Monday, July 22, 2019

Stuffed Tomatoes with Chanterelles and Black Currants

The Frenchman and I have enjoyed some very good chanterelle hunting, this hot summer. The glee of filling all your boxes and bags with the golden mushrooms is thrilling. It really is like a treasure hunt. And you can't help knowing that locally they are selling for $44.99 a pound at Union Market.

After a happy hunt you are of course faced with the task of sorting and cleaning, and deciding how to eat them. There are worse dilemmas. I had a lot of fun devising new recipes for them. I cook instinctively, inspired by seasonal ingredients and the contents of the fridge or forage cupboard, taking notes as I work. If we like what I make, the recipe is a keeper, and is made again and again as I test it.

Apart from the mushrooms we ate fresh, I pickled many, and quick-cooked and froze a stash, for later.

Chanterelles are more scented than they are flavorful. Fresh and raw their aroma is a lot like cooked apricots. But I like their texture, very much: it is substantial and meaty. The mushrooms we have always found are smooth chanterelles, with no distinct false gills under the caps.

Stuffed Tomatoes with Chanterelles and Black Currants:

Makes 8 medium tomatoes

I am addicted to stuffed summer tomatoes and could make a different version every night of the week. Here, aromatic chanterelles are complimented by tart and complex black currants.

This method also works very well with very young and tender chicken of the woods. If you do not have wild mushrooms, substitute chopped shiitakes or button mushrooms. Completely different flavor and texture, but not bad at all. And for a lower carb or keto version, omit the rice and bump up the walnuts.

Eat hot, at room temperature, or cold in the middle of the night.

8 oz chanterelles
8 medium tomatoes
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup basmati rice
4 oz bacon, chopped
6 large scallions finely sliced (2 cups)
1/4 cup black currants (optional - substitute fresh sour cherries, or 2 tablespoons black currant jam)
1/4 cup (.8 oz) walnuts, chopped very finely
¼ cup finely chopped dill
2 sprigs thyme
1/2 cup red wine
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons Aleppo pepper

To clean the mushrooms: trim off any dry or bruised pieces from the mushrooms. If they are dirty, soak for 20 minutes in a large, salted bowl of water. Drain and dry the mushrooms (or repeat the wash if there was a lot of debris in the water). Cut larger mushrooms into halves or quarters.

Cut the tops or bottoms off the tomatoes and scoop out their insides, using a spoon. Discard any hard core at the stem end. Reserve the cut-off lids and 1/2 cup of the flesh and juice (save the rest for gazpacho, tomato sauce, or Bloody Mary’s!) and chop any large pieces finely. Arrange the hollow tomatoes in a skillet or baking dish and salt their naked insides.

In a small pot melt the butter over medium heat and toast the basmati in it for a couple of minutes. Add 1/4 cup of water. Bring to a boil, lower to a faint simmer and cook for 5 minutes (it will not be fully cooked). Meanwhile, in a skillet, cook the bacon pieces over medium heat until the fat runs. Add half the the scallions and stir. Increase the heat to medium high and add the chanterelles. Cook for 5 minutes, stirring. Add the reserved tomato pulp and juice, currants (or sour cherries), nuts, rice, half the dill, and the thyme, and stir well. Add half the wine. Taste, and season with salt.

Stuff this mixture into the tomatoes and drizzle the olive oil over and between them. Top the tomatoes with the reserved tomato lids. Distribute the rest of the scallions and any leftover filling between the tomatoes. Sprinkle lightly with salt. Transfer to the hot oven and bake for 1 ¼ hours or until the tomatoes are beginning to caramelize and the bottom of the pan is syrupy. Halfway through, add the rest of wine, and add splashes of water if the pan juices begin to stick.

Before serving, sprinkle with the Aleppo pepper.

Thursday, July 18, 2019

City sanctuary

It has been the year of the ghost pipe. I have never seen so many. In High Rock Park on a misty day they echoed one another across the damp and brown forest floor. This is a plant, not the fungus its ghostly color and texture resemble. It belongs to the genus Monotropa, and does not produce chlorophyll.

I was alone in the woods. It felt like a privilege. That is the kind of thing my dad would say. He recognised privilege, spotted it a mile away, and talked about it a lot. The fact that I was a woman, feeling safe walking in this city of many millions, alone, was the privilege. That this green space exists within the city of millions, is a privilege. That I have lived an unchallenged life, white-skinned and seamless, is a privilege. May it never be an entitlement.

This flower was everywhere. At first I was sure it was pipsessewa, but it wasn't. Isn't. Instead, it is shinleaf, Pyrola americana. I had never seen it in bloom, despite years of walking the city woods. You always see something new.

And then across the path a few feet from my feet sailed a long snake. S/he stopped to rest in the leaves. A bulge suggested lunch. This is a northern watersnake, and the water was a few yards away. I don't mind snakes. (Spiders? ...not so much.)

The city is full of wonders. We will not be meeting them on this Sunday's scheduled walk - the heatwave feel-like is in the 100's and I postponed it. But we will be going to Dead Horse Bay on the 28th, in time for sumac and low tide. See you there?


Sunday, July 7, 2019

Waterfront forage cocktails and snacks

Join me on a waterfront adventure at Bush Terminal - featuring wild cocktails and snacks - this Wednesday at 5.30pm.

When we moved to our (latest) new apartment we reconnoitred our new hood. And within its borders we discovered a park I had never visited, on the edge of New York Harbor. Since then we have returned, many times, for the salt air and the wide horizons.

In city terms, the park at Bush Terminal is new: it opened in 2014. It is a manageable size but seems much bigger because of its spectacular and big-sky views to the north (Manhattan) and to the west, across New York Harbor to the Statue of Liberty. The ship, ferry, and water taxi traffic is mesmerizing, and local waterbirds add a sense of discovery (I once saw an elusive green heron perched on a log in broad daylight).

Already, as is inevitable in this city, which underfunds its parks (if the park is in great shape that shape comes from private conservancy money), the designed landscaping has given way in many parts to weeds. Luckily, for our botanical purposes, lots of them are edible! There are also shoreline natives that speak to what our regional cuisine could be, if we let our culinary imaginations breathe. You will taste those possibilities in our picnic.

So on Wednesday we will explore this waterfront space, and finish with  cocktails and a picnic inspired by the microseason (that would be the first week of July) featuring the flavors I have recently foraged in the Catskills, and from the remote green wilds of the city itself.

The menu is never final until the day, but the canapés will feature the scents and tastes of a wild botanical summer, including the flavors we have just met. I am thinking white sweet clover pastry, fava bean and common milkweed tartlets, yellow sweet clover mini-biscuits (fresh from that afternoon's oven), pepperweed relish (wasbai-ish), American burnweed and lime butter, and... some other things. And the cocktails of course. I'm leaning toward elderflower and wineberry for botanical base notes.


Where? BushTerminal, Sunset Park, Brooklyn
When? Wednesday, 10 July, 5.30pm - 7pm
How much? $45

I will email you with meet up details once you have purchased a ticket. I can offer a few rides from Windsor Terrace, but the R subway goes to 43rd Street (a 10-minute walk) and there are two buses. Plus Citibike and Lyft or Uber, of course.


Tuesday, June 25, 2019

City summer

The first muggy days have arrived in Brooklyn. We have supper on the terrace, and are entertained - soon after 8pm - by the fireflies, who first appeared on the 24th. We wondered if we would see them from this terrace, and are very happy that we do. The gardens below - ranging from indifferent, to lovely,  to barren - are mostly empty of people but are flashing with those little swooping lights.

We have central air, now, which seems very luxurious after 1st Place, where we couldn't even squeeze a wall unit into the windows because of their - thankfully very pretty - wrought iron burglar bars. But turning on the oven still seems a crime, so suppers are increasingly salad-like, or we braai. I did cheat tonight and baked a clafoutis with some wonderful cherries.

Those skylights on the big roof across from us are mysterious. They are all covered by cloths. Sometimes a strong wind whips one away and then men come up to attach new ones. We can only assume that the building below becomes very hot and that the extra sunlight doesn't help. We see no roof units for air conditioning, even though there is a huge fan or machine that roars all day - possibly extraction for the laundry business below. It is a rare remnant of industria in a residential neighborhood. An episode of The Sopranos (I am only watching it now!) suddenly tuned me in to the fact it is mafia-founded and owned, or at least owned now by the sons of mafia. The long green wall of Boston ivy on the southern wall must help with cooling. This vilified climber deserves more respect for its ability to lower building temperatures (and it is beautiful - like a thick green pelt). It is embraced in Europe and herbicided, here.

Once, we saw a raccoon trundle across that roof in the moonlight.

I have a new botanical walk schedule up - you'll find it on my Forage Walks and Talks page. The next one is this Sunday in nearby historic Green-Wood Cemetery, where the gorgeous trees should help to cool us (You can read about it in the August chapter of my first book, 66 Square Feet- A Delicious Life).

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Serviceberries this Saturday

One of the best things about New York in June is serviceberries. Juneberries. Saskatoon. Shad. Mespilus (if you are European). Amelanchier, if you know the botanical name.

The local Brooklyn serviceberries are delicious. I know, because I have eaten them (nearly) all. But I left some for you.

Come and meet them this Saturday on a Scents and Serviceberries walk (book via PayPal below). Our picnic will feature, well, yes: Serviceberries.

We will identify many other edible plants too, and some of them smell very good. Really. Pineapple weed. Common milkweed. Not to mention the wild greens.

Serviceberries freeze very well, which is how I come to make serviceberry ice cream out of season, with an equally freezable compôte of beach plums (which ripen at the very end of summer). Two delicious North American fruits, happy together.

Lots (and lots) of recipes in Forage Harvest Feast - A Wild-Inspired Cuisine.

Or just come and eat some of them this Saturday. I will do the work for you.


Sunday, May 26, 2019

Eating wisteria flowers - an ephemeral treat

It seems a shame to let May go without looking back at the wonderful ways of wisteria blossom. North of us wisteria panicles are still dripping from wherever they twine. And at 1st Place, our last address, I found that pruning the rampant, ancient old vine there resulted in fresh blooms in July, so by all means hack back hard as soon as they have finished blooming if you would like to enjoy these perfumed flowers again in the sullen, hot days of late summer.

Wisteria sinensis is very invasive locally (it smothers and strangles trees and shrubs), and can be very aggressive. Which is good for foragers, since it has invaded our city forests. Native W. frutescens is slightly more laid back and a better choice if you would like to plant one at home.

Look in Forage, Harvest, Feast for these recipes. And if you happen to be one of the people who has left an Amazon review for the book, thank you very, very much! They really do help sales.

The recipe for this Concentrated Wisteria Syrup, above, is on page 441 of Forage, Harvest, Feast. It is very aromatic. I make syrup because I like to bake with it, and to make drinks: wit: Like a julep, but I shook it up, instead. And there are black locust flowers in the background! Yes, they have their own book chapter, too.

Still julep-ing, and with wisteria ice cubes.

This is Misteria (my name for the plant when I was very small), page 442 - read all about it. Delicious with tart-sweet sumac sugar. That's another chapter... (but check out page 405).

Vinegar. Does anyone like vinegar as much as I do? I am lost without it. For slow cooking adobo-type dishes, for mixing low ABV drinks (the new mixology catch phrase: low alcohol by volume; last year they were mocktails), and for quick pickles. Salad dressing, of course. I have a quick vinegar method in FHF, but to ferment from scratch - very satisfying - follow the Common Milkweed Flower Vinegar method on page 98.

The vinegar is also very good for baking biscuits and Fluffy Wisteria Pancakes (page 444.)

I LOVE tahini with vinegar, as a vibrant, tongue-smacking, but creamy dressing. This chickpea salad is a riff on one I used to inhale at Anatoli on Sunday nights in long-ago Cape Town (made with giant white beans). It's really good with slivers of raw, red onion. Page 443.

This is made with summer wisteria. Basil's ready, real tomatoes are ripe (I always wait). Mint. Balsamic, salt. Hm, hm, hm

And to finish (especially on this hot, hot late May day and Memorial Day weekend), wisteria and Nigori sake popsicles. Page 443.

For grown ups. Or for loud children who need swift sedation.

Your choice.


Monday, May 20, 2019

New wild walks

After an amazing walk in Inwood's forest yesterday (that is part of our picnic, above), I have a new schedule of pop up walks and picnics:

This Tuesday we will be in Prospect Park in the early evening, with wild inspired drinks and late spring forage snacks (like wild lettuce galettes).

And on Saturday we explore the shoreline at Fort Tilden, on the Rockaways, before the teeming hordes of beach bodies invade the currently peaceful and botanically exciting dunes.

See all the options (plus more in June) on my Forage Walks and Events page.

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Pine Cone Jam

May was pine cone jam month, in my kitchen.

Russians like it. Eastern Europeans like it. Turks seem to like it. Pine cone jam (sometimes the resulting syrup is referred to as pine honey) is considered both treat and medicine. Used for coughs. The flavor is tartly sweet and lightly resinous. It's hard to imagine that these hard little cones become soft and chewable after cooking, but they do.

A traditional Caucasian and Russian way to enjoy them is a medicinal spoonful stirred into hot black tea. I like them on crunchy toast, or cooked with pan-seared pork chops, in the pan where a duck breast cooked (deglazed with some bourbon or fruity vinegar), or for dessert, mixed with macerating strawberries, or churned into a wonderful ice cream. To make pine syrup gin or vodka, add a quarter cup of the syrup with cones to 2 cups of the liquor. Leave for a day, shaking now and then, until the syrup has dissolved. Strain and bottle.

The pines I collect from are mostly exotic Japanese black pine (Pinus thunbergii), popular in  local seashore landscape and park plantings because of their salt-tolerance. Native pitch pine (Pinus rigida) occurs, too, and its little cones are very sharp and rough on the fingers. The black pine cones are much easier to gather.

You want immature, very small cones, green inside; they are already about a year old by the time we harvest them (the current year's cones form on the tips of the growing pine "candles"in late spring and early summer - I find those just disintegrate when cooked).

It helps to have rubbing alcohol handy: Your fingers get very sticky, and the alcohol is very effective in dissolving the resin. For clean up after cooking, use rubbing alcohol, again - to dissolve the very tenacious resin residue on the edges of your pot and any implements you use. Wipe it onto your pot after it has cooled.

In research mode I searched my old Russian cookbooks for recipes, but came up with nothing. Online was one recipe that claimed Georgian heritage. I experimented with five batches. For the first three I boiled the cones in water, then three times in syrup, in the tradition of Russian varenya, where entire fruit (or pine cones) are cooked and cooled - important -  multiple times in syrup. I also boiled four times, and for the last batch made the jam without the water bath, and using honey instead of sugar. That last version was more resinous. But I liked them all.

For three medium jars of pine cone jam you need:

8 oz (about 2.25 cups) finger-nail-sized immature pine cones
2.5 cups sugar
2.5 cups water

Fill a stainless steel pot (easier to clean, later) with water and pine cones and bring to a boil. Cook at a gentle boil for 5 minutes. Turn the heat off. A layer of resin will collect on the surface like a little oil slick - carefully pour this layer off, tilting the pot gently over the sink. (And do yourself a favor: do not dump it through a sieve - the resin will stick the cones again and when cool will clog the mesh unless you boil the sieve!). Tilt it off.

Once all the water is poured off, add the sugar and water to the pot with the boiled cones. Return to the stove and and bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and cook at a simmer for 10 minutes. Turn off heat and cool completely. Bring to a boil again. Turn off at once and cool (it it cooks too long you will lose too much moisture). Bring to a boil for a third time, turn off the heat, then cool again. One more time: bring to a boil and allow to cool for a fourth time.*

* When  boiling three times the syrup remains stickily runny.  Four boils (above) results in a taffy-like texture once cooled, but this melts again, in heat. Up to you. Play.

Ladle the cones and their warm syrup into sterilized glass jars. When cool screw on the lids.


Sunday, May 12, 2019

The mothers

Nomatiptip at Babylonstoren, on January 23rd, two months to the day that my father died. He died on her birthday.

Names: When the little, bright girl arrived at the farm school that she would walk to every day, barefoot and for miles, the white female teacher asked her name, as she did with the whole roomful of children. When Tipsy gave her name, the teacher said, You are now Selina. So each child was rebranded on the spot. And those were the names they carried into the white, ruling world.

When I am trying to locate Tipsy and don't know where she is I sing in a high voice, Teep? Teep? And she sings back, Hooooooo! And I find her.

Since I was 14, she has cared for my family, protected, deflected, absorbed. She has given. She has held secrets. She has held her tongue. She has spoken out.  She has cheered. There are so many stories, and some I am still learning, from Thabang, her son, who grew up without his mother, and suffered for it. The great tragedy was that I benefited from his mother's warmth where he had not. And this is just tip of the iceberg stuff.

So two months later we went Babylostoren for the day as a belated birthday, and walked the beautiful gardens and picked figs and ate lunch, and talked.

And here is my mom, on Sunday, December 2nd last year, with the patio table set for an incongruous three. This was her birthday, a day after the memorial for my father in this garden. The Frenchman had flown in the previous week, when I knew my father would die, and he had the chance to say goodbye to him. And to be with us. For my mom's birthday we drank bubbly, and didn't try to be happy. But we popped the cork loudly over the patio, as my father would have done. He didn't believe in a discreet pffft.

So it has been a hard year, and for all kinds of reasons that would require a novel to explain. But for now the two mothers have each other. And sometime today two beautiful bouquets arrived for them (thank you, Lush, as always). Tipsy will see hers late, when Thabang brings her home from the house my father bought for her some years ago, and where she sees her family every weekend.

Mother's Day, Father's Day - my father was scornful of these so-called holidays, thinking them cash cows for businesses and pressure for people who could not afford the splurge. I think I belong to his camp. Why just the one day? And how hard is the hooplah for parents who have lost children, whose children don't care, or for children who have lost parents, or simply want nothing to do with them, possibly for very good reasons? One size does not fit all.

So don't go chirping, Happy Mother's Day! without thinking.

Sometimes, it isn't.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

Checking in

There has not been time for catching breath (a.k.a. blogging, hence my love of Instagram, like a microblog). There have been many wild walks, dinners, and picnics for paying customers (who are often also friends). And lots of rain. Hundreds of photos must be downloaded and uploaded (my phone camera stores images in the cloud, my camera on a memory stick, so... down and up) and sorted into their respective files on my computer (and then backed up, note-to-self), the result of weeks of lush spring foraging, gardening and recipe creation. And I look forward to a full day of Sunday rain to catch up, and just sort. An unsorted life really rattles me.

Also, I will vacuum.

The drink is delicious. The pink is from the syrup of the pine cone jam I have been making this last week - baby pine cones cooked till soft in syrup; for the drink, add gin and good tonic, and a pollen-heavy male pine cone cluster for effect. It is being sipped at 7pm on the terrace to the tune of a singing robin, a declaring cardinal, and chirping sparrows. The huge trees across the empty roofs of the benign business that envelopes our little row of townhouses are a very fresh green. In the windowboxes on the railings the arugula and lettuce, herbs and pansies are looking like I had hoped they would, in early April. We are already eating our own salads, cilantro and mint. I just sowed some purple basil. Yesterday I moved the cardamom plant outside. I even planted  a rose. We'll see.

As I write the Frenchman is headed home to Brooklyn after an afternoon's paragliding, upstate. And in a few weeks - it does not seem real - we take a short vacation to the French Alps, where he will fly, and I will hike and look at plants. We will get together every evening and discuss. I fell in love with the Alps when I was a teenager and my mother took me to Switzerland. I may not come home. It will be our first vacation together (ever) that is not to visit family. And my first Elsewhere since 2006. For as long as I have lived 8,000 miles from home I have gone home, and nowhere else. And Else beckons, loudly. It always has. I itch to travel, and my French husband longs for the land that stamped his DNA. So fuckit. We have broken loose. Thank goodness for AirBnB.

The first drops of rain are falling. Supper calls. I think an aubergine just exploded...


Monday, April 29, 2019

Dead Horse Bay on May Day

Workers of the city, rise up from your desks and walk out into the dandelion wilds this May Day (otherwise known as midweek Wednesday)! Dead Horse Bay is alive with spring things, including carpets of dandelions and violets.

...and sheep sorrel.

We will explore the grassy paths before finding ourselves on the beach (our visit is timed for low tide), where the famous bottles and bits of vintage detritus clink as the baby waves wash over them.

This weird urban habitat feels very jungle-wild and shows us everything from invasive and delicious edible weeds (like garlic mustard, above) to shoreline natives like bayberry whose flavors sing of the Northeast.

We will enjoy them all in our wild-inspired picnic (the one above is from our foray last September).

Dead Horse Bay is accessible by subway and bus, and there is parking across the road at Floyd Bennet Field. You can also ride with me from Windsor Terrace, I have space for two more.

The walk starts at 12pm and ends at 3pm. But add travel time.

Details will be emailed to you upon sign up. Sign up fast!

For more information about my walks and booking policies, please visit my Forage Walks and Classes page.

Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Stolen Schwinn

I just took the trash out and discovered that my beloved Schwinn bicycle has been stolen.**

[***Update: our Korean downstairs neighbor just texted me. They saw an "Asian guy in his 20's to 30's" walking the bike away around 9pm. The cops, when I reported the bicycle stolen, said that there is a trend to steal bikes for food deliveries - so please eyeball your delivery guy's bike...]

It was locked to the wrought iron railing in front of our building in Windsor Terrace. Sometime between 5.50pm and 9.30pm the lock's cable was neatly cut. 

My Schwinn has seven gears, a removable black pouch behind the black Schwinn seat, a black bell. It's in great shape.

The thief would quickly remove the vintage wooden crate from the back. The crate has steel corners.

I loved this bike. It was the best gift, ever, from the Frenchman. 

I went from walking and subwaying everywhere to pedaling with wings. It took me everywhere. I sometimes think it saved my life. 

It was an excellent forage bike, transporting elderflowers... 

...and cattail shoots (foraged by invitation when the bog needed thinning).

And fragile giant puffballs. 

It carried glassware and porcelain, props for the food photos in Forage, Harvest, Feast.

And took knives to be sharpened. 

And delivered laundry in the snow.

It fetched pots from the Gowanus Nursery when I dug up our whole garden for the plant party, when we moved from 1st Place.

Please share this post in NYC. Of course there is a reward. And a pair of bolt cutters for the thief's balls, or for what passes for them.

Because in this twist: it seems this bike was left in its place. A few feet away, unsecured. WTF?

And is this your bike???

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...