playing with fire and water

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.

 

heat wave

I knew it was coming [the heat and humidity].

The change of weather had been forecast for days and discussed with the same fervor as an impending snowstorm. That's how it is in these parts. Weather rules.

But I didn't need a weather report to tell me that summer is quickly approaching. My dog does a fine job of that. His built-in barometer is fine tuned to low pressure systems, particularly the ones that bring oppressive humidity and summer storms. It causes him to pace the house restlessly until he drops from exhaustion. He's a dog of many talents (he can open doors and does a wicked Chewbaca impression) but when the sky starts to rumble, he has yet to figure out a way to fit his massive body under a bed.

Even without meteorologists and an anxious dog, I can always rely on the garden to tell me what part of the season we're in. The soil is finally warm and dry enough to plant summer vegetables. In the rock garden and perennial borders, the warm colors of spring bulbs and blooming shrubs give way to softer, cooler blues and pinks. And everywhere, there is green.

It's humbling to admit that a few days of hot, hazy sunshine does more to advance a plant's growth than all my fussing, nurturing and organic fertilizer put together. At this stage, my role becomes more passive; it's more about keeping up with the weeds. It feels a lot like raising teenagers.

And just as the garden changes with the weather, so, too, does my appetite. When it's hot and humid, all I want is cold and wet.

And, so, the change came: the heat and humidity descended, weather reporters congratulated themselves, the dog paced on cue, the garden flourished, the weeds rampaged, and I craved nothing but watermelon and iced tea. 

With some disdain, I faced a pot of stock that I had made the night before from vegetable trimmings and herbs from the garden: asparagus, pea pods, wild onions, celery, lovage, chervil, ferns, yarrow, chives, and a handful of Parmesan rinds. A hot soup had seemed like a good idea in the cool of the evening, but on a sweltering afternoon, I re-imagined it as a cold tisane. While the cold, flavorful stock strained clear through a coffee filter, I dashed outdoors to collect a handful of leaves and petals: sedum, yarrow, fern, oxalis, dianthus, hesperis, chives. Along with some willowy stalks of asparagus, it was just what I craved— a cold, wet tonic on a hot, humid day.

 

Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice

 

Pemmican was the original power bar— a rich source of energy, and a nutritious survival food. Native Americans made pemmican by blending pounded, dried meat (jerky) with rendered fat in a 50/50 ratio. Typically, the meat came from ungulate (hoofed) animals— bison, moose, elk, deer. The fat was melted tallow or marrow, extracted from the bones. For special ceremonies, dried berries were added for flavor and color. 

The word pemmican comes from the Algonquin word pimikan, derived from pimil, the Cree-Chippewa word for fat. 

 

The hunter-gatherers of North America ate diets that were high in saturated animal fat— alarmingly high by today's standards— yet they lived long, healthy lives, free of disease (until the Europeans arrived). Hunters, in particular, were driven by a lust for fat that they believed was vital to their physical and mental well-being.

Early visitors who witnessed the native hunter's prowess were in awe. One Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca, wrote "The men could go after deer for an entire day without resting or apparent fatigue... one man near seven feet in stature... runs down a buffalo on foot and slays it with his knife or lance, as he runs by its side".

No doubt, their active lifestyle contributed to their physical integrity and superiority. Maintaining it placed a premium on the quality and quantity of their caloric intake, necessitating fat as part of their diet. With nearly 2 1/2 times the energy of complex carbohydrates, sugars, or meat, animal fat was the most efficient way to consume calories without adding bulk.

puffed wild rice: (top) cook until very soft, (center) dehydrate until hard and dry, (bottom) fry in rendered duck fat until puffed 

The Chippewa (anglicized name for Ojibwe), are the third largest group of Native Americans in the United States, though they are equally divided between the US and Canada. They once occupied a large territory around The Great Lakes that spread from the prairies of Canada to the plains of Montana.

Chippewas are best known for the wild rice that they gather from the lakes in birchbark canoes. The manoomin (meaning "good berry"), or wild rice, is a sacred plant to the Obijwe, who believed that it was a gift to them from the spirits. According to legend, their creator Gichi-Manidoo guided them on a long journey from the east to Lake Mole, in Wisconsin, where they found "the food that grows on water". Manoomin became so valuable and integrated in their lives that in the early 1800's, they fought a bloody war with the Sioux over it, in which the Chippewa were ultimately victorious.

Wild rice (Zizania) quickly became a staple in the Chippewas diet, and they learned to prepare it many different ways: cooked into a paste to be eaten as bread, mixed with cranberries and maple syrup for breakfast, to thicken broths, and popped, or puffed in hot grease. Wild rice was also traded for furs and was useful for attracting geese, ducks, and other wild fowl, making them easy prey for the Indians who waited, hiding in the dense reeds. The Chippewas believed that the birds that fed on the revered crop were the most delicious of all. Makes sense to me.

Pemmican

dried duck, cranberries, crispy duck skin

puffed wild rice 
 

Indian Summer :: the river :: trout birch sumac

Staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina) is a native shrub/small tree that can be found growing at the edge of forests and along riverbanks. In late summer and autumn, the drupes ripen to form clusters of velvety red berries that were sought after by Native Americans for their sourness. They used the dried and ground sumac as a seasoning and made a lemonade-like beverage with fresh berries. Indians also enjoyed smoking the dried berries in a pipe, a custom that they introduced to the Europeans— who, as a result, preferred it to the best Virginia tobacco.

 

In early spring, and then again in autumn, Woodland Indians left their communal villages to set up fishing camps along rivers. There they would erect portable wigwams and move about on canoes that were fashioned out of birchbark in the north and hollowed-out trees in the south. They fished in shallow waters with spears and built weirs to trap fish. At these seasonal camps, they also processed the fish by brining, drying, and smoking. Fish were dried by skewering on sticks and stuck into the ground around the cooler perimeters of a fire, or smoked on racks made of twigs that were propped above a smoldering fire. Fresh fish were roasted on aromatic planks of cedar, oak, alder, birch— or fried on hot rocks that were greased with bear fat.

At the time that the Europeans arrived, the rivers, lakes and streams of North America were said to be swarming with fish of countless species— some of which are lost to us now. In "The Big Oyster: History on the Half Shell", Mark Kurlansky states " The rivers and streams had so many fish— striped bass, sturgeon, shad, drum fish, carp, perch, pike, and trout— that they could be yanked out of the water by hand."

In appalling contrast, Cormac McCarthy describes a post-apocalyptic North America in his novel "The Road", in which the earth is inexplicably scorched and unimaginably barren. The story deals with themes of survival and morality, addressing questions like Who are we when we have nothing left to lose?, or How long can we survive when the earth no longer provides food or water? In the very last paragraph he writes a provocative passage that seems wrought with Indian sensibility and wisdom:

   "Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber currents where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."

 

 

 

Trout: Sour, Sweet, Smoky

 hot stone-seared, sumac and young cress

cold smoked, birch syrup glaze

 
 

 

Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

  

Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

 Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

 

Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

 

Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include:  sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts. 

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population. 

 

Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.