Feral Goddess Dressing

A posy of garlic mustard. One of its common names in the UK is sauce alone. Which gives one ideas...

I was reminded of green goddess dressing by Winner, a local restaurant where we sometimes order a chicken dinner on nights when I have been preparing a multi-course picnic all day, for a plant walk the following day. Their rotisserie bird comes with a slew of sauce-choices, and their green goddess is one of the best. 

Adding invasive plants and handful of ramp leaves turns it feral: tingling and singing and vibrating with fresh green herbs.

You'll find my recipe here, for Gardenista: Feral Goddess Dressing - Rewilding a California Classic.

...or just pour it in a tall glass and drink it through a straw!

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My Books

Of abundance

Time capsule. Brooklyn chestnut blossom on our windowsill in May, 2021. 

Have you ever tasted chestnut honey? It is dark, and slightly bitter, and smells of springtime in a small German town, then only recently released from the East, where Goethe built his theatre, and where I sang, disguised in heavy make-up, false eyelashes, and bespoke costumes. That was long ago. 

But the smell of chestnut honey (more than the blossoms, strangely) whips me instantly to the park in the town where the trees in bloom soared like green cathedrals.

From the forage kitchen, too, last May. How different the season, and how encouraging. A bowl of pokeweed shoots, waiting to be blanched (the pokeweed chapter of Forage, Harvest, Feast explains this in detail, along with lots of recipes, including one for Kentucky Egg Rolls - you'll just have to read it). Pine cone jam and green fir cones, to the right beside the laptop. Some of the cones were pickled some are still buried in miso and must be tested. And who else tapes over the camera on their computer when not in use? I know I'm not slone.

The books on the counter? Let's see: Koji Alchemy, by Rich Shih and Jeremy Umansky, The Complete Bocuse by Paul Bocuse, America - The CookBook, by Gabrielle Langholtz (I contributed the wild recipes), and Larousse Gastronomique, a grand and dated but wonderful reference. Half the stack was for reference and half was for a video meeting (I perch my laptop on them). In the days when culinary residencies were beckoning, only to be tanked by COVID. 

In the background there is a damp paper towel draped to dry over the Frenchman's Nespresso machine. Paper towels are one of weaknesses. But I recycle them.

May is a a busy time. Recipes. Notes to be taken. Constant exploration.

Tuesday confessions complete.

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The wild and the tamed and the diverting

From the photo files, where I am making progress, in terms of sorting, some tidbits:

Last October, in a shoreline forest on Long Island, we found a very wonderful chicken of the woods log. We took home plenty and some of it is still stashed (after cooking) in the freezer for picnics to come. The mushroom works very well in portable hand pies.

These nasturtium capers were from green seeds I collected in my mom's Cape Town garden in February 2020. I lacto-fermented them with 2% of their weight in salt for about 20 days, then pickled them in a vinegar-brine. Here, they were nibbled on the October 2021 terrace, atop a petite Martini. They are rather good. (And I brought back a new batch, a couple of weeks ago; nasturtiums grow like weeds in that Mediterranean climate.)

Last year I bought two tea plants. I clicked a mousepad, and a few days later they were at the door. They are Camellia sinensis, and they bloom in autumn. Their buds began to open in October and the small, anemone-like flowers are lovely, lasting about two days. The little shrubs kept blooming right into winter. On the cold branches in January there are still buds, and the leaves look dark and healthy. I collected many new green shoots which I dried, and at some point - soon - I must grind them to make my very own green tea, or matcha powder. I have no idea if I like green tea. I shall find out. 

The plant in the background, lower left, is another sort of tea if you like common names: labrador tea, a species of Rhododendron. It should bloom in April, if all is well. 

And you never know. All may be well. And if it isn't, we'll make another plan.

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I'm also here, @66squarefeet

Black nightshade vs deadly nightshade

Black nightshade

[Published annually, since 2016, with occasional updates.]

Late, late summer, and the black nightshade is ripe, on cue. I tasted these and they had a good, sweetly earthy flavor. It can vary. Some are quite bland.

"But isn't it deadly?"

Noooooo. Deadly nightshade is another plant. And it looks different. 

The problem with common names versus botanical - that is, scientific - names is that occasionally you run into real confusion. So people hear "nightshade" and freak out. But the same people happily wolf potatoes and tomatoes and peppers and eggplant. All nightshades. Also, the Web is rife, riddled, with misinformation about the two plants. Read carefully.

Our black nightshade friend, pictured above and below, is Solanum nigrum - or, possibly one of several different species belonging to the Solanum nigrum complex. There is eastern black nightshade (S. emulans), and there is S. americanum; there are subspecies. But all ripe black nightshades are edible. 

Deadly nightshade is Atropa belladonna. It looks very different. 

A fear of and prejudice against black nightshade as a food persists where people are not familiar with how plants in general, or with how they are classified. Most people suffer from plant blindness. And that's to be expected. Fortunately, it's curable.

Both black and deadly nightshades belong to the tricky family Solanaceae. As mentioned, other edible members of the nightshade family include potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant and chiles. (When they first encountered them, Europeans were afraid of tomatoes. Green potatoes are toxic. But we don't tremble when we walk down the fresh produce aisle. Death and deliciousness are in the details.) 

In South Africa I grew up snacking on black nightshade, and there, and in other parts of the world, the cooked greens are eaten, too. Black nightshade is edible, and not to be feared.

Read on to learn to identify edible black nightshade versus toxic deadly nightshade. Luckily, the differences are quite obvious, once you start paying attention. 

Edible black nightshade

Edible black nightshade fruit occurs in clusters (above). And you almost always see clusters of ripe as well as green fruit on the plant at the same time. The fruits have a matt appearance - no shine. And here is the real tell: the calyces of black nightshade (the green bits like lapels or a collar between stem and fruit) are smaller than the fruit. 

Black nightshade flowers

Black nightshade has tiny, star-like white flowers with prominent yellow anthers. Sometimes the petals are furled back. Not always.

Black nightshade

The ripe black fruits of black nightshade range in flavor from insipid to delicious (like a sweetish tomato with dark undertones). 

The green, unripe fruit of black nightshade are considered toxic, so avoid those (the same way you would avoid a green potato). As Ben-Erik van Wyk writes in his encyclopedic Food Plants of the World, "Care should be taken to only pick ripe berries, because the unripe (green) fruits may contain toxic levels of alkaloids (6 - 8 berries may kill a child)."

Note that uses he word "may" twice. 

He goes on to write that "the dark purple to black berries are delicious to eat raw and make excellent jams. The juicy pulp may be used for pie fillings, jellies, and drinks. Young leaves are commonly used as pot-herb in rural parts of Africa and Asia." 

Black nightshade jam at the Daggaboer Farmstall in South Africa

My aunt calls black nightshade fruit soepsoepertjies (an Afrikaans word) and used to make jam from them, before her fingers became too sore. She is 93. Nightshade jam is sold at regional farmstalls in South Africa. 

Black nightshade with its tomato cousins, peaches, and burrata

I like more savory applications. A fermented black nightshade ketchup lasts indefinitely in the fridge, and I deploy the raw fruits in luscious salads.

Tomato and mugwort confit with sheep cheese, lambs quarter and black nightshade

And as beautiful garnishes for seasonal tartlets I carry on forage picnics.

 

In the US, garden huckleberry is the user-friendly and exceedingly confusing common name given to a black nightshade variety (Solanum nigrum var. melanocerasum) that is cultivated as a garden crop. Huckleberries belong to the genus Vaccinium, like blueberries, and this name is all about marketing, rather than botanical accuracy. Its fruits are somewhat larger than the feral versions of black nightshade. You can buy it online at Baker Creek and elsewhere. I was introduced to it by the lovely folks at Tyrant Farms, who sent me a package years ago.

But even seed sources muddy the identification Internet waters by saying inane things like, "Caution should be advised not to confuse the fruits with those of nighshade [sic] (a very close relative), as nightshade fruits are highly poisonous."

Um... It is a nightshade. They're all nightshades. 

Deadly nightshade. Photo: Stefancek

Let's move on:

What about deadly nightshade identification? Atropa belladonna fruit is borne singly, never in clusters. Deadly nightshade fruit is glossy. 

The green calyces of deadly nightshade are very prominent, more Elizabethan ruffle than collar, extending beyond the fruit.  

Deadly nightshade flower by Bojana Matic

The flowers of deadly nightshade are tubular and bell-shaped, and range from purple to lilac, with green. They are distinctly ornamental, versus the hard-to-spot tiny white flowers of black nightshade.

Incidentally, deadly nightshade is not very widespread in the US - it occurs mostly on the West Coast, but that will inevitably change (since first publishing this post it has crept to the East Coast). 

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Read the Books

An early, edible spring

Early spring on the stone table. 

Field garlic, some dandelion rosettes, dandelion flowers (their petals destined for tartlets for a forage picnic); ground ivy (Glechoma hedera) in the tiny dish at the back - it is quite minty in flavor and is very beautiful in lawns; no idea why people spray it.  

And early violets, henbit (Lamium amplexicaule), and chickweed. I'm working more with chickweeds this season: Their fresh flavor is like cornsilk. 

The little blue vase of yellow flowers holds coltsfoot - Tussilago farfara, a sub-alpine perennial from Europe and Asia that is now quite at home on this continent, where it invades disturbed ground and roadsides.

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Edible Spring Plants: NYBG class, 27 May

Spring, in increments

Walking on a well traveled woodland path in Prospect Park I stopped abruptly. Diminutive bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis), the most exquisite little spring ephemeral, has emerged. The afternoon was overcast and the flowers were closed and well-wrapped in their leaf cloaks. I wished them well, so close to dog paws and people feet.

They have many companions - the gazillion germinating seedlings of last year's biennial garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) flowers. 

The damp leaf litter of winter is also green with garlic mustard that will bloom this May. Looking at the plants, I planned a forage walk around the cunning invaders from Europe. They are edible, after all, and rather delicious. If you like garlic. And mustard. 

The spicebush (Lindera benzoin) is beginning to bloom.

And so are these. But what are they? Elm?

On sunny slopes henbit (Lamium amplexicaule) is beginning to get overexcited.

And in damper, shadier areas, purple dead nettle (Lamium purpureum) is flowering. I'm wondering how, or if, it hybridises, because these leaves look a little different.

The magnolias have just woken up. Their petals taste like minted ginger.

 And under-appreciated Pieris is weeping in white.

It has begun.

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Book:

Blossom Romp

Invasivore Tour

Not-quite-spring snacks

For a recent forage walk on a colder-than-forecast afternoon I made some canapés to accompany small glasses of chilled PandemicVermouth, infused and blended in April 2020. 

On the right are buttery salmon and field garlic (Allium vineale) tarts, with a savory custard filling. To serve them I added more slivers of salmon and extra, snipped field garlic. In the rear? Fir sugar shortbread cookies. Bottom left are toasted rounds of field garlic cheese bread. 

I topped those toasted rounds with garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) pesto and pickled chanterelles, from an epic mushroom hunt in the woods upstate two summers ago. The chanterelles - incredibly - still have that magical apricot aroma that traveled back with us that day.

And there were eggs, not quite deviled. Cooked in boiling water for eight minutes before being peeled and covered in miso, overnight (chilled). The miso flavors them but also draws out some moisture, so the texture becomes firmer. Onto their yolks I dripped some powerful, bright green ramp leaf oil, Aleppo pepper, and the peppery leaves of bittercress (Cardamine hirsuta), a maligned but exquisitely pretty edible green in the Brassica family - like tiny watercress. 

Socially distanced walks and picnics are a challenge but everyone is well-trained, by now, and very considerate. (At least, the people who sign up, are!) There will be more, and it feels good to be creating wild food treats, again.

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Forage, Harvest, Feast - A Wild-Inspired Cuisine

Kahili ginger - botanical mugger in disguise

Late fireworks on the terrace. This beautiful flowering ginger-cousin is a species of Hedychium, and was a very kind and unexpected gift earlier this year from a garden design client, who knew how excited I was to hear that his ginger relative had actually bloomed.

When the giant plant was delivered to our door in early September, beautifully wrapped in burlap, I hefted it up and out to the terrace and then did some reading. 

Don't judge a plant by its spectacular cover. Hedychiums, native to Asia, are known collectively as flowering gingers. They are apparently popular in the nursery trade. (I had no idea.) Bought and planted by loving plant owners the gingers have escaped, and this has led their becoming some of the most invasive plants on the planet. In mild parts of the world where they are not native they take over. Even in Cape Town I have seen a similar ginger clogging a stream near my mother's house. In Hawaii Kahili ginger - as this species (H. gardenerianum) is known, there - has a price on its head. In Florida it is running rampant. 

In New York's cold winter climate it doesn't stand much chance of becoming a thug, of course. If left out doors it would succumb. But in Hawaii my friend Sunny Savage is devising ways of dealing with the habitat-altering invasive creatively: by eating it. (You can download her Savage Kitchen app to learn more.)

We will talk more about native and invasive edible plants this Saturday, October 31st, at the New York Botanical Garden; and there are now some tickets available! Click on the date links to book. My second fall class was shifted from Thursday because of predicted torrential rain, and not every student could make the rain date. (Apologies if you are one of them.)

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NYBG Class, 31 October 2020

Breezy Point - Backroads and Beyond

With the season turning towards fall the Frenchman and I migrate like birds back to the open spaces of Fort Tilden and Breezy Point, situated near the end of the long and skinny Rockaway barrier beach (the very end is a very gated, very white community* - to reach the point itself we use our legs, walking along the beach). 

[*Since I posted this the New York Times wrote about Breezy Point's Trump enclave.]

The reason we go back now is simple: we're allowed to park in the fisherperson's lot, again. After June 15th and before September 15th you need a permit (and to obtain it you have to show up at the permit office with a fishing rod). 

I walked alone on the deserted backroads, which were fragrant with autumn clematis in its glory. The roads are the abandoned infrastructure of a Cold War nuclear missile base - ponder that. The Frenchman left in the opposite direction, on his five-mile run along the low-tide beach while his camera gear waited for him in the car.  

Autumn pokeweed berries have been eaten from their fuchsia panicles by transiting migratory birds (as much as gardeners may dislike poke - Phytolacca americana - it is an important and native food for birds; and humans can eat the cooked spring time shoots - see Forage, Harvest, Feast for recipes and more detailed information).

In mid-walk my phone rang, which it never does. Frenchman. Birds on beach! Big birds! Beautiful wings, red beaks! They sounded like skimmers. He was running back, fast, to the car for his new camera. I about-faced and headed towards him. We met on the beach and speedwalked back out to the point, into the bright western sun.

On our way we passed little furries of piping plovers sanderlings [see comments].

I love how they scurry back and forth, pursuing the edges of the advancing and retreating water.

And at last, after a mile-and-a-half or so, the big birds that had excited the Frenchman: beautiful black skimmers in flocks on the sand. I have only ever seen one bird at a time. They all pointed neatly into the wind. Summer residents up the Northeast coast, they are also on their way south as the weather chills.

Cars are allowed on this beach, with permits. With dwindling safe habitats for shorebirds, and increasing pressure on their populations, I have never understood this. Shoreline ecology is exceptionally fragile. Tire treads just kill it. If you want to fish, walk.

Conservation should be at the forefront of any administration's funding. Instead, it is a distant afterthought.

On our more sedate walk back we were treated to the extremes of human behaviour. This lone fisherperson wearing their mask.  

And a hundred yards behind him: A massive, unmasked, packed-like-sardines gathering of humans at the Silver Gull Beach Club (which lies at the eastern end of the gated Breezy Point community). Do they all have COVID-resistance? Are their parents or grandparents and children and friends immune? What about their colleagues at work? What about the staff working there? 

Is this what is meant by a superspreader event? 

We didn't even like walking downwind of them.

(Honey, is that a tickle in my throat?)

And that's all, folks (or perhaps the beginning, for some). 

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NYBG Class, 15 October

Summer's wildness

Some high summer forages, in season when the air turns sticky:

Spicebush (Lindera benzoin) - fragrant like orange peel and a little like fresh black pepper (in aroma, not taste). The leaves, twigs and fruit are all useful and flavorful and I deploy them in different ways (see that chapter in Forage, Harvest, Feast). Thus is a wonderful eastern North American native shrub-slash-small-tree for you to grow at home, too.

Wineberries (Rubus phoenicolasius) - an invasive wild raspberry originally from Asia and imported to serve as a rootstock for domestic cultivars. Easily identified in any season by its very furry and prickly canes.

Below the fruit, native wild mountain mint (Pycnanthemum tenuifolium) and an escaped wild pineapple mint. The mountain mint is a wonderful perennial for a sunny garden and pollinators love it. The leaves are intensely, well...pepperminty.

And to the right, the misunderstood and underappreciated native American burnweed. Erechtites hieraciifolius. It is very pungent, slightly bitter, and I love it. The chapter on it in Forage, Harvest, Feast explains much more, but I equate it with cilantro, in terms of love-it or hate-it. This is the time of year when I make a charred chicken stew (the chicken is first fire-seared), a wild riff on a Kenyan classic, that also features spicebush, sumac, coconut milk, and peanut butter! It's incredible. My mouth is watering as I type (it's on page 23 of the book).

Forage on.

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Forage, Harvest, Feast

(always in season)

April's end

In a tearing, rain-flurried wind I went for a walk in nearby Green-Wood Cemetery on the last day of April. They have opened all their side gates - usually firmly locked - to allow people easier access to the calming space of hills and green hollows. Led by George Washington, civilian troops suffered a major loss here against the English in the Revolutionary War. He retreated to Manhattan.

We haven't seen Manhattan in months.

The side gate nearest us is just a couple of blocks away and this has given me an unprecedented appreciation of the park-like grounds. I knew them well, but now I see changes in micro-seasonal increments. And it has been a long, cool spring.

The wind was knocking fluffy 'Kanzan' flowers from their heavy branches.

And these peonies were so fragrant I could smell them right through my mask.

I have a new and improved mask: My friend Kirstin kindly gifted us two that she had sewn expertly. We have been trading. Her husband David gave us a very generous tip about morels. We searched and found them. Or, the Frenchman did. So many that we split them with David. He fetched them and we got masks in return. All at a suitable, face-covered remove from one another. He is the first friend I have seen in six weeks.

Preceded by crabapples, the redbuds are entering their peak of bloom.

And at lawnlevel ground ivy (Glechoma hedera) is gorgeous. It is usually unwanted but I wish people would recognize its beauty and stop spraying it. It makes lawns lovely. It's the ultimate steppable groundcover.

And you can eat it, too. Crush the leaves and add them to drinks and green herb sauces: they are intensely minty. or make ice cubes filled with the flowers.

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All About the Books

Edible Weeds - Garlic Mustard and Sauce Alone

Here we are in our second week of COVID-19 lockdown. The only reason we go out is to exercise. Or forage! (Read essential state guidelines regarding safe and reponsible living here.)

For anyone longing to get out of the house for a solitary, socially distanced treasure-hunt, garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolata) is one of the earliest edible spring edibles to appear on still-brown forest floors and along their sunlit edges. These delicious greens are very tempting: the leafy vegetable tastes like a very mild broccoli rabe after blanching, and is peppery and garlicky when raw. It costs nothing, is versatile in the kitchen, and collecting it immerses us in nature at a time when the changing season seems like the only normal thing in our lives.

So what is this edible weed? Garlic mustard is highly invasive in the States -place it at the top of your invasivore spring menu. It is prolific where it grows wild - so your conscience can remain clear when uprooting it. It is a biennial plant, meaning it lives for two years. What we see in spring are its two forms: the leafy, second-year rosettes that germinated from seeds last spring, and a mass of newly-emerged seedlings (dispersed last summer), like a green carpet growing on the still-brown forest floor. Here in the Northeast, both forms appear around early March.

When the weather is still frosty at night the leaves on the rosettes are small, dark blue-green, and quite tough. But as the days lengthen garlic mustard becomes fatter and taller and the emerging leaves become bright emerald and tender.

Under the ground is a hidden treat, if you are willing to scrub and trim it at home: the contorted fat roots are as hot as horse radish (see Forage, Harvest, Feast - A Wild-Inspired Cuisine for that relish).

By mid-spring garlic mustard is bushy and lush. Its tender flower stalks in April are perhaps the best part of all, juicy and snappable when young, and resembling broccoli florets in miniature.

The flowers are of course edible, too. Pretty, peppery treats.

Those flowers are a hidden menace, Stateside, because they are the precursor to the plants setting seeds. Thousands and thousands of seed. Once dispersed they lie in wait for a year to emerge as that edible mat of microgreens – wonderful for foragers but terrible for biodiversity. This invasive plant is a thug that crowds out native flora. Harvesting this edible weed is an act of environmental kindness. Collect and preserve poundsful at a time with impunity.

One of the most evocative English common names given to garlic mustard is sauce alone. While I have made and eaten dozens of dishes featuring this plant (it hogs its own chapter in Forage, Harvest, Feast), I had never really thought about that. Until now. Perhaps COVID-19 made me re-focus on the basics – we need simple things. And we feel we must provide for ourselves.

So this vibrant bowlful is my idea of what ravenous hedgerow mice would cook for their spring dinner. If mice cooked. I think they’d like it with a cheesy sauce, so I have included that in the method, too.

The basic, cooked greens (above) are good enough to eat as a delicious side, a topping for pizzas, or filling for savory tarts and phyllo. The substantial Spring Green Purée that follows is a perfect bed for eggs. Or swirled into dashi or a miso broth. Or a stew of chickpeas or beans (you have those, right!?). Make it the basis of a minestrone with farro or pasta and canned tomatoes.

Sauce Alone uses just 1 cup of that purée. The rest I cool then freeze in a ziplock bag, pressed flat - very stackable and space-saving in the freezer (what, you don't have pine pollen in your freezer? Go out and get some! Ripening now).

At the cheese-sauce stage, top it with poached eggs, or add it to mashed potatoes and cauliflower for comforting bowlfuls.

For my allium elements (leeks, field garlic) – substitute any onion you have around: onion-onions, shallot, wild garlic, chives, ramp leaves, or scallions.

Sauce Alone - Serves 4

Spring Green Purée

3 tablespoons butter (or oil if you go vegan for the basic purée)
Leaves from 2 large leeks (about 4 cups), well washed and roughly chopped
2 ¼ lbs* garlic mustard leaves and stalks (about 10 – 12 plants), washed
¼ cup finely snipped field garlic
Salt

*The cooked yield should be 10 oz, squeezed dry

Basic Cheese Sauce

This is a thick sauce, for a runnier version add another ¼ cup milk.

2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
1 cup milk
2/3 cup grated cheddar (or whatever)
Salt
Pepper

For the Purée: In a pot warm the 3 tablespoons of butter or oil over medium-low heat. Add the chopped leek tops. Cover, and cook gently until the leeks are very soft – about 15 minutes (stir occasionally).

While the leeks are cooking, bring a large pot of water to a boil over high heat. Add the garlic mustard. Cover, and when the water boils again cook uncovered for 2 minutes, pushing the green mass down every now and then. Drain the boiling water and refresh the greens in a bowl of cold water. Squeeze it as dry as possible. Then, using your fingers, tease the compressed greens apart to loosen the mass.

Increase the leek pot's heat to medium and add the field garlic and blanched garlic mustard. Stir well and season to taste with salt. Cook for a couple of minutes.

Transfer the cooked greens to a food processor and whizz until very smooth. This (above) is now the thick, hearty purée base for a hundred digressions.

For the Cheese Sauce: Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Stir in the flour until thoroughly blended. Allow this roux to bubble - without browning - for a minute. Slowly drizzle in the milk, stirring very well as the mixture suddenly seizes up and thickens. Once all the milk is incorporated cook the milky mixture, stirring, until it thickens evenly. Add the cheese and stir until it has melted. Taste, and season with salt and pepper. Now stir in 1.5 cups of the reserved Green Purée. Warm through.

To serve, dollop into bowls and top with pat of butter.

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Wild Food and Recipes