Articles in Fruit w/recipe
My father loved to fish, his East Coast genes commanding that love. Dad loved camping too but only camping where water was nearby. After all, nothing tasted better than fresh fish frying on a camp stove, unless it was fresh fish accompanied by the wonderful cherry jam he made to go with it.
While Mom set the table and my sister trotted off with her Barbie dolls, Dad’s fishing pole arced and fell, and I caught up with Nancy Drew’s latest mystery. When Dad had enough fish, even Nancy was cast aside for lunch.
While the fish sizzled, he caramelized onions for the cherry jam. How he fell upon this combination I don’t know, but the jam, little more than fresh cherries, green pepper and onions, was tart and sweet, and we slathered it onto the hot fish. With coleslaw and bread, we had a midday feast.
After lunch, we were logy, sluggish in our movements but content in our thoughts. Even Barbie looked ready to stretch out on her lounge chair for a nap.
Fresh cherries open up new possibilities
Before moving to Ontario, Canada, we never ate fresh cherries, the ones arriving at the grocery store already covered with a fuzzy coating of mold. So we contented ourselves with maraschino cherries in canned fruit cocktail or topping an ice cream sundae or the glace cherries in a cake that had been passed down from my Great-Grandmother Hunt.
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I never knew her, but in Dad’s words she was “a corker” (an excellent or astonishing person). All of 4 feet and practically as wide as she was tall, she wore a black apron that fringed her ankles and had a Newfoundland dog, looking more pony than canine, that rarely left her side.
When Dad spent summer holidays with her and his grandfather, she made boiled dinners that were often gray in the pot and roasts of beef that inevitably blackened in her care, but she also made a cherry cake that he and the dog salivated over. The cake was one of the few things that she made — along with poached eggs, fish stew and gingerbread — that was a keeper, he said.
Although really just a pound cake with glace cherries added, it was the beating of butter and sugar until silken and the addition of almond flavoring and orange juice that elevated the cake to something special. She used a wooden spoon and an English mason bowl that she sat in her lap, creaming the butter and sugar with a steady rhythm, while the other ingredients waited to be added. The last thing mixed in was the cherries, which had been sprinkled with flour so they wouldn’t fall to the bottom of the cake as it baked.
Great-Grandmother Hunt hummed while the spoon beat against the bowl, the oil stove undulating in the heat and Dad and the dog sitting close by, waiting.
Later, when she took the cakes out of the oven, they hardly had time to reach the cooling racks before boy and beast were at her elbow, begging for slices that had been tinged pink from the cherries.
Decades later, Dad made those cakes for me and my sister, but by then, we’d also become fresh cherry lovers. The Bing cherries that grew on a tree in the back garden of our new home were fat and glossy, and what a wonder it was to pick a handful whenever we wanted.
I was sometimes sent out with the step stool and a bowl to pick enough cherries for a new dessert Dad discovered in the only cookbook he ever bought, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking.” Later, he found the tall and gangly author of the book, Julia Child, on television by accident and learned to make new, French dishes, but Cherry Clafoutis remained one of his favorites.
It looked like a puffed up pancake as it baked, but it was so much more — light textured and bursting with cherries. Powdered sugar sprinkled on top added an extra touch of sweetness. Cherry Clafoutis became a weekend treat and a camping specialty. Dad even made a metal hood for the camp stove so he could bake the dessert on it.
The aroma of the baking clafoutis lured friends and strangers to our camping spot. Soon, slices were being passed around, powdered sugar was coating lips and cherry juice dribbled down chins. It was hard to imagine life before this dessert and before fresh cherries.
Dad tweaked Child’s clafoutis over the years, adding ingredients and changing amounts, but he always credited her with opening up a whole new direction in cooking and baking for him. His clafoutis is the version I still make.
I stay true to Great-Grandmother Hunt’s cherry cake recipe, though, like he did, and although Bing cherries are still my favorites, I also like light-fleshed Rainiers, the “Princess of cherries,” while the Lapin’s deep red skin and flesh makes a cherry jam that is still perfect slathered on pan fried trout.
Inspired by Julia Child's recipe.
- Pinch of salt
- ½ cup all-purpose flour
- 2 large eggs
- 1 cup white sugar, divided
- ½ cup buttermilk
- ½ cup 10% cream
- ¼ cup orange juice
- 2 teaspoons almond extract
- 2 cups cherries, pitted (fresh work best, but frozen cherries, thawed and drained, work well too)
- Powdered sugar
- Preheat the oven to 350 F.
- Sift the salt and flour together in a small bowl.
- In a medium-size bowl, whisk the eggs until frothy. Add ½ cup sugar and whisk until combined, then add the buttermilk, cream, orange juice and almond extract; whisk until smooth.
- Add the sifted flour and salt and blend well.
- Pour half the batter into a greased baking dish (about an 8-cup capacity) and place in the preheated oven. When the batter has started to set around the sides of the pan (about 10 minutes), remove the pan from the oven.
- Sprinkle the cherries and then the additional ½ cup of sugar over the batter. Add the rest of the batter and return the dish to the oven.
- Bake for about 45 minutes (or until the clafoutis has puffed up, is golden and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean).
- Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve warm.
Main photo: Fresh cherries. Credit: Sharon Hunt
Having been raised under the shade of a sweet cherry tree, I always took great pride in asserting Michigan’s cherry dominance. It was not until researching this piece that I made a shocking discovery: Most sweet cherries are grown in the West. To be specific, Utah, California and Oregon.
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Next, I discovered that Utah also supported its sweet cherry stronghold by designating the cherry as its state fruit back in 1997. Meanwhile, Michigan is still trying to make up its mind about that subject. Proposed legislation designating a state fruit has been stalled in committee for more than a year, with heavy opposition from the blueberry contingent. Not only was my state not among the Top 3, it couldn’t even muster sufficient political muscle behind its homegrown sweet cherries. I never would have guessed that a simple story about a spicy cherry salsa would cause me such emotional upheaval.
Despite my disappointment in this news, I still am crazy about sweet cherries in June and July. I like to throw them on waffles in the morning, salads in the afternoon and start any party with a simple, kicked-up cherry salsa, especially if it’s an impromptu gathering and I’ve only got 15 minutes before running out the door. This light, fruity salsa is sure to disappear as fast as guacamole on Cinco de Mayo or cherry pie on the fourth of July. But that’s another story with a happier ending, because cherry pie uses tart cherries, and Michigan wins that contest hands down.
- 1 pound sweet cherries, pitted
- ½ pound fresh or canned pineapple
- 1 jalapeño pepper
- Juice of 1 lime
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1 teaspoon Aleppo chili pepper, or to taste
- ¼ cup parsley, minced
- Combine all ingredients in a blender or food processor and pulse until the mixture reaches a chunky sauce consistency.
- This can be served immediately, but it is best if allowed to marinate for up to three hours while the sweet and spicy flavors get to know each other. Serve with tortilla chips.
Main photo: Sweet cherry-pineapple salsa. Credit: Caroline J. Beck
Our forefathers weren’t thinking of holiday fare or locavores when they signed the Declaration of Independence, but the Fourth of July fortuitously falls at a time of fabulous local food abundance. And seeking out local food is the patriotic thing to do. Fresh fruits and vegetables connect us in a literal and visceral way to our land, and buying them is good for our local environment, farmers and economies. Your purchase will support your community, give you an opportunity to interact with your local growers and food artisans, and provide you with the best-tasting food around.
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While the Fourth doesn’t have the same gastronomic weight as the winter holidays, the possibilities are endless, but should start with whatever looks good at your local farmers market. If you don’t want to commit to a wholly local Fourth, just feature one local food — maybe the mint in your julep, the cabbage in your slaw, or the chicken on your grill. Or buy some local tomatoes, herbs, and cheeses and have a localicious pizza party.
Make this the year you declare your independence from high-fat, high-sugar crackers, chips, dips, cookies, and other processed holiday foods. Swap them out for low-calorie, high-nutrition fruits and vegetables from local farms, and this will be your best Fourth ever!
If you need help finding local foods, enter your ZIP code into Local Harvest. In just a few clicks, you’ll find many ways to connect with local producers and celebrate food sovereignty by eating fresh, delicious foods from your local farms and gardens.
Cool Mint Soda
Mint is an all-time favorite for keeping cool in the summer, but chamomile, or lemon verbena, or any herb that strikes your fancy will also work in this recipe. Double it if you’re expecting a crowd.
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cooking Time: 10 minutes
Total Time: 20 minutes
Yield: 6 servings
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
1 cup fresh mint leaves, coarsely chopped
Mint sprigs for garnishing
1. Make simple syrup by dissolving the sugar in the water in a saucepan over medium heat.
2. Turn the heat off and stir in the chopped mint leaves. Let sit for a couple of minutes. When the mixture is cool, strain the mint leaves out.
3. Add two to four tablespoons (to taste) of the mint syrup to a glass of sparkling water. Add a mint sprig as a garnish.
Grilled Stuffed Peppers
Use red, yellow or green bell peppers, or Italian or Hungarian sweet peppers.
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cooking Time: 30 minutes
Total Time: 40 minutes
Yield: 6 servings
3 sweet peppers, halved
8 ounces mozzarella cheese (sliced)
1 large tomato, chopped
6 sprigs basil
Salt and pepper to taste
1. Cut each pepper in half and remove seeds. Fill each pepper with the chopped tomato, and drizzle olive oil over the top of the tomatoes.
2. Add a slice of mozzarella on top of the tomatoes, and then add a dash of salt and pepper and a sprig of basil.
3. Place the filled pepper halves on a hot grill, but not directly over the flame. Cover and grill for about 30 minutes, or until the pepper is soft.
Parsley Pesto Potatoes, Grilled
Herb pesto is quick and easy to make in a food processor. Make a double batch, and use the extra on crackers or sandwiches.
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cooking Time: 45 minutes
Total Time: 55 minutes
Yield: 6 servings
1 cup fresh parsley, stems and leaves
1 cup pecans (you can substitute walnuts or pine nuts)
¼ cup hard cheese such as romano, grated
¼ cup olive oil
1 clove garlic, minced
Salt, to taste
1 to 2 pounds small new potatoes (or large potatoes cut into chunks)
1. To make the parsley pesto, put all the ingredients, except the potatoes, into a food processor and blend until well mixed.
2. In a large mixing bowl, toss the potatoes with the pesto.
3. Place the potatoes on a piece of foil on a hot grill, away from the direct flame. Cover the grill and cook until tender, about 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the size of the potatoes. When you can easily pierce them with a fork, they’re done. Top with extra pesto if you like.
Grilled Peaches with Tart Cherries
While the grill is still hot, make this quick, easy, and delicious dessert. If you have a big group, slice up some local watermelons, muskmelons, and honeydew melons on the dessert table alongside the grilled peaches.
Prep Time: 5 minutes
Cooking Time: 15 minutes
Total Time: 20 minutes
Yield: 6 servings
1 cup tart cherries, pitted
½ cup honey
1. Cut the peaches in half and remove the pits. Coat the peaches in olive oil. If you have a citrus-infused olive oil, that is particularly nice!
2. Fill each peach half with some cherries, and drizzle with honey.
3. Place the peaches on the medium-hot grill for 10 to 15 minutes, or until soft.
There’s only one thing better than eating berries straight from the bush, and that’s putting them into a buttery pâte sucrée crust. Here are just a few of the blissful berries that can go into your summer berry tart.
Aronia berries: Aronia is in the apple family, and the clusters of dark fruits have an intense tannic flavor that dissipates when they are cooked. Native to North America, aronia is popular in Poland and Russia, where it is used to make juices, jam, syrups and flavored spirits. It is high in vitamin C and has many times the amount of antioxidants found in blueberries and pomegranate.
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Blackberries: New varieties of blackberries are larger and sweeter than older varieties, but all are high in vitamins and antioxidants.
Raspberries: In addition to red raspberries, there are golden ones that are also high in vitamins C and K.
Blueberries: Great in pancakes and muffins, blueberries contain high levels of antioxidants.
Red, white or black currants: Very high in vitamin C, currants are used in jams, pies, ice creams and tarts. Black currants have more intense flavors than the red or white currants, and are packed with iron, potassium, phosphorous, iron and vitamin B5.
Gooseberries: These small berries can be red, green and purple and are good in tarts, pies, puddings and fruit salads. Gooseberries are high in vitamins C and A, potassium and manganese.
Strawberries: Go for whichever strawberries have the strongest aroma and you won’t be disappointed. They contain high vitamin C, manganese and folic acid levels.
Mulberries: These soft fruits have zero shelf life, but you can often find them growing wild at the edges of woods or parking lots. If you do, eat them right away or put them in a pie or tart.
All these berries are nutritional powerhouses, offering many phytonutrients, such as anthocyanins, ellagic acid, quercetin and catechins, that provide deep colors, rich flavors and disease-fighting attributes.
You can double, triple or quadruple the tart crust recipe below, portion it into one-tart amounts, then freeze it for up to two months. As each new berry comes into season, thaw and roll out the dough for that week’s tart. By the end of the season, you will be a pro at making berry tarts, and you will most likely have a lot of new friends!
The following recipe is adapted from Alice Waters’ Santa Rosa Plum Tart in “Chez Panisse Fruit.”
- Summer berries of your choice, about one quart (I use a mix of blueberries, raspberries, aronia berries and red currants)
- 1 pre-baked 10-inch pâte sucrée tart shell (recipe below)
- ¼ pound (1 stick) unsalted butter
- Juice of 1 lemon
- 2 eggs
- ¾ cup sugar
- 1½ teaspoons of plum brandy, grappa or kirsch
- ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
- ⅛ teaspoon salt
- 3 tablespoons flour
- 2 tablespoons heavy cream
- Preheat the oven to 375 F.
- Put the berries in a single layer in the tart shell, or arrange them in concentric circles.
- Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat. Let it bubble gently and cook until the milk solids turn light brown. Remove the butter from the heat and add the lemon juice. Set aside.
- Beat the eggs and sugar together with an electric mixer until the mixture is thick and forms a ribbon when dropped from the beaters, about five minutes. Add the butter, brandy, vanilla, salt, flour and cream. Stir just until mixed. Gently pour the mixture over the berries, filling the shell, and just barely covering the berries.
- Bake in the top third of the oven until the top is golden brown, about 35 minutes. Let cool on a rack for 15 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature
The following recipe is adapted from Alice Waters’ “The Art of Simple Food.” If you’ve never made a tart before, read her section on tarts, where she walks you through the process step by step.
Pâte Sucrée Tart Crust
Prep Time: 20 minutes, plus 4 hours chill time
Cooking Time: 15 minutes
Total Time: 35 minutes (4 hours 35 minutes including chill time)
Yield: 1 (10-inch) tart crust
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
⅓ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg yolk, at room temperature
1¼ cups flour
1. Beat the butter and sugar together until creamy. Mix in the salt, vanilla and egg yolk. Add the flour, stir and fold in gently until there are no dry patches. The dough will be soft and sticky. Gather it up into a ball and wrap in plastic. Flatten into a disk, and chill for at least 4 hours.
2. Preheat the oven to 425 F.
3. Take the dough out of the refrigerator. If it is very hard, let it sit 10 to 20 minutes to soften. Roll it out between two sheets of wax paper or parchment paper until it is about ⅛-inch thick and about 12 inches in diameter.
4. Put the dough into the tart pan and press gently into the sides. Trim any excess dough, and lightly prick all over with a fork. Bake for 5 minutes at 425 F, and then reduce temperature to 350 F and continue baking for 10 to 15 minutes or until light gold.
Main photo: The red, white and blue hues of Summer Berry Tart before baking. Credit: Terra Brockman
Superfood status aside, there is nothing more seductive than the sweet and spicy scent of the first gold-spangled ruby-red strawberries of the season. The uninitiated may wonder what on earth I’m talking about, since the fruit section of most grocery stores is as aroma-free as the canned goods section. But every Saturday in June, I watch a stream of savvy shoppers make a beeline to certain local farm stands where perfume still pervades the air.
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The strawberries at a farmers market are generally not the largest, nor the longest-lasting, nor the most perfectly shaped. But there is a reason customers are standing six-deep, waiting their turn: When you bite into the soft flesh, juices and flavors ricochet around your mouth and your brain until you are in a delirium of pleasure. “This,” I hear people say again and again, “is what strawberries used to taste like!”
Indeed, this is how they tasted, before they were bred for color, size and shelf-life, before synthetic chemical fertilizers, fumigants, insecticides and herbicides. Contrary to industrial belief, there are simple ways to control pests in the strawberry patch, the most time-tested being organic straw mulch (hence the straw in strawberries), which obviates the need for a host of chemicals. Straw keeps the berries off the moist ground (no need for fungicides), prevents weed seeds from germinating (no need for herbicides), and adds nutrients to the soil as the straw decomposes (no need for chemical fertilizers) — all the while enhancing the diversity of soil microorganisms that keep the farm ecosystem on an even keel.
Even in our hot and humid Illinois summers, delicious strawberry varieties such as Jewel, Honey-oye, and Earliglo do very well. But my new favorite is Mara des Bois. It is a small, somewhat elongated berry, with an intoxicating fragrance, unusual red-orange color, and deep, complex and varied flavors. In fact, different berries, even from the same plant, can have remarkably different flavors. This may be because it is a combination of four heirloom varieties that the French strawberry breeder Jacques Marionnet crossed to get the Mara des Bois. Each variety contributes a layer of flavor and in some berries, one or another flavor predominates, with some sweeter, some more citrusy, some more perfumey.
I confirmed my suspicion of the berry-to-berry variations when I brought over a big bowl of them as a treat for friends, and each one brought a different accolade, from “tangerine!” to “Kool-Aid!” to “strawberry ice cream!” And so another and another disappeared until the bowl was empty.
And these bright bursts of flavor contain potent packages of nutrition. An average strawberry has only 4 calories, but packed in those few calories are 11% of your recommended daily allowance of vitamin C. This means that eight to 10 strawberries give you more vitamin C than an orange. In addition, strawberries are high in fiber and antioxidants, and a good source of potassium and manganese.
While nothing says “welcome to summer” like strawberry shortcake, there are many other ways to use strawberries — if you can manage to get them home without eating them all on the way. This easy salad combines the best of the rich flavors of early summer — spicy arugula with sweet/tart strawberries.
- ½ cup chopped walnuts
- 4 cups torn arugula leaves
- 2 cups sliced strawberries
- 2 ounces Parmesan cheese, shaved and crumbled into small pieces (½ cup)
- ¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
- ⅛ teaspoon salt
- 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
- 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
- Toast walnuts in a small dry skillet over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, until lightly browned and aromatic, 3 to 5 minutes. Transfer to a large salad bowl; let cool for 5 minutes.
- Add arugula, strawberries, Parmesan, pepper and salt. Sprinkle vinegar and oil over the salad; toss gently and serve at once.
Main photo: The carmine-orange color and alluring aroma of wild strawberries (fraises des bois) are clues that this is a Mara des Bois. Credit: Terra Brockman
One of the first indicators of spring’s emergence is a visit to your local farmers market, and being greeted with fresh, vibrant stalls overflowing with farmed and foraged spring green vegetables such as asparagus, fiddleheads, ramps and pea shoots. For me living in Vietnam or for shoppers at Asian and Latin grocers, abundant displays of green mangoes signify spring’s arrival and that summer’s heat is rapidly approaching.
Unlike the short-lived availability of delicate spring vegetables, the green mango season lasts several months — from April to September depending on where the mangoes are from. Mangoes are cultivated in tropical and subtropical locales from South Florida to Central America to South and Southeast Asia. Ripe mangoes are prized for their sweet, fragrant flesh, but the inclusion of a green mango in a recipe brings a crisp tartness to the plate.
My North American and European friends in Asia rave about the ambrosia of a perfectly ripe mango, yet too many are unfamiliar with the numerous ways a green mango can be transformed. In places such as India and the Caribbean, green mangoes are often used to prepare chutneys, spiced pickles or tart sauces. They are also add a touch of sourness to regional curry dishes.
Green mangoes commonly used in India
In India, green mangoes are boiled or roasted, and the resulting puréed pulp is sweetened and enlivened with cumin and sometimes mint to make a refreshing, cooling drink called aam panna. Indian dishes that sometimes require additional tartness benefit from a last-minute sprinkle of amchur, dried and powdered green mango.
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Southeast Asian cooks prefer to use the raw flesh in salads, often producing an addictive dish by combining a handful of sweet, sour, salty and spicy ingredients. Occasionally, a little bit of grated green mango will be added to a meat marinade because its flesh contains an enzyme that helps tenderize meat. Most recently, I have started to use it as a substitute for apples, peaches and even rhubarb in baked desserts such as crisps and pies.
Although cooks in each of these regions have found different culinary uses for green mangoes, a common sight in Latin America, India and Southeast Asia is street-food vendors selling finger-sized lengths of green mangoes tossed with a seasoning of salt, chilies, sugar and lime prepared with and adjusted to local ingredients and tastes.
Half-ripe or under-ripe mangoes are purposely found and sold in Asian or Latin grocers. However, many of the mangoes imported to the United States that are intended to be eaten ripe are in fact under-ripe upon arrival at chain grocery stores and can still be used in a recipe calling for green mangoes, such as the Vietnamese green mango salad included in this story.
When looking for green mangoes, select fruits that are hard and firm and do not give when pressed with your thumb. Green mangoes have a uniform green skin and a pale flesh that ranges from cream to pale yellow. Likewise, the level of tartness of the flesh is dependent upon the variety of the mango.
On your next trip to the grocer, consider how hard it must be for green mangoes to be regularly passed over for their sweet siblings. Purchase a few and discover just how versatile, flashy and delicious they can be.
Preparing and cutting the firm flesh for a salad can be quick and easy. A vegetable peeler is the best way to peel a green mango. Try to resist using the large holes of a cheese grater because it is preferable to have long, thin strands instead of short, stubby pieces.
Techniques for cutting the unripe mango
In addition, you can cut an unripe mango into matchstick-sized pieces in three ways. In my opinion, the easiest and quickest way is to use a Japanese mandoline, with the middle-sized exchangeable blade securely fastened.
The second method is to use a Southeast Asian handheld grater. The graters are multipurpose tools with a peeler on one end, a rippled blade on the other and a sharp medium-sized zester in the middle. They are perfect for julienning green mangoes, green papayas, carrots and other fruits and vegetables. They are sometimes sold in Asian grocers and are easily found at fresh-food markets throughout Asia, making a great culinary souvenir of your trip.
To cut a mango using one, hold the mango in your hand at a 45-degree angle and firmly pull the zester tool down along the flesh of the fruit. Continue this motion, regularly rotating the mango, until the majority of the flesh is removed from around the pit.
The final option is great if you do not have either of the tools needed for the other two methods. Traditionally in Asia this is done by holding the mango in one hand while cutting the flesh with the other. A safer way is to use a cutting board. Place the peeled green mango on a cutting board and starting from the bottom stem and ending at the top, make a cut all the way to the pit. Repeat this type of cut every ⅛ of an inch all the way around the mango. You will have to flip the mango over during the cutting. Use a vegetable peeler to slice the cut mango from top to bottom resulting in rustic julienned mango pieces.
Vietnamese Green Mango Salad
Although this recipe is a vegetarian salad, fish sauce can easily be used by omitting the rice vinegar, adding 2 tablespoons of fish sauce and reducing the water to 1 tablespoon. No matter what version you choose to make, first taste a piece of the mango. The variety of mango and time of the season will affect its sweetness, and you may need to adjust the amounts of lime, sugar and vinegar/fish sauce to balance the dressing. It is also recommended that you first make the crispy shallots before dressing and mixing the salad.
Serves 4 as a side dish
For the mango salad:
1 green mango, peeled and cut into matchsticks
½ cup jicama, cut into matchsticks
½ red pepper, seeded and julienned
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon rice vinegar
½ teaspoon soy sauce
2 teaspoons lime juice
¼ teaspoon salt
1 or 2 Thai red bird’s-eye chilies, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
1 cup Thai basil leaves, roughly cut or torn if the leaves are a large size
¼ cup coriander leaves
¼ cup mint, roughly cut or torn if leaves are a large size
2 tablespoons fried crispy shallots (see instructions below)
2 tablespoons peanuts, roasted
For the crispy shallots:
½ cup shallots
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
For the mango salad:
1. Place the green mango, jicama and red pepper in a medium-sized bowl.
2. Spoon the sugar, water, rice vinegar, soy sauce, lime juice and salt in a small bowl. Stir to dissolve the sugar. Add and mix the chopped chilies and garlic into the dressing. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed.
3. Toss the herbs into the bowl and pour the dressing over the mango mixture. Mix well.
4. Place the salad into a serving dish and garnish with the crispy shallots and peanuts.
For the crispy shallots:
The instinctive reaction to get shallots crispy is to fry them over high heat. But cooking them slowly and gradually over a medium to medium-low heat gets the best results.
1. Thinly slice the shallots across the grain to get small shallot rings. Use your fingertips to separate the rings from one another.
2. Line a plate or baking sheet with some paper towels.
3. Heat the oil in a medium-sized frying pan or wok over medium heat. Add the shallots and gently fry, stirring occasionally.
4. After about 5 minutes, some of the edges of the shallots will begin to take on some color. For the next 5 to 7 minutes, stir more regularly to move the shallots around. Once the shallots are uniformly golden brown, remove them by briefly tilting a spider or spoon against the side of the wok or pan to let any excess oil drip back into the pan. The shallots will continue to cook out of the oil, so it is best to take them out when they are a light golden brown instead of a darker color, which may make them taste bitter.
5. Place the fried shallots on the paper towels and spread them out. Over the next 5 to 10 minutes they will cool, crisp up and be ready to use.
Main photo: Vietnamese Green Mango Salad. Credit: Cameron Stauch
With Persephone’s return, comes the spring. But there’s a catch. Starving and unimpressed with Hades’ attempts to woo her, Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds while in the underworld. Those six seeds require her to return to the underworld during pomegranate season (roughly September through February in the Northern Hemisphere). Repeated year after year, Persephone’s place creates our annual seasonal cycle of death in the fall and winter and rebirth in the spring.
That is the ancient Greek myth that many of us learned as children, but nearly every culture in which pomegranates are traditionally enjoyed has incorporated them into their myths and symbols. Pomegranates have been used to conjure everything from lust and sexual abandon, to fertility and prosperity, to blood and national identity, and even, as in Persephone’s case, death and rebirth. Pomegranates have been with us since the beginnings of civilization and their image has meanings that span the entirety of human existence.
The pomegranate’s many seeds have led to its use as a symbol for fertility and fecundity in a wide variety of cultures from ancient Persia to Japan. Newly married couples or married women trying to conceive often ate pomegranates or drank the fruit’s juice to increase the chances of a healthy birth. Some North African Berber women also use the seeds in divination rituals to predict the number of children they will bear in their lifetimes.
Pomegranates with coins inserted are also given as pre-nuptial gifts from the groom to the bride in the South Asian Parsi culture to symbolize fertility and prosperity in the marriage. Pomegranates prepared with coins are also used on the Zoroastrian Nowruz table for longevity and good health in the coming year.
Persian epic hero, Isfandyar was said to have enjoyed pomegranate juice before battle to make himself and his armies invincible. This practice was also followed by the Uzbek-born emperor Timur (Tamerlane) as he swept across central and western Asia in the 13th century. Today, a large stone vessel stands outside of Timur’s tomb in Samarkand to commemorate the practice.
The Quran also states that pomegranates grow in the garden of paradise, and some religious scholars believe that it was the pomegranate, not the apple, that was the fruit of temptation in Judeo-Christian scripture.
Origins and cultivation
Domesticated in ancient Mesopotamia by the third millennium B.C. (and possibly well before), pomegranates have also been recovered from later Bronze Age archaeological sites in Israel and Cyprus. The Egyptians had orchards full of pomegranate trees by the time of Hatshepsut’s rule (1479-1458 B.C.), and the Phoenicians were an important force in spreading the fruit across North Africa and into Southern Europe as their seaward empire grew toward Carthage and beyond. It is just this connection that lies behind the pomegranate’s original Latin name, Punicum malum, or Punic apple.
Pomegranates made their way to China by the first few centuries of the Common Era, and from there onto Japan and Korea, where they are today widespread.
As the fruit has been traded and adopted, hundreds of cultivars have been created that vary in fruit and seed color, sweetness, acidity and astringency. The fruits themselves vary in color from a creamy off-white to yellow; to the familiar shades of pink and red; to a dark, almost-black purple. Seeds (sometimes called arils) also vary in color from crimson to a clearish-white color. Cultivars have also been bred to allow them to grow in extreme weather conditions, such as the pomegranates in China’s far western Xingjian province, which regularly endure drought and winter temperatures as low minus-40 F.
Pomegranate’s culinary uses
Throughout western Asia and the Caucasus, pomegranate juice and syrup are used extensively to bring sweet and sour flavors to meat and vegetables. Meats are marinated in the juice, or sauces are prepared to use at the grill or table. Additionally, pomegranate syrup is used in the preparation of mixed condiments, often using walnuts or roasted peppers and garlic to complement a wide variety of dishes. Some Iranians and Azeris also use pomegranates as the center of a savory soup. Pomegranate seeds are also used to stuff vegetables and fish, and the juice is used in place of vinegar to pickle vegetables, especially garlic and pearl onions.
On the subcontinent and in parts of the Himalaya, pomegranate seeds are used as souring and flavoring agents in curries and chutneys. In central Asia, juice and syrup are used much as in western Asia and the Caucasus, but pomegranate seeds are also used in a wide variety of rice and millet pilafs. Mongolia and western China use pomegranate juice in lamb stews along with cinnamon, but sometimes add rice vinegar or asafetida to lend a more eastern Asian flavor to them.
Pomegranate seeds also are used in a variety of liquors throughout Asia. In the Caucasus, they are used in mixed fruit wines along with grapes or cherries, and in eastern Asia they are used to flavor local grain-based homebrews and other medicinal preparations.
I created this lamb recipe by adapting a traditional Persian fesenjān recipe originally used on fowl. Instead of roasting the meat, I braise and add butternut squash for a nearly perfect one-pot meal.
Main photo: Pomegranate ripening on the tree. Credit: Laura Kelley
As children, my sister and I spent Saturdays in the spring as knights-errant, challenging each other to duels with rhubarb stalks. We thrust them at each other, but our swords connected gently, so as not to damage what would later become delicious treats. A neighborhood bully once intruded, threatening to kill us with a touch of his rhubarb leaves. Just one touch would mean instant death, that’s how poisonous the leaves were, he said. I pushed him into a ditch, and when he didn’t die instantly, as the leaves touched his shoulder, I took my sister home for a dish of rhubarb Mom had cooked that morning.
We were rhubarb lovers. Mom and my sister loved it cooked with sugar, slathered on fresh bread and topped with heavy cream. They also loved it as Rhubarb Fool, the pink strands of rhubarb swirling through the whipped cream. Occasionally, rhubarb showed up in a cobbler, which they spooned into their mouths with abandon. Although Dad and I loved rhubarb these ways too, we loved it most in pies, his pies, since he made the best in the world.
“There’s no better pie than rhubarb,” he’d say wherever he got ready to make one.
Rhubarb’s long history started with medicinal uses
Nineteenth-century cooks would have agreed with him in that regard. They dubbed rhubarb the “pie plant” because of its popularity as a filling, but it had been popular for medicinal purposes much longer.
Rhubarb originated in Russia, Siberia and China, and was written about more than 2,700 years ago in “The Divine Farmer’s Herb-Root Classic,” an early Chinese text. Its roots were prized near and far as a cure for dysentery, diarrhea and constipation.
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In Tudor England (from the 1400s to 1600s), rhubarb was grown in herb gardens. A century later, in the 1770s, the Duke of Athol grew Turkey rhubarb in Scotland, selling the roots to an Edinburgh druggist.
The rhubarb variety now eaten came to 17th-century England from Italy. Its cultivation spread throughout the 18th century, but it took awhile for rhubarb recipes to appear in English cookbooks — in part because the sugar needed for sweetening was not widely available or affordable. When sugar became more common, recipes for pies, tarts and other desserts followed, in the 19th century.
In 1771, Benjamin Franklin sent Chinese rhubarb seeds to John Bartram, an American botanist, thus introducing the plant to America. Soon, rhubarb was cultivated in Maine and flourished after that in Massachusetts as well. By 1822, rhubarb was sold in New England markets, and later that century, Luther Burbank, a pioneer in agricultural science, developed a variety better suited to California’s climate.
Rhubarb stalks, the parts we eat, are really leaf bases called petioles. They vary in color, from pink to red, green or white, depending on the variety.
The rhubarb that Dad grew was pink. It spread between the fences separating our back garden from our neighbors’, with Dad doing the harvesting and all of us, including our neighbors the Leckies, sharing in his baking.
Dad was a born baker, although six decades of practice certainly helped fine-tune his innate skills. Although he could make anything, his genius was pastry, which demands a gentle touch. He was a gentle man, so the two were made for each other.
He was an orderly baker as well, first laying out all the ingredients: flour, salt, lard, water, vinegar, sugar, cornstarch and rhubarb (without those “murderous” leaves, which, in fact, contain toxic oxalic acid that can be lethal if ingested). Then, measuring cups and spoons, a pastry knife and fork, mixing bowls, a rolling pin, pie pans and cooling racks were assembled. He always made three pies: one for our neighbors and two for us (the second pie was for lingering over a little more because the first barely left the oven before it was devoured).
The worst thing about his pie making was waiting for the pies to bake and then cool. I was not patient when it came to waiting for rhubarb pie, but if you didn’t wait, the slice of pie collapsed into soup on your plate and burned your mouth too. When the pie was cool enough, the sight of that first slice of rosy rhubarb between layers of flaky pastry made me drool.
If that bully hadn’t been a bully, he might have been invited to drool over that sight too, before tasting Dad’s rhubarb pie. Then he would have understood the truly deadly aspect of rhubarb. It wasn’t in the leaves touching you but, rather, in that first perfect bite, when the sweet rhubarb melded with pastry that melted on your tongue. That bite was deadly because you knew how terrible it would be when you could no longer eat such a perfect thing. If he hadn’t been a bully, I might have pitied him for never having had that experience, but, instead, I was just grateful that we did so often.
Dad’s Rhubarb Pie
Makes one 9-inch pie
For the pastry:
2¼ cups all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup cold lard (unsalted butter, if you prefer, or half lard and half butter)
¼ cup cold water
1 tablespoon white vinegar
For the filling:
3½ cups rhubarb, leaves removed; stalks trimmed, washed and dried thoroughly and cut into 1-inch pieces
1 to 1½ cups granulated sugar
¼ cup cornstarch
For the pastry:
1. Sift the flour and salt into a large bowl. Using a pastry knife, cut the lard into the flour until it is in pea-sized pieces.
2. In a measuring cup, stir together the water and vinegar. Using a fork, stir only enough liquid into the flour mixture to bind the ingredients. (Note: You might need more or less water, depending on how the dough comes together. In humid weather, it might require less water because flour, if not stored properly, can absorb water from the air.)
3. Form the dough into a ball, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
4. While the dough chills, prepare the rhubarb filling.
For the filling:
1. Combine rhubarb with sugar in a bowl and set aside. (For a more tart pie, use just 1 cup of sugar.)
Assembling the pie:
1. Cut the chilled dough into two equal pieces. On a lightly floured surface, roll one piece into a ⅛-inch thick circle. Gently wrap the circle onto the rolling pin (or lift it) and press into a 9-inch pie pan, trimming any excess from the edges.
2. Spoon the rhubarb mixture into the pastry-lined pie pan. Sprinkle cornstarch evenly over the fruit.
3. Cover the rhubarb with the rolled-out top crust. Seal the pastry edges with your thumb and finger (or press a fork against the edges to seal). Cut slits into the pastry. (Alternatively, cut the top crust into strips and make a latticework design on top of the pie, as show in the accompanying photograph.)
4. Press a thin strip (about 1 inch) of aluminum foil around the edges to keep from burning.
5. Bake the pie in a preheated 450 F oven for 12 to 15 minutes (or until the pastry is golden). Remove the aluminum foil, and reduce heat to 350 F. Bake the pie for an additional 40 to 50 minutes (or until the rhubarb is soft).
6. Cool well before cutting.
Note: You can also add ¼ cup of strawberries (washed, dried and cut into equal-sized pieces) for additional sweetness and flavor. If you choose to use strawberries too, reduce the amount of rhubarb accordingly.
Top photo: Rhubarb pie. Credit: Sharon Hunt