To Parsnip with Love or Reframing Experience

After striking a dissonant chord with some readers over radishes, I thought back to a post last fall which rallied for roots. If one were particularly observant in its reading, one might have noticed a rather obvious but easy to forgive omission. The parsnip has been categorically ignored, frowned upon, shunned, dismissed, misplaced, forgotten, and disapproved of for the entirety of my life, and for the shallowest of reasons- they give me the creeps. I don’t really remember the circumstances surrounding my first parsnip sighting but I do know with horrific certainty that I diagnosed Pastinaca sativa as albino mutant carrots. They are ugly stubby things with an unforgivable color, the antithesis to life. A swash of images pass over me one more egregious than the last; stiffened bruised corpse fingers, chipped tea-stained teeth, maggots writhing within the cork confines of a kicked open decomposed log. I can practically smell the formaldehyde of a giant segmented and bloated earthworm or a geoduck jarred in captivity, just thinking of parsnips. I know I have a wild imagination and a serious problem too, which is why this particular genus-species has been long banished to the nether regions of my mind until now.

Fast friends with radishes, it is hard to believe there once was a time I snubbed them too. It has dawned on me that parsnips are the final frontier in vegetables, the one that has escaped my kitchen chop block. Only one thin memory of eating ghoulish white rounds in chicken soup exists, my spoon swiftly avoiding contact with the murky discs while I feebly drank some root infused broth instead. The remembrance is fuzzy and unformed, no doubt blunted by some much needed defensive forgetting and a smear of revulsion. I believe the flavor was slightly sweet, herbal and perfumed in a weird kind of way, but nothing so offensive to keep me from exploring the harmless root a little further.

Now approximately twelve years later, the vegetable which has yet to see the light of day and has almost completely composted into oblivion is coming out of the shadows. It is time to interject a little psychology and a smit of realism, after all what other foods are being impulsively annihilated due to my unchecked emotionality? Indeed the parsnip is a defenseless root and not a dead appendage- the parsnip is a defenseless root and not a dead appendage. And it is all too clear that my past association is preventing me from truly experiencing the vegetable for what it is, a brutish yellow white carrot with a wild carrot flavor. Simple as that.

With a little determination and mental processing, I am excited about my new exotic vegetal friend. First I found a recipe for Parsnip Ice cream, which then morphed into an idea for Parsnip Panna Cotta. Lastly with a grand flourish of creativity I decided that I should grate a whole slew and mix them into a gingerbread spiced cake. To my amazement I discovered that others have already danced where I dared to go. But since this is my own personal Goliath, I decided to forgo originality and bake the cake anyways. For as far as I am concerned- anyway I slice it, this experiment has been a success. You can never really lose with cake and now the garden of eating is that much wider.

Nip-n-Sap Bread- This is an Ode to Spring for the Vernal Equinox highlighting parsnips pulled fresh from the frozen ground (which V says makes them sweeter) and maple syrup freshly boiled from the sap. The intention of the bread is to support parsnip’s earthy flavor with the spelt and maple. It is sweet but not overly so, since that would only mask its true flavor. The name is cleverly made up by sweet V- this is for you!

Ingredients:
3/4 C brown sugar
½ C butter at room temp.
2 eggs
1 tsp baking soda
½ C maple syrup
½ C buttermilk
2 C spelt flour
¾ tsp ginger
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp cloves
¼ tsp salt
2 C grated fresh parsnips
½ C chopped toasted walnuts and/or a few handfuls of plump raisins

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9” cake round. Beat butter and sugar on medium speed until creamy, add eggs and mix until incorporated. In a small bowl mix maple syrup and buttermilk together, stir baking soda into the wet mixture. Sift flour, spices, and salt together into a bowl. Pour half of the flour into the butter mixture and beat a few seconds. Pour about half of the wet ingredients in and mix some more. Repeat with the remaining dry and then wet ingredients. Lightly fold parsnips and walnuts into the batter and then pour into the prepared pan. Bake in the oven for about 55 minutes. Done when toothpick in the center comes out clean. Can be gussied up with cream cheese frosting or a brown butter orange frosting, but I think it quite nice with a thin coat of butter and maybe a small bowl of coffee ice cream on the side.

Radish Renaissance

I like to be delighted by what I eat and mostly this begins by what I see. I am the person lingering over produce, caressing mushroom ears and whispering to sweet tempered heads of cabbage. These aren’t merely the actions of a shrewd shopper sizing up the heartiest specimens, but rather these gentle exchanges are the gestures of fondness, they mark my courtship with crudités.

This week it was hard not to be taken by the radish row maintaining orderly conduct between rambunctious leaf lettuce and stiff lipped parsley. The beaming bundles all pluck in a gaggle radiated such a dose of good spirits, charm and springtime promise that I had to snatch one up. But I must admit in years past I have wondered about radish eaters and who exactly they are.

I used to see these roly-poly roots as necessary space filler, the pretty face of the veggie party platter still destined to roll around forlorn and unloved with the always boorish and unpopular cauliflower cluster. Radishes were born to become crude looking rose garnishes that decorate meatloaf logs and camouflage dreary uninspired entrées. They are all razzle-dazzle, rosy cheeked and voluptuous- but ultimately an unabashed tease. They never delivered. Looking at them gloriously flushed on the outside and crisp juicy white on the inside, I imagined the quenching crackle taste of a peppermint bon bon or at the very least a flavor both pleasingly mild and pleasant. On no account would I ever get bitten or have my tongue recoil back in shock. It is no wonder these feisty bulbs got parked and abandoned to dry up on serving platters across luncheon tables everywhere.

Somewhere in the 90’s I underwent a radish re-birth. I left the dark ages behind and shed light squarely upon the squat mini monster of parties past. On one fine day upon the bustling farm stand of the market, my eyes latched from afar onto pixels of vivacious cheer that bloomed into Easter egg colored orbs nuzzled against apple green finery. My eyes feasted upon a more demure and dainty vegetable version than my memory remembered. Piggly tails in tact and tops aflutter, these gentle creatures were clearly plucked early from their morning beds and I was willing chaperone to take them home.

Handsomely formed, it is nice to dip them whole in a little salt and if you must something creamy like a ranch dressing. Irrepressibly crunchy, juicy with a big amount of zip these bites are an addictive nibble which alternately lend themselves perfectly to a little ume vinegar mixed with a hint of sugar, fast pickles that speed blush to a fuchsia hue. While of course they really add a sparkle of color and texture to salad, I think of them as add ins to liven up just about everything from dips, soups, and burgers to omelets. In addition, the lovely greens should be immediately clipped and sautéed with garlic to put atop some toast. Just a warning the greens are a bit terse and need a bit of coaxing with enough oil and stock to soften them. Definitely kin to the root, these leaves have character and a bit of chew.

What I’ve neglected to explore however is the radish cooked, not counting the handful of times I’ve thrown them into miso soup after finding some aged in the crisper drawer. This week’s purchase asks to be re-examined yet again. The weather is still sallow and I’m not up for the nerve and bite of raw. My nightly meals are begging for a little color differentiation after too many days of tussled muddied leftovers. Cooked radishes offer a softer approach in pink. All glossy with butter and tender crisp in body, this vegetable is less moxie and more ingénue, somehow better suited for the delicate transition of spring pushing through winter. And while in general I abstain from pastels, flash sautéed these baby pink gems indeed remind me of delicate hyacinth, budding crocus, lop eared dwarf bunnies and the other marks of spring.

Sautéed Radishes in the French Style: adapted from The Splendid Table by Lynne Rossetto Kasper, serves 6

I rather liked this dish; in fact I was delighted by it. Visually it is stunning and practically begs for mint peas, asparagus or tender fiddleheads. Lynne suggests seafood, but I think this would be lovely with lamb. Also I would strongly support the use of Vermouth. I think it would bring out the delicate anise flavor of the tarragon.

Ingredients:
2 Tblsp unsalted butter
2 bunches small radishes (she recommends trimming tips/greens)
Salt and fresh ground pepper
1/3 C white wine- she uses Vermouth
Pinch of sugar
2 Tblsp chopped fresh tarragon

Directions: Heat butter in a 12” skillet over medium high heat. I cleaned and halved my radishes lengthwise, discarding only the leaves that were slimy or yellow. I left my tails intact as well. Throw them into the pan and give a good sprinkle of salt and pepper. Sauté for about 3 minutes. Add the wine or Vermouth and sugar continuing to cook until the liquid has disappeared. Toss the radishes with the tarragon and a bit more butter if desired. Serve hot and be careful not to choke on the tails.

How Hard Can it Be?

For about a good five years, I would casually toss these five words out onto the end of any statement involving a goal, action or plan. Unbearably all brass and cheek it did not matter whether or not I possessed any experience in the area the phrase was directed at. With a little effort and common sense I figured that I could accomplish what needed to be done: reroute electrical wires, decorate a wedding cake with gum paste figurines, dance with swords or build a yurt complete with felted interior. After all, "how hard could it be?"

One friend thought this hubris came from ignorance, another thought it confidence. At the time I believed that most things could be achieved through “steadfast discipline”. After years of eating my words, my mantle of poise finally crumbled and the well worn phrase phased out. With pensive consideration I now attribute this once unstoppable audacity to being young, enthusiastic, and exceedingly naïve. I strongly suspect that ramen noodles had their fair share in the blame as well.

Set before deep bowls of soup from a young age, I’ve had my fill of just about every kind of boiled noodle. Between slurps, homemade noodles interloped with the instant sort under my blind and otherwise preoccupied eye. Only infectious enthusiastic welcome was displayed in our household for this rip, dump and serve meal. Sprite chewy ribbons shared intimate space with sweet scallions, wilted spinach, dusky mushrooms, tempura blossoms and the requisite yolk yellow egg nestled cozy in the center. This food purred home style comfort even when I forwent the sumptuous for the simple. Straight out of the bag with the magic of a little heat and water, I could concoct hanks of stomach warming noodle within a shimmering lustrous meat broth in less than seven minutes. This was real food so deplorably easy that a child could fix it and this is where the confusion began. I left toast with cheez-whiz behind as I set my sights higher up the culinary ladder and in no time I deftly progressed to Chili and Shrimp flavored ramen artfully adorned with diagonal cut vegetables and custard webs of egg sitting kingly upon a stoneware throne. To this obvious talent I began to wonder, “Cooking, how hard can it be?”

Ramen opened the door to an exciting world of possibility. Not to mention rapid fire consumption of this holy noodle saved me from extinction in college. It was easy and inexpensive, fast and infinitely variable which suited my fickle taste buds. And like a gentle mentor, ramen noodles built up my confidence for greater challenges epicurean and otherwise. Shameful mercurial beast that I am, I eventually left my beloved bagged and preserved companion for the excitement and lure of greater things homemade, intricate and fussy. Forgetting my humble roots I began piping choux, whipping up dacquoise, toasting and grinding spices, and foraging in ethnic markets with frenzied ambition. Ingredient lists became long, methods even longer. On some occasions I cooked myself into a corner sweating and anxious; kitchen devastated by wanton disorderly conduct with barely a crumb to eat. I slowly began to observe that mastery was rarely attained in seven minutes and furthermore I was not always able to maintain the diligence required for success of a complex mission.

Life after ramen has been good, in fact richly expansive. My education in noodle taught me that simple steps can build into something momentous even wondrous. However it neglected to teach me patience and fortitude. Experience corrected and seasoned my binary vision to eventually include all the shades of grey between easy and hard, spectacular and dreadful. While impetuous behavior still manages to rear its head causing me to leap before I look, I am a more cautious creature maybe the staid sort who truly understands her available resources and now concedes from time to time to ask, “How easy can it be?”

Over-the-Top-Ramen Noodle Pillows serves 1-2: I’d love to claim ownership over this idea, but alas the credit goes to Barbara Tropp of China Moon fame who used to serve up something similar to this. My twist is to cook up ramen noodle, cool it until it congeals into a tangled mess, and then fry it up into a crunchy soft mass. Now you can have Top Ramen both ways, the crunch of “raw” and the chewy of “cooked”. And for those that like to “do it hard”, I offer an alternative method which I will try on a day when my tank is on full.

Ingredients:
1 bag of Top Ramen or Sapporo Ichiban instant noodle or foot-stomped noodles
A few tablespoons chopped scallion
Sesame seeds
Toasted sesame oil
Grapeseed oil

Direction: Cook up your noodles until al dente, rinse under cold water and strain. Pat the noodles dry with a paper towel and mix in chopped scallions, a good sprinkle of sesame seeds. Coat with a drizzle of toasted sesame oil. Heat up a large reliable non-stick pan until medium high and put oil in to generously coat the bottom. When the pan is hot enough to cause a noodle to sizzle, place the noodle mass into the pan and pat down to compress. Cook until golden on one side about 5-7 minutes and then flip over to crisp the other side. When done put the pillow onto a large plate and serve it with your favorite quick stir fry of veggies on top.

Life Happens in the Cracks, One Bite at a Time

Now at least a full week beyond the sandwich of my dreams, there is space for full disclosure to take root. With little restraint, I ingested both the AM and the PM version at the same meal with no ill effect. I sat solidly present for the whole sensation session. Being that the time was approximately 11 o’clock AM, hovering on the edge of the cusp of the turnover, I reasoned that it was fully appropriate to turn up the volume on the AM version, which in my mind meant the replacement of the stoic boiled egg for the charismatic if not potentially volatile, egg over easy. There was so much activity happening on that single plate, every element while knock out stand-alone, worked in unison to create a sloppy, pungent, mouth watering whole. Somehow in the midst of dripping yolk and whines of sardine, I managed to anchor the flavor sandwich with a diminutive but powerful accessory, the pickled garlic.

I could sing the praises of Allium sativum L. any day of the week, but I don’t. I like garlic so much that I don’t usually think about it. It’s ever presence is quietly necessary and invisible like air. Last year during my pickle period I jolted to the past, below the surface where memory and story reside. I brought back to life, to my kitchen counter- a bite, a snap of peppery cloves brined in liquid soy. I pressed hard into my ear drums sounding out the faded directions from my mother and waited as one-note Charlie transformed into the pearl of the Orient, a multilayered jewel. It is hard to believe that within the silent ink bath, the bite and snarl of floating ivory claws temper into semi translucent nibbles of piquancy, salty verve and licorice flavored mystery before ending in a final tryst with heat.

Manul Changatchi or pickled garlic is one of the many interesting side dishes (banchan) used by Koreans to accent their meals. Growing up I ate these patina stained stubs of growl with sticky clumps of rice and charred veneers of bulgogi, a parade of flavors contained within a lettuce leaf wrap. Ssam, the Korean style wrap is a fresh garden palette of taste, color and texture. It was exotic counterpart to the all-American sandwich I consumed on the day side. I tried my best to be like the other girls and eat my peanut butter sandwiches inconspicuously at lunch time. It didn’t help that occasionally I would find thrust into my lunch bag, a rogue slab of head cheese muffled between bread, weirdness oozing out of me. And though I lived in a mint green toothpaste colored house that looked identical to half a dozen others on my street, none of them hid jars of kimchi fermenting in the garage, the basement and the refrigerator or sprouted lanky perilla plants between the irises along its perimeter. I was distinctly and hopelessly bound on all sides and threaded throughout with a heritage that reeked of flamboyant vibrancy, flavor, and colorful individuality.

Perhaps if I had not been properly pickled by all of those spice spiked banchan, I wouldn’t have the adequate orienteering skills to make sense of that sardine sandwich. Wading through it further, between exhilarating crescendos of garlic it seemed obvious that this week’s follow up needed to be ssam, the antidote to the stuffy sandwich. The light freshness of this wrap softly rouses senses dulled from the heavy handed bludgeon of winter foods. Crisp tender greens and sweet neutral rice swaddle shreds of blanched vegetables, briny spiced condiments and tender hunks of meat. The multi-flavors contained within these fully disposable packages combine effortlessly together, yet still retain their own distinct integrity.

Now when I think of the efforts that my parents made to plant vestiges of an old life into their new one, embarrassed discomfort is replaced with reflective appreciation. Like a smoldering bite of garlic standing out upon a canvas of rice, these traditional morsels of food enhanced and anchored a culture not yet understood. This push of taste, desire and nostalgia rose through the substrate of their immigrant life giving way to something ardent, real and wholly unique- even perfectly suited to stand alongside a sandwich.

Manul Changatchi: I’ve pretty much loosely stuck cloves of garlic in soy sauce, water and vinegar and left it in the refrigerator to pickle. But felt that a more “precise” recipe was needed for my readers. This is the most precise looking one that I found.

Ingredients:
1 quart garlic cloves, papers removed and the root end cut.
1 C vinegar
Water
4 C soy sauce
2/3 C sugar

Directions: Place the garlic cloves in a glass jar container and cover with vinegar and enough water for the cloves to be covered. Close the jar and leave it uninterrupted for a week in the refrigerator and then drain the liquid. Bring the soy sauce and sugar to a boil for ten minutes and then when cooled, pour the liquid over the cloves. Cover the jar and leave in the refrigerator for at least a month. Pickled garlic lasts indefinitely.

Ingredients for Ssam:
Clean and dried fresh red lettuce leaf
Pickled garlic
sliced jalapeno rings
Cooked short grain rice
Scallion greens in 2” strips
Seedless cucumber slivers
Shredded carrot
Fresh perilla leaves
Slices of onion
Marinated tofu
Slices of Sashimi grade tuna
Thin sliced cooked pork
Kochujang, fermented soybean chili paste (I’ve made a substitution by mixing a bit of brown rice miso (1 Tablespoon) with Sriracha chili sauce (dime size)

Instructions: Have all your ingredients in front of you and mix and match. Be careful not to fill your leaf so full that you cannot close it without the contents spilling into your lap.