Farm Bulletin: Black is the Color

This week contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm extolls the virtues of root vegetables eaten raw in salads, a crisp, sweetly crunchy pleasure that I've become an advocate for, as well.

Not just less than lovely to look at, black radish a strong, coarse creature with a harsh bite best tempered by salting first. In northern Europe, it is served in beer halls, where the root is sliced paper thin and generously salted for about 20 minutes to an hour. The Boutard children grew up eating it that way, even before beer graced their evenings. It is amazing what a transformation a sprinkle of salt accomplishes.

Black radish seedlings.

We also prepare a couple of salads/relishes by running the radish through the medium julienne blade of a Benringer mandolin and salting it for an hour. We peel it in a desultory fashion, pulling off the coarsest parts but leaving some of the black peel as decoration. When wilted, we rinse off the salt and dress it with lemon juice and olive oil, or sour cream. Both are delicious. Anthony enjoys it by the plateful as a salad while Carol prefers it in smaller doses as a relish.

Black radish is one of those very healthful vegetables that has a dedicated subterranean following, but no commodity commission loudly promoting its benefits. For what its worth, the root is high in vitamin C and is regarded as a good stimulant for liver regeneration. Both welcome at this time of the year.

Celeriac aka knob celery aka celery root…all delicious!

Knob celery, aka celeriac, was another regular winter vegetable in the Boutard house. Anthony's mother cubed and cooked the root until just tender, and then dressed it with a vinaigrette while still warm. At Ayers Creek we most commonly eat it as a raw salad. We julienne the roots and dress them in lemon juice and olive oil with a generous amount of freshly ground cayenne. We also follow James Beard's celeriac remoulade recipe where he dresses it with mayonnaise seasoned by three different mustards: sharp English, Dijon and sweet German. We make generous portions of these salads and enjoy them over a two or three day period. A sprinkle of caraway is also nice variation.

When it grows large quickly, the root can develop a pithy heart. We generally plant our knob celery later than recommended so it grows slowly in the cool autumn weather, giving it a crisp texture all the way through. In trimming the roots, we retain the topknot of greenery whenever possible. It is not just that it looks like standard desert island cartoon image from the New Yorker, we like to chop up the green part into the salad.

Get a recipe for a Celery Root Remoulade.

Top photo from Heirloom Solutions. Photo of seedlings from Horizon Herbs.

Garden 2013: Modest Beginnings

The garden this year is off to a slow start, mostly due to some unseasonably hot weather in May followed by temperatures that dipped down into the 40s at night. When the lettuces I planted declined to show themselves after a couple of cold nights, I was feeling a little hapless until some of my greener-thumbed acquaintances mentioned they'd had trouble with germination in their gardens from the chilly nights.

Peas emerging.

After a certain amount of commiserating, I replanted the bare spots with lettuces developed by Frank Morton at Wild Garden Seed in Philomath (near Corvallis), whose excruciatingly beautiful varieties are on regular display at the Gathering Together Farm stands at local farmers' markets. Joining them were radishes like those above, which had no trouble popping out of the soil quickly, making them such a joy to grow. I'll be using their greens in pestos, soups and pastas, and chopping the peppery red roots into salads and sprinkling in tacos.

The tomatoes this year were swathed in their protective jackets of water until a week ago, and they're anxiously waiting for some sunny days to really take off. Aside from that, there are pole beans, sugar snap peas, carrots and basil beginning to poke their heads out of the dirt. It all gives me hope for the days, hopefully some of them sunny, to come.

Radish Reconsidered

Dearest radish,

I want to like you. I really do. Your blushing cheeks, your round perfection. Your peppery bite that gives a spicy twist to every encounter.

But there's that harsh edge to you that's always held me back. Though other people can't seem to get enough of you; so I keep thinking it's me, not you. After all, it just wouldn't be spring without seeing you out in the garden, the way you reliably pop out of the soil within a couple of days of poking your seeds in the ground.

Then I heard about a way to mellow out those rough edges, even make you slightly sweet without totally losing your crisp appeal…I think we may have a future together after all. How about it?

x's and o's,

Kathleen

Roasted Radishes with Pasta and Radish Greens Pesto

For the roasted radishes:
2 bunches radishes
Olive oil
Salt
Thyme sprigs

For the pesto pasta:
3 c. radish greens
1 c. Italian parsley
3 cloves garlic
1/4 c. pine nuts
1 tsp. salt
1/2-3/4 c. olive oil
1 c. parmesan, grated
1 lb. dried pasta

Preheat oven to 400°. Separate greens from the radishes. Set the greens aside, wash radishes and dry with a towel. Place in medium bowl and toss with enough olive oil to coat. Place in baking dish and sprinkle with salt and thyme sprigs. Roast in oven for 20-30 min. until skins are crinkled and radishes are tender when pierced with a fork.

While radishes roast, bring a pot of water to boil on the stove. Wash and dry greens. Put greens, parsley, garlic, pine nuts and salt in bowl of processor. Turn on processor and drizzle in olive oil, processing until mixture is smooth and slightly wet. Pour into medium mixing bowl and stir in cheese.

Cook pasta till al dente. Drain and mix in half of pesto or enough to generously coat pasta. Serve with roasted radishes alongside and extra parmesan for sprinkling.

Garden 2011: First Cut

Firsts are always worth noting, and this morning was the initial harvest of early arugula and radishes from our raised bed. Yes, there'd been some thinning and a "tasting" of an early radish or two, but today those seeds I sowed had grown to the point I could actually pull some plants out of the ground to have for dinner. Woo hoo!

It was almost exactly one month ago, in a very-late-for-Portland mid-June, I finally planted our garden with tomatoes, collards, lacinato kale, arugula, carrots, radishes, beans, cukes, a couple of squash and a smattering of herbs. Tomatoes are growing (slowly) and starting to flower, I've lost a three or four of the dozen or so lacinato kale plants—still leaving plenty—and the carrots have pretty much stubbornly refused to germinate (I blame bad seeds) and I've resowed them.

The basket of arugula and radishes (top photo) makes me happy just looking at them, and I plan to use the arugula for a salad tonight and maybe try my hand at radish fritters, using the greens to make an aioli.

What, you didn't know radish greens were edible? They're a great braising green in soups and stews or sautéed with bacon and garlic for pasta, and they'd be awesome in my friend Sophie's recipe for Indian Poriyal. The leaves have teeny stiff hairs all over them and are a bit prickly but don't seem to sting like nettles. Plus the hairs are completely unnoticeable once they're cooked.

All in all a very promising (and hopeful) start!

Xnipec! (Gesundheit!)

As Portland's farmers' market scene matures, the infrastructure that supports it does, too. One, the Montavilla Farmers' Market, has added the position of Resident Chef to its roster. The person who fills that position is contributor Kathryn LaSusa Yeomans, who recently wrote a post on making fig jam for GSNW.

The wind and rain welcomed me to the market on my first day as Resident Chef. Thankfully, so did all of the wonderful, brave vendors, holding tight to tents and umbrellas as they protected their bundles of homegrown sunshine from the gusts and gales.

After tooling about the market and visiting with the producers of some of the most spectacular produce, meats and fish that the city has to offer, my thoughts turned to dinner. After all, the Resident Chef has to eat. "And eat well," I thought to myself as I perused the catch of the day at the Wild Oregon booth. Chinook and silver salmon gleamed deep orange from within tidy sealed packages.

The market works in mysterious ways at times—or maybe it's obvious ways. I was thinking of my salmon dinner, and what to pair with this protein, when I glanced up and saw the most beautifully round, pinkish-red radishes nestled together in a bed of vibrant radish greens. Xnipec!

In the Yucatan there is a salsa made with radishes, cilantro, chiles, tomato and bitter orange juice. The Mayan word is xnipec (pronounced shin-ih-pek), which means "hotter than a dog's nose," and describes a salsa that is so picante that it is likely to make a dog's wet nose hot. It pairs beautifully with rich seafood; salmon, scallops and the like.

Perfect for a "Hey, it's still summer, what's the deal with all this weather?" kind of day, its bright, crisp, fresh flavor would be ideal over warm seared salmon. I was sold. I practically skipped away with my Wild Oregon salmon and Simplicity Gardens radishes (Vyasa and Gopal grow spectacular produce that they line up like glistening jewels at their booth) as I ventured off in search of more salsa ingredients. Recalling Derek's salsa demo earlier in the day, I headed for Hassing Farms to seek out some hot chiles. They have a wide variety from sweet roasting peppers to blow-your-brains-out spicy chiles.

I snatched a few serranos; spicy, grassy, skinny little pointed peppers. Directly across the row I gathered fresh, fragrant cilantro and sleek scallions (green onions) from Maryhill Orchards. 19th Street Farms had nice ripe tomatoes, rounding out my shopping list. Mid-afternoon, the sun peeked out, welcomed by shoppers who streamed into the marketplace.

At home, I assembled the salsa, substituting the bitter orange juice (from Seville oranges, available in the winter, but difficult if not impossible to find this time of year) with fresh squeezed orange juice and a little lime zest and juice. I sautéed the salmon, crisping the skin and searing the flesh golden brown. At the last minute, the salsa was added to the pan, sizzling and bubbling bright and vibrant. I paired the Salmon in Salsa Xnipec with the deep green radish tops that I sautéed separately with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. Deeply satisfying, I felt summer linger longer that evening, sun-filled goodness flourishing on my plate.

Salmon in Salsa Xnipec

Serves 2

2 portions of salmon (about 6 ounces each)
Juice of 3 oranges
Zest of 1 lime, plus 2 Tbsp. lime juice
2 serrano chiles, chopped (less if desired)
5 radishes, trimmed and sliced into thin matchsticks, greens reserved
3 green onions, thinly sliced
1/4 bunch cilantro, rough chopped
1 medium heirloom tomato, diced, or 10 cherry tomatoes, halved
1 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil plus more for sautéing the fish
Sea salt to taste

Combine the citrus juice and zest, serranos, radishes, green onion, cilantro and tomato. Stir in 1 Tbsp. olive oil. Season with salt and set aside to allow flavors to meld, about a half an hour, and up to 3 hours.

Season the salmon on both sides with salt. Over a medium flame, heat the skillet with enough oil to form a generous film on the bottom of the pan. Once the oil is hot enough to sizzle when the fish is added (the oil should be shimmering but not smoking), slip the filets into the pan and sear on each side, cooking to desired doneness.

When the fish are sautéed to your liking, drain off any excess oil that remains in the pan and all at once, add the salsa to the pan. It should immediately bubble up and boil. Turn the pan off and remove the fish to a serving dish, pouring the salsa over the top. Eat at once, served with sautéed radish greens.

Sautéed Radish Greens

Serves 2

Greens from 1 bunch of radishes, washed and drained
1 Tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a skillet. When the oil is hot, shimmering but not smoking, add the radish greens, tossing and cooking for a minute at most, until they wilt and are tender. Season with salt and pepper.