Edible Tulip

Cherry blossoms, sake and, um, geisha

I have a tiny worn paperback book called _One hundred famous Haiku_ selected and translated by Daniel Buchanan. It is so small and unassuming that it often sits in the shadows of the larger and weightier books on my tall shelves. But sometimes when I walk by I spot it and read one or two of the poems at random.

Without flowing wine
What good to me are lovely
Cherry trees in bloom?

- Anonymous

In April, when the cherry trees in Japan are in full bloom, hordes of families and friends and lovers (and whole crowds of businessmen) head to the country for an all day picnic. As noted in the book: they are frequently accompanied by geisha or other female companions, dancing, or lying under the blossom laden trees, eating, drinking and singing. Great quantanties of sake are consumed it is noted. I loved the deconstruction of the haiku. It suggests on a given day in April a visitor to Japan might expect to see the odd staggering libidinous man singing and laughing covered in cherry blossoms.

I'm off to have a bit of an April celebration of my own. Master Claudius Fehr, world renowned wine expert, who just happens to be my old boss, is taking me to lunch. Wine and food reviews to come.

da, da, da, daikon

Granted they look a little weird - white 2 foot long tubers etched with dirt and a little head of green sprouting out the end, but the daikon is an excellent vegetable.

I bought two the other week because my friend's parents were coming for wine and hors d'oeuvres and I like to put out cheese (sometimes a cheese like Feta that I'll chop up mint and thyme and place on top with a drizzle of olive oil) and crackers and also some spicy things like radish to ease the palette and tempt the stomach with hunger.

They also, aesthetically, go great with dips like red pepper or even a tapendade because they're white and so not very distracting or god forbid, clashing, like a carrot.

Another quick side salad in the summer to a tomato sandwich or a few rolls of sushi is grated daikon, sprinkled with black sesame seeds, and seasoned with lime juice, rice vinegar and a non-flavourful oil (olive oil is too rich). It ends up being quite pretty and very minimalistic.

Asia goes to the country

While packing up my pantry for the big move, I came across packages of mostly dried Asian goods: wakame, shredded mushrooms, bags and bags of poblano and chipotle and tiny Guatemalan chiles (which of course are used in Thai and Singaporean cuisine(, and tamarind paste. The one thing all of these items have in common is that they came from my neighbourhood green grocer. While living in Toronto, my cooking has slowly shifted sideways into Indian pickles, thai fish dishes, a love of seaweed, the beauty of hot with cold and sour with sweet. I can walk to Koreatown in 5 minutes and Chinatown in 20. Chinatown borders a large community market in Toronto (Kensington Market has a mixture of green grocers, Mexican bulk shops with grains and legumes, several excellent health food marts, cheese shops, bakeries, the best empanadas with a citrus tomatilla salsa and then a line of vintage clothing stores). This means when I go to buy my favourite Bulgarian feta I also invariably end up with bags of chinese greens and some flashy package I've been drawn to regardless of the contents. Chinatown in Toronto is all neon lights and puffy dried out baby shrimp and people spitting and lots of bicycles and a sort of organized chaos to the food shopping experience. Some of the markets are below sidewalk level so you navigate through mounds of pomelos, boxes piled high of cilantro and baby bok choys (the white ends are apparently far superior to the fragile pale green bunches) and containers of live crabs.

When I'm in Chinatown I have a hard time rembering that I'll soon be living in a southern ontario prime agricultural zone far from the neon lights. This means instead of the smell of cigarette smoke and garbage and rotten fruit that permeates a visit to Chinatown I'll be driving the open country smelling only the changes in the land.

Wakame is dried seaweed. I go for the dark green colour. It needs to be soaked in lukewarm for twenty minutes until it is soft and pliable. Drain and rinse (do rinse if you want the subtle fishy smell of seaweed to not take over your salad) the wakame well. Chop up a cucumber by slicing it lengthwise and then scooping out the flesh to create an arc. When you slice the cucumber up it should look like little moons. Toss with sea salt, the rinsed wakame and a dressing of soy sauce, rice vinegar, a pinch of sugar, and a tablespoon of sake.

Rummaging for Ramps

As soon as I get up north I'm heading out to the dense woods and getting down on all fours with a trowel and a plastic bag. The leeks are generally in full thrush by mid-May in Ontario. By mid-June they're usually getting tough and woody and rather dried out.

A sure sign of spring’s arrival in Ontario is the large clumps of malodorous green leaves in our wooded areas. These are the edible herbaceous spring ephemeral known as wild leeks or ramps (Allium triococcum, Ait.). Allium is the ancient name for garlic from Latin and the bulb of the wild leek, although flavoured like an onion, has a distinctly garlicky zing when cooked.

In late April look for leaves that coil to form colonies that push through the latent ground cover of mulch. The leaves eventually expand and resemble lily-of-the-valley clusters. They appear in patches and thrive in damp soil. You will need a small spade to loosen the earth around the base of the plant so you do not destroy the tender bulb. The bulb is encased in a thin netting which can easily be removed by rubbing your fingers together with the bulb between them or by pulling off the sheathe while running the bulb under cool water. Use both the leaves and the bulb in any recipe that calls for leeks, cooking onions, green onions or garlic.

Long before farmers and harvesters referred to the practice of responsible food production as sustainable agriculture, early settlers already understood the simplicity of re-growth. They used to replant the roots that extend from the base of the bulb so the ramps would continue to grow and flower. The wild leek plant flowers in late summer when the edible bulb has grown too mature and bitter to use. Cherokees and other tribes pickled the wild leeks to extend the life of the bulb and considered them a delicacy. Wild leeks have also been a large part of the regional cuisine of Southern Appalachia. Entire towns get together to celebrate spring by hosting Ramp Festivals known as “Dancin’ and Stinkin’ ” (due to the pungent aroma the wild leeks give off when eaten raw). And finally, on a medicinal note, an ancient folklore remedy suggests rubbing the juice of a crushed bulb on an insect sting to reduce redness and swelling. A timely remedy matched to the arrival of our Ontario honeybees.

Risotto with Ramps

6 leek bulbs, white part only, cleaned and sliced thin
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 cup Arborio rice (Italian rice)
3 cups vegetable broth
½ cup dry white wine
½ cup radicchio, sliced thin (if available)
½ cup fresh Parmesan, grated
3 Tbsp. Italian parsley, chopped
1 Tbsp. fresh squeezed lemon juice
Salt & pepper

Cook the leeks in the oil in a large saucepan until tender. Add the uncooked rice. Stir over medium heat for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the broth to a boil in a medium saucepan, reduce and simmer.

Add 1-cup broth to the rice, stirring constantly until it is absorbed. Add the wine and let absorb. Continue adding ½ cups of broth until the rice is slightly creamy and just tender. Just before serving, add the radicchio, the lemon juice, the Parmesan and top with the chopped parsley. Season with salt and pepper.

Serves 4 – 6.

The lustrous lemon - pucker face!

Having never lived in a tropical climate, or one that even had orchards (this is Ontario folks), lemons are a fruit which reminds me of my grandparents who were snowbirds (meaning they wintered in Florida). They had a grounded trailer in a campground near a placed called the Indian River Plantation. I remember the name because it sounded so exotic yet smacked of a sort of colonialism. From here, they sent us, in the frigid airs of pre-Christmas snowstorms, boxes of grapefruits and citrus fruit. I remember how just opening the cardboard with an exacto knife released an aroma of citrus as it misted up into the air.

Although lemons are not something I think of as seasonal (because I use them in everything) I do think of them as spring-ish. I personally like tartness and acidity in my cooking so I tend to use lemons in everything from baking to marinades, sauces to squeezing half of one over a salad (limes I prefer in curried vinaigrettes, Indian dals, or to flavour drinks).

A historical bit of info on lemons I published in the Creemore Echo in April 2004:

The Zest of Spring

The puckering sweetness of lemon baked into a pie, a tart or bread always reminds me of the advent of spring, the month of April and specifically Easter. While I use lemons all year long while cooking (drizzled onto braised winter greens, squeezed onto grilled fish, or whole quarters thrown into roasting dishes) I never bake with it until the first shoots of crocuses appear. I think that first glimmer of hopefulness inspires my palette to return to the fresh acidic flavours of spring. Lemons are a generous fruit lending their peel, pulp and juice as a spark to any dish, savoury or sweet.

The lemon (citrus limon) is thought to have originated in the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas. The Chinese were the first to domesticate citrus in the 3rd century and used an intricate system of ditches and berms for irrigation. From Eastern Asia, the citrus trees moved west with Alexander the Great’s campaigns in Iran and northern India. The citron seeds have also been found at an archaeological site in Cyprus dating from 1,200 B.C. Lemons love the sub-tropics; they do well in climates of warm dry summers and cool wet winters. The Romans were exceptional plant experimentalists and used the lemon tree for its timber, medicinal qualities and for its shady floral form and not so much for flavouring food. When Mohammad died in A.D. 632, Islam swept from Persia through Egypt and into Spain and even parts of Sicily. With this movement, the vineyards were desecrated and grubbed out and citrus trees were planted. Regions with excellent wines (Egypt among them) altered their food and drink and incorporated the musky tanginess of citrus into an evolving cuisine.

Although I love the hint of lemon in a lot of cooking, I especially like the flavour in cakes and tarts. This is an excellent pound cake to serve on a celebratory weekend like Easter. The recipe can be made in either a loaf pan or a pretty bundt pan.

Lemon-Ginger Pound Cake

3 Tbsp finely chopped ginger
¾ cup granulate sugar
1 cup all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp ground ginger
¼ tsp salt
¼ cup milk
½ tsp vanilla
½ cup unsalted butter
2 Tbsp grated fresh lemon zest
2 large eggs
3 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

Preheat oven to 350 F. Butter pan and then lightly flour it. Whisk together flour, baking powder, ground ginger and salt. Blend together the ground ginger and ¼ cup sugar until wet. In another bowl whisk the milk and vanilla. Beat the butter, remaining sugar, the zest and the eggs until fluffy. Alternately add the flour and milk mixture to the butter and eggs with an electric mixer or a wooden spoon. Mix the ginger and sugar until just combined and add the lemon juice. Spoon the batter into a pan and bake in the middle of the oven until golden brown. Use a cake tester to make sure the middle has cooked through entirely. Roughly 40 minutes or an hour for a loaf pan. A very pretty glaze consists of ½ cup of confectioners sugar to 2 Tbsp of lemon juice whisked until smooth. Drizzle on top of cake once inverted out of pan.

The Art of the Fig (and it's more than figgy puddin')

Figs are definitely an autumn fruit in the line of quince or pears. It's a short season. They're lovely however in jams. I cook and I eat food raw but I'm not a terribly efficient baker or pickler/canner. I think the difference between all those things is something called PATIENCE which I don't have a large amount of. Luckily, there are so many wonderful people who do enjoy canning and preserving and boiling all those jars. At St Lawrence Market in Toronto there's a nice man on the ground floor who has an amazing array of jams and jellies. Up around the Creemore area I visit the Apple Factory in Glen Huron where Mrs. Giffin (who is VERY well known in these parts) makes mince meat tarts, seasonal pies and although she doesn't personally make the jams and jellies there are still a lot of them on the shelf. Every Saturday after the long w/end in May the Creemore Farmer's Market is on and there you will find yet again some person cleverer than you or I who pickles, jars jams, cheese makes, bee keeps or keeps emus.

Here's a bit of anthropological fig for thought:

“You may deprive me of anything you like except coffee, cigarettes and figs” – Paul Valery, French Poet.

Spoken like a true French poet, caffeine, nicotine and the sweet sublimation of fruit were the companions to his process. One need only try a ripe fig to realize the addictive allure of the subtle contradiction of tiny crunchy seeds held within interior folds of spicy edible flesh.

In theological history, the fig is the first tree to be mentioned in the Bible: “… the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.” Sacred myth is also attached to the fig in nearly all ancient religions symbolizing abundance and initiation. The Indians consecrated the fig tree to Vishnu, the second god in the Brahman trinity, saviour of the world, and the Ancient Greeks to Dionysus, god of renewal. The fig’s tiny black seeds are meant to signify unity and universality of understanding, knowledge and faith.

The fig is not a particularly beautiful fruit. It does not blush red when in season like the strawberry nor does it have a prickly exterior belying a succulent piquant flesh like the pineapple; rather, it is a simple fruit of texture and flavour veiled in a thick purple skin.

White figs are the juiciest. They are also fairly thin skinned. French figs, which arrive from the south, near Provence, are the sweetest, even more so than their Italian counterparts. The Italians “force” their fruits and end up with a rushed maturation process, which, many would say, blemishes the taste. White figs are dried in the sun, washed with seawater, and then laid to dry in hot air. They arrive in North America from Turkey (the French figs, although marvellous, fresh are too small to withstand the process of drying). The dried fig in the supermarket is measured in freshness and flavour according to a crown system: 7 and 9 crowns are considered the freshest and fleshiest while 5 and 6 crowns are deemed less flavourful.

Calimryna figs are nutty and tender and golden skinned. They are the California version of the Turkish fig. The Mission fig, named for the mission fathers who planted the fruits as they traveled, are a deep purple when fresh and a darkish black colour when dried. The Adriatic fig, on the other hand, is from the Mediterranean region and has the sweetest flavour with a rich interior the colour of amber. These figs are used in the paste for fig bars.

Fresh figs with Yogurt and Honey, serves 2

Adriatic figs are festive and spring-like because they have a pale green exterior and a bright red centre. A few black mission figs can also be a nice addition to round out the flavours.

6 ripe figs
1 tsp fresh mint
2 ounces yogurt cheese, or plain organic yogurt
Honey (the farmers market in Creemore offers many local honeys like clover and wildflower)

Wipe down the figs with a damp cloth to remove dust. Pare away the stems. Cut the fig into quarters but keep the base attached so the end result resembles a budding flower when you take the bottom and squeeze it. Spoon the yogurt cheese into the splayed areas, sprinkle with mint, and drizzle with the honey.

Figs are ALSO delish cut in half, drizzled in a bit of maple syrup and grilled in the oven. While they're still warm spoon some mascarpone cheese on top.

You say Tomahto, I say Tomayto

This lazy image of July was sent to me by a very good friend who loves food too!

I only eat tomatoes raw in the summer. It's the only time their flesh tastes sweet and ready for eating. Do NOT refrigerate these glorious veggies. The cold dulls the flavour and completely ruins everything good about a ripe sweet summer tomato from the garden. There's really no reason you can't just eat the whole damn thing anyway with a bit of salt and pepper!

Here's a rambling bit of history on the plummy ol' tomato (with a boozy recipe at the end):

At the midpoint of summer, the tomato is one of those foods you can pull off the vine and start eating. It is like a ballooned berry – rich in colour, delicate in the subtlety from one fruit to another, and sweet in contemplative flavour. A native of the area around the Peru-Ecuador-Bolivian border (its name is derived from the Mayan word, ‘xtomatl’), the tomato was first cultivated by the Incas and the Aztecs in the 8th century. It was then shipped across the sea to Europe by the 16th century Spanish conquistadors.

The tomato is a member of the nightshade family and it was rumoured to be poisonous throughout the Old World. The Italians were the first to realize the transporting effect the tomato had on their own regional flavours: garlic, onions and olive oil. The tomato can also be found in many North African dishes and Asian foods (India in particular). Today Americans eat about 12 million tons of tomatoes per year but it wasn’t until the early 1900s that the tomato became a ubiquitous part of the North American food culture used on sandwiches as a garnish, in salads, pureed as a paste, cooked down for pasta sauces and canned in the form of a relish.

The tomato is the product of a scrawny ground hugging plant that can be grown by both neophyte and expert gardeners alike. They require little care and a lot of natural sunlight (6 – 12 hours a day). If you do not have a garden patch to call your own place a tomato plant in a large container, stake it and place it on a roof top patio, back deck, or fire escape. It’ll do just fine. If you have a larger garden, raise the plants above ground and hoist onto a stake or cage because they will be less prone to contract soil borne diseases and they will inevitably produce more fruit. If your plants are prone to pests, grow marigolds between the rows of tomato plants and their strong scent will drive off unwanted critters while attracting pollinators such as bees.

Back in 1887 the tomato had its day in the Supreme Court. Is the tomato a fruit or a vegetable? Although they were officially labeled a vegetable when the gavel came down the decision was more a matter of tariffs and taxes than a scientific solution. Botanists believe the tomato is a fruit because it is a seed from a plant and it is covered and contained in juicy, pulpy products whereas horticulturists claim the tomato as a vegetable because it is an annual and non-woody vine. So, as usual, the answer depends on whom you ask.

There are thousands of varieties of tomatoes and hundreds of which are cultivated. Some of the most common are: Beefsteak (large, heavy globes with a meaty dense interior perfect for sandwiches), Cherry (the small tangy tomato with a sweet flavour, wonderful in salads and roasted in the oven with olive oil and rosemary), Roma (used in canning and making tomato sauces or soups) and the yellow pear (sweet, tangy and very pretty).

Tomato Vodka Soup

Serve chilled, serves 4

1 lb. Roma tomatoes (about 5 or 6)
2 celery stalks
3 green onions
½ seeded, peeled cucumber, diced
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded
½ cup vodka
2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 ½ cups tomato juice
1 Tbsp grated horseradish
1 avocado
salt and pepper

Drop the tomatoes into boiling water for 1 minute. Drain and pull off the skins. Chop the tomatoes, the celery, green onion and jalapeno pepper. Toss into a blender and pulse until combined. Add the vodka and lemon juice and pulse again. Pour into a large bowl and add the horseradish and the tomato juice. Stir to combine. Toss in the finely diced cucumber. Season with salt and freshly ground pepper. Chill. Dice an avocado and ladle into the center of the bowl just before serving. Sprinkle with tarragon if it’s handy.

For the love of chocolate!

From cocoa bean to a delicious (not to mention addictive and a little bit aphrodisiacal!) confection, the tale of chocolate through the ages.

Montezuma supposedly drank 50 cups of it, Casanova reportedly tossed back a shot of it before each of his amorous encounters and the Marquis de Sade threw hedonistic parties where he laced it with a potent Spanish fly. The magic love potion was none other than the infamous aphrodisiac known as chocolate.

Chocolate has historically always been part of ceremony and celebration. In 250 AD the Mayans paid homage to their gods by dripping blood over burnt cacao seeds and creating an altar of sacrifice. Cacao drinks were included at marriage festivities as a symbol of love and devotion (hence the idea behind giving chocolate on Valentine’s Day). The Aztecs mixed achiote, a red powder made from the seed of the annatto tree, into their chocolate drinks symbolically representing human sacrifice to the gods. In Mexico today, during the Dia de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead), families cover altars with food, flowers and a symbolic dish of cacao seeds, mole, or hot chocolate as sacred offerings to their beloved visiting spirits.

Cocoa, from which chocolate is created, is said to have originated in the Amazon in 2,000 BC. Chocolate is derived from the seed of the cocoa tree (the pods) and has a bitter quality. It became the basis for a thick, cold, unsweetened drink blended with various spices and hot chili peppers called xocoatl.

Coumbus introduced cocoa beans to Europe but their potential remained unknown until the arrival of Hernando Cortez in America in 1513 who used cocoa beans as a bartering tool: a slave cost 100 cocoa beans, a prostitute cost 10, and a rabbit cost 4. It was Cortez who, inspired to make the Aztec bitter beverage more drinkable, thought to blend the cocoa beans with sugar, vanilla, nutmeg, and cinnamon.

By 1585 shipments of cocoa beans were crossing the Atlantic bound for Spain. The Spaniards prepared a cup of chocolate in this formula: a hundred cocoa beans mixed with two pods of chili or Mexican pepper (or failing those, Indian peppercorns or a handful of aniseed or two of those small flowers known as “little ears”), six roses of Alexandria, a little pod of logwood, two drachmas of cinnamon, a dozen almonds and as many hazelnuts, half a pound of sugar, and enough arnotto to give it deep colour. Spain managed to keep the secret of the chocolate beverage from the rest of Europe for 100 years. From Spain, chocolate took to the French courts, the London Coffee Houses, the German markets and the Brazilian production houses.

On February 14, 273 A.D., the Roman Emperor Claudius II beheaded a priest named Valentine for performing marriage ceremonies in secret for young soldiers who had sworn to celibacy. Legend has it that while in prison St. Valentine sent a letter to the jailer’s daughter with whom he was in love and signed it “from, your valentine”.

Honey Bees

If I end up permanently moving to the country (I'm in the midst of packing to embark on a 4 month cottage on a river stint where I'll be a cookin' and a writin' and a readin') I want to be a BEEKEEPER. Okay, maybe I'm a little childish about the stings but they are such industrious illustrious insects. And honey, oh honey...

Yesterday on the ferry to the Island the whole vista was filled with gulls and geese swooping and swirling in the odd stormy weather. The wind was fierce. The clouds dark and immiment and then pop, they would explode into nothing so the sun could glare down. One of those days that drives you mad with headaches from the pressure but somehow brings your whole body into being. After being dried out by a winter in Toronto I can feel my body re-adjust, the filters are cleansing, my skin smells raw.

Lunch advice: frozen peas are just so handy to keep in the freezer. Often at lunchtime I'll throw some in to boil for a few minutes while I prepare chopped cabbage and radicchio and fresh herbs. Then I'll strain the peas, toss them into the mixture and dress with some hot peppers, tamari, fresh lemon juice and olive oil (a dash of sesame oil is good too). It's an easy delicious lunch that takes less than 10 minutes.