didn't survive the winter. I planted another round the following year on the edge of a garden, near a stand of sumacs, that were forgotten until this spring when I noticed new growth on what I thought were sumac suckers, whose pinnate leaves closely resemble those of tahoon. It wasn't until I tasted them that I realized that the neglected plants had not only survived a harsh winter, but at nearly four feet in height, they were well on their way to becoming trees.

The mature tahoon leaves display the same aromatic properties that are found in the sprouts, but in a more diffused way. Instead of delivering the characteristic flavor up front, it saves it for the end, when you've nearly given up on it, then lingers on and on. The wood is richly aromatic, reminiscent of cedar, and full of promise.

The flavor of tahoon is often likened to beechnuts— a comparison that eluded me until recently. Though I'm always on the lookout for the nut of the American Beech (Fagus grandifolia), a native tree proliferate in the eastern United States, it's temperamental when it comes to producing fruit. Some years it produces nothing at all, while in other years, the beechnuts are scarce and out of reach on the upper limbs and the cupules are dry and hollow by the time they hit the ground. I guess I just had to stop looking because that's how I finally found them. And, yes— now that I've tasted them— I can say [with conviction] tahoon does indeed taste like beechnuts. Actually, dirty beechnuts.

Thin, bias-cut slices of pork jowl, sandwiched between tahoon leaves. A quick saute in a hot pan renders the fat and crisps the leaves. Crispy on the outside, juicy and succulent on the inside.

What I've learned about cooking mature tahoon is that it doesn't do well when subjected to moist heat— the volatile aromas all but disappear. Dry heat preserves the flavor and draws out the already low water content from the leaves, making them crispy. And I like crispy. 

pork jowl tahoon sandwich with roasted beechnut/jerusalem artichoke puree

pork jowl steaks

Pork jowls are usually found as thick, fatty cuts that resembles bacon and are typically used to make guanciale. When the fat is trimmed away to reveal the indecently striated flesh, the thin oblong cuts are known as jowl steaks.

These jowl steaks are from a Berkshire pig, an heirloom breed that originated in England and is now bred in the US and Japan, where it is known as Kurobuta. Berkshire is prized for its rich nutty flavor and high fat content that makes it inordinately succulent.

The marbled fat in this cut is not the kind that melts away easily; moderate cooking will turn it to rubber. Jowl steaks are best cooked at extremes— fast and hot, or slow and low. I'm glad I have two of them.

burrata peaches agastache

To a cook, food is a kaleidoscope of things: art, science, history, identity, religion. Sometimes food is just fuel; sometimes life itself. Every once in a while we encounter a food that is pure magic.

Take burrata, for instance: an impossibly thin skin of mozzarella encapsulating a filling of cream and curds. Surely (I thought), it's the work of an otherworldly being; the conjuring of a generous sorcerer, or a sleight of hand by a milk magician with an enormous heart. 

I said as much (or something like it) to a complete stranger upon tasting a particularly ethereal specimen, to which he replied with a humble "thank you". It took me a moment to understand that he was telling me that he had made the burrata himself, perhaps because his earthliness threw me off. But after listening to him describe the process with reverence and passion, while the whole time his deft hands traced the motions, I knew that I was at least half right.

If a mere mortal can make burrata, can we cooks do anything to make it better? To subject it to temperature or tools would only destroy its texture— and burrata is all about texture, the flavor is only as good as the milk from which it's made. No, the best we can do is to pair it foods that will act like magician's assistants, whose role is to enhance the performance of the magician.

My peaches were a disappointment this year. The ones that didn't rot on the tree weren't even worth picking. After the magic of last years harvest, I want to blame it on the incessant rain but that wouldn't explain why the local peaches weren't so affected. In fact, the ones I picked up at the farmer's market displayed remarkable balance and aroma for such a wet year. They made a wonderful fresh peach and mascarpone tart, flecked with spicy, citrusy Agastache "Desert Sunrise" flowers, but paired with burrata, as they are here, the dish was enchanting.