June 7, 2017 by Carol

Remembrance of Things Spice

Proust had his madeleines. For me, opening a container of za’atar releases an aroma that sparks memories of strolling through the shuk, the golden light caresssing ancient stone walls. The scent also stimulates my appetite for fresh-from-the-oven pita, warm, soft and chewy, with a salty and piquant tang.

The za’atar that we know from its association with labneh and hummus on mezze plates is a condiment made from a mix of spices, herbs, and seeds, and the recipe varies from place to place.

But in fact, the name za’atar also applies to a family of related herbs that grow in the Middle East: oregano, savory, marjoram, thyme. I think it most closely resembles oregano, at least the bush that grows in my garden.

It’s really easy to mix your own za’atar if you can’t get it locally, or if you simply love the idea of making something from scratch. Just mix the following ingredients together:

1/4 cup sumac
2 tablespoons thyme
1 tablespoon roasted sesame seeds
2 tablespoons marjoram
2 tablespoons oregano
1 teaspoon coarse salt

December 24, 2015 by Carol

A Sun-Drenched Memory

Son-in-law Adam recently completed his annual olive-brining ritual. He buys the raw fruits from an online source, and then in his kitchen prepares them in a variety of ways, from traditional to spicy-hot.

A few weeks ago he presented me with a jar containing his latest production. These olives were unlike any I had ever before eaten. While the flavor was somewhat similar to the store-bought greens, the texture was al dente, almost crispy. And, they were bigger than the largest olives I have seen.

Olive branch

As I tasted one, then two, memories surfaced of the sun-drenched Tuscan countryside, where groves of olive trees in straight rows gambol up and down the hills, their gray-green leaves shimmering in the light. And then more memories bubbled up from even further back, to my time living in Israel, where olive trees grow even on the main streets of the cities.

While living in Jerusalem, I came into possession of the novel The Last Temptation of Christ, by Nikos Kazantzakis. It was a great book altogether, but one scene in the story stands out in my mind for its vivid description. Jesus stops during his travels to rest under a tree. He extends his hand and plucks an olive the size of an apple from its branches – enough to serve as lunch.

What an image! Upon reading it, I made my way directly to King George Street and picked a couple of tiny green olives. I then made a big mistake: I bit into one. Bit, as in bitter. Yuck. Olives need to be treated, either through brining or curing. Lesson learned.

And then more recently, while on a saunter through Jerusalem, we came upon two women picking olives in the Mishkenot Sha’ananim neighborhood. They had come from outside the city specifically for this purpose, but had forgotten to bring a ladder, or even a tarp to collect the harvest, so 6’4″ hubby offered to pick from the higher branches. I helped work the lower ones.

If only there were a better way, I thought. And, then just last week I saw a video on the Internet with the most amazing invention for harvesting olives. See for yourself if this isn’t just the dandiest garden implement to have. Of course, it’s probably not a practical purchase for the casual olive briner, but hey, it’s so neat I just had to share it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKF_axA9zog

Until Adam made olives, I had never considered doing it at home. Now I think I may try next year. With every bite, I can be transported from the winter gloom to a warm and beautiful place.

In the meantime, since we live in New England, buying online is probably the best strategy for me.

October 13, 2015 by Carol

A Tough Nut to Crack

My obsession with stalking the wild asparagus continues. Dressed like Miss Marple with my hat and Wellies, I love to gather apples, pears, chicory and, of course, my beloved grape leaves. Last week, while searching (alas, failing) to find a new source of grape leaves in a nearby park, I did discover dozens and dozens of pale green orbs hanging from trees like so many Christmas ornaments. I plucked one low-hanging one as well as a small branch of leaves, and posted photos on Facebook, hoping that at least one friend could help me with identification. Within minutes I had my answer: Black walnut. Unfortunately, I had no idea that cutting into the hull of that nut to make the photos would render my fingernails dark brown for two long weeks. Note to self: wear gloves.

Despite the risk of permanent dye, I was on a mission. I just had to gather what so many people claim is a sublimely flavored nut. So, on a sunny and warm Columbus Day, four-year old Max and I headed out to harvest. It turns out that finding the trees was the easiest part of the exercise, and retrieving the ripe globes that had fallen to the ground required little effort on our part. (Having a little kid close to the ground was a big help in the search.)

Finding nuts not infested with slimy little worms was another matter. The longer they remain on the ground, the more likely it is that they will attract the critters. Yuck. So, why not just pick them straight from the tree? Well, if you happen to be 20 feet tall or own a cherry picker, that would be a fine solution. I happen to be 5’7″, and can barely reach the lowest branches.

After one tree’s worth of nuts, we headed home to begin the next phase our project. That turned out to be the hard part, involving water, an exacto knife, and a drying tray, none of which steps yielded anything we could actually eat.

The phrase “tough nut to crack” must have been invented for the black walnut. No simple nutcracker is sufficient here. To get at the meat inside a black walnut, a sledgehammer is the only way to go. Another note to self: Sledgehammers can pulverize the nutmeats.

So much work for so little result. As the woman in the youtube video said, “That’s why they’re so stinkin’ expensive.” (Yes, twice that of standard “English” walnuts.)

Oh, but what a splash they’ll make as a Thanksgiving dessert.

August 6, 2015 by Carol

Food Fight!

images The annual bonanza/surfeit/ridiculous overproduction (your choice) of the typical home gardener’s zucchini patch has begun. Zucchini bread, zucchini pudding, zucchini fritters: green squash is coming out of our ears.

I have laughed at the many silly ways proposed for getting rid of the cylindrical veggie, such as the one in which a gardener leaves a basket of zukes on a neighbor’s porch, rings the doorbell, and runs like hell.

On the other hand, I always got a sick feeling at the former local Zucchini Festival where, at one booth, fair-goers catapulted hundreds of the green squashes at a target — for fun.

Now, in a few weeks, thousands of people will make their way from the four corners of the globe to Spain to fight in this year’s “World’s Biggest Food Fight.” At the annual Tomatina tomato festival held in Bunel, participants hurl one hundred metric tons of tomatoes at one another. For fun.

And, modeled after La Tomatina — in seven cities in our own country, from Boston to Seattle, Dallas to Miami — is the Tomato Battle. At this also-annual event, “soldiers” don bathing suits, safety goggles, and shoes to immerse themselves in piles of overripe tomatoes and “set about pelting people with fruits like sentient apple trees avenging the initial-carving of amorous teenagers.”

According to Feeding America’s most recently published report, over 49 million Americans live in food insecure households, almost 16 million children. The organization’s network of 58,000 — 58,000! — food banks, parties, and meal service programs provides service to 46.5 million people in every community across the U.S.

Yet, people throw food at each other for fun.

Many of the people served by Feeding America live in what are known as “food deserts,” defined as a part of the country lacking access to “fresh fruit, vegetables, and other healthful whole foods.” In other words, no grocery stores, farmers’ markets, or other healthy food providers.

And — surprise, surprise — food deserts are usually found in impoverished areas.

Battle organizers claim that the Tomato Battle is “an efficient and entertaining use of non-edible waste.”

Efficient? Non-edible? Has nobody figured out a way to process these fruits into soup, juice, or sauce to feed the hungry?

July 9, 2015 by Carol

Around the Garden in 60 Days: A Jules Verne Vegetable

Growing up in a small New England town, I never saw kohlrabi, but while volunteering on a kibbutz one year (breakfast and supper both featuring a cornucopia of super-fresh produce), I fell in love with the bulb. The flavor is mild with just a tiny bit of a kick. Not as spicy as a radish, but with the same wonderful crunch.

A member of the cabbage family and also known by the names turnip cabbage and German turnip, kohlrabi comes in both red and pale green color and, once the stems and leaves are removed, looks somewhat like an underwater vessel you might see in a Jules Verne novel.

I just knew it was a sign when I saw sets at the garden shop this spring. I had to try my hand at planting them. The challenge would be that my luck at growing vegetables is variable. Some plants produce bountifully – in my freezer I still have jalapeno and banana peppers from four years ago. Bell peppers, on the other hand, are stingy and kind of bitter. In fact, the grocery store varieties are better. Far better. When it comes to eggplant, the Ichiban variety is prolific for months, while the big fat Black Beauties grant me only two or three fruits at most.

So, hopeful but not delusional, I prepared the garden with the whole nine yards of stuff: organic fertilizer, compost, water, mulch. Just two months and a few prayers later, I returned from a week away from home to find that the kohlrabi was ready to harvest. Pretty fast by New England standards. Even better, the animals seem to be staying away, perhaps stymied by the obstacle course provided by so many stems and leaves surrounding the hard bulbs. (My tomatoes are being devoured by rabbits and chipmunks, necessitating better fencing.)

It was a good experiment but, in retrospect, since only one bulb comes from each plant, there may be better uses of the space in the garden. The farmer’s market is sure to have some, right?

June 12, 2015 by Carol

Wistful for Wisteria

PICT2386 Many years ago I bought a wisteria plant at a local garden center. When I got home and took it out of the package, a stick fell out. Just a stick. No root ball hidden by the cardboard label. No indication that it would survive, much less become a magnificent vine heavy with pale purple blossoms.

But, since I had bought it, I planted it out by the stucco wall in the backyard. And just to be safe, I placed a tomato cage around the stick so that nobody, thinking it was a weed, would mistakenly pull it up.

The stick grew inch by inch over the next several years, but not one flower appeared. Then one day, the plant grew large enough that it no longer needed its protective cage. It was also big enough that we needed wire cutters to set it free.

But still no flowers.

Just as I was giving up hope of ever seeing the pendulous flowering vine that I was sure would transport me to the lawn at Mansfield Park or Northanger Abbey, the Sunday New York Times featured an article about wisteria. In it, the writer detailed her own travails with the plant, and she noted that it could take ten years before the first blossom appeared.

We were on year nine when the Times published that article and, wouldn’t you know it, the following summer we awoke one morning to find three small blossoms. Pale lilac in color and emitting a heady perfume, they were beautiful.

But, there was no foliage!

Now, all these years later, we have three distinct seasons of wisteria. The first consists of blossoms on bare, gray branches. The second gives us foliage with no blossoms. The third features both. The vine has grown so hearty that it has spread along and over the wall, and into our neighbor’s garden.

You’d never know that it all begin with a scrawny stick.

They say that patience is a virtue. If you are longing for wisteria, I’d advise you to develop a healthy dose of it.

April 12, 2015 by Carol

Mint Condition

Unknown Last summer, as the mint was taking over my garden, I contacted my friend Barb the Gourmet to ask her for recipes using the herb. There was just so much taboule I could prepare with the mounds of mint I was getting, and she was bound to have ideas.

Barb did give me a couple recipes, neither of which used more than a couple tablespoons of the green stuff. So, in desperation, I began to tear the plant from the soil, knowing full well that it would be back the following summer, if not sooner.

Of course, during the winter when I needed fresh mint, I had to buy a peppermint plant at the grocery store – it was much fresher and would last longer than the limp bundle in the herb section of the produce aisle. Loathe to waste anything, I watered it and kept it in the sunroom, where it thrived so well that I had to repot it.

When a couple weeks went by with no further need for the herb, I had to pinch it back so it wouldn’t get leggy. I took the snipped-off pieces and put them in a glass of water – where they began to root. And grow. Again! The mint began to take over!

Anyway, as this winter from hell seemed never to end, I developed the habit of comforting myself every afternoon with a big mug of hot herbal tea. I find that it goes really well with writing (I try to channel my favorite authors while sipping).

One day, inspiration struck. No, not for a plot twist, but for tea. Why not harvest and dry the mint to make my own perfectly organic mint tea?

Scavenging through my kitchen cabinets and drawers, I realized that I must have given my old tea infusers to one of the kids, so that is at the top of my shopping list this week.

Maybe I’ll find a few other varieties of the herb to round out the collection: orange or lemon bergamot, pineapple, banana.

Or how about chocolate mint? That should be good for inspiring something. A Proustian contemplation of Girl Scout cookies perhaps?

February 9, 2015 by Carol

Snow Job

growing_orange_on_tree_187928 It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.

January 20, 2015 by Carol

The Wish Book

My kitchen table sits next to a big bay window that looks out onto my backyard. I love to sip my morning coffee gazing out at the expanse of green surrounded by all manner of trees and shrubs. Crab apple, wisteria, potentilla, hydrangea, spirea, climbing roses. Their vivid colors against the lush greens fill my mornings with cheer. Isn’t it great to be alive? And, isn’t it amazing how many shades of green there are?

As the frigid cold descends upon Central Massachusetts, thank goodness for the evergreens. Rhododendrum, azalea, spruce, and arbor vitae provide a warming counterpoint to the bare gray branches that make shiver. Even when it snows, the branches of these backyard stalwarts provide a sculptural framework for sparkling white frosting.

Round about January I start to fantasize about palm trees. Tall and gangly, with a Dr. Seuss-like mop of foliage on their heads, they sway in balmy tropical breezes in time to the rhythm of steel drums while I lounge in a hot sun drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them.

But I am not in the tropics. I am in New England. So, I sit with baited breath awaiting the arrival of the postman. In his bag should be the annual onslaught of seed catalogues. These books filled with fruits, berries, vegetables, and flowers entice me and, even though I know that my plans are bigger than my acreage, I devour their pages with hungry eyes. Vibrant reds, sunny yellows, rich purples – they compete for my attention. And I want them all.

Astronomical spring will be here in about 59 days, and perhaps the path to the backyard will be clear enough to be able to plant some peas, even if I have to start them in the cold frame. In the meantime, I am poised like a Pavlovian dog waiting for the postman to ring twice and set me to salivating.

May 13, 2013 by Carol

Finally, Spring!

The first few years after we moved into our house, I would develop a strange craving every spring for cottage cheese that coincided with the first mowing of the lawn. It took a while for me to realize that it was the chives growing outside that I was smelling.

Somebody living in our home decades ago must have had the great idea that a pot of chives would be a fine addition to the garden. Unfortunately, the darn things propagate like rabbits, so every spring I spend an inordinate amount of time removing them.

Which brings me to why I was out in the backyard last Sunday. Preparing the vegetable garden bed for planting requires pulling not just weeds, but the thousands of chives.

While engaged in the solitary task, a beautiful birdcall caught my attention. “Chhirr, chiirrr, ba da, ba da, ba da” (at least that’s as close as I can come to translating bird). I looked around, trying to find the source of the song. And there it was. Perched on a branch of the tree on the other side of the garden wall was a magnificent crimson cardinal. What made it so special is that the Bradford Pear was in full spring bloom, its snowy white blossoms standing in stark contrast to the bird’s vibrant coloring.

Most photographs of cardinals that I see feature snow covered pine boughs, and are usually associated with Christmas cards. It was refreshing to see this bright representative of spring, especially after the long and arduous winter we had just endured. (Worcester earned the dubious distinction of being the snowiest city in the U.S. this winter.) Blue skies, green foliage, and flowers and birds of every hue are most welcome.

This year’s resolution: Must get outside more to enjoy both the warming weather and the therapeutic benefits of gardening.

Carol Goodman Kaufman