Tag Archives: Katherine Preston

The Beet Goes On

In this Valentine’s Day edition, Katherine brings you a love song with a beet. Sweet and red, sort of heart-shaped, bearing rings, and definitely divisive – beets should be the unofficial vegetable of the holiday. And if you don’t feel like celebrating, then you can just sit alone and eat dirt.

Throughout two years of dating and our first six months of marriage, my husband and I had never discussed our feelings about beets. Then again, I had never made beets for him before. When I did, they were meant to bulk up a brimming vat of stew that would feed us every night for a week. In my husband’s version of the story, it lasted for three weeks. “I hope you like beets,” I announced that evening. “I may have added too many.”

Whether you love or hate beets, it is probably because they taste like dirt. Some people (my husband) can’t get over the flavor, and others can’t get enough of it. Some people experience beeturia, the appearance of bright red or hot pink urine after they eat red beets. Maybe this sight unsettles you. Or maybe you embrace the opportunity to track the transit of beet pigments through your body. You may admire their lovely rings and be inspired by the rich and brilliant colors that beets bring to salads. Or you might have picked up a lifelong aversion after too many canned pickled beets on a school lunch tray. Beets are a pretty polarizing vegetable. If you are among the haters, I’m going to do my best to turn the beet around for you.

Red and white beets

Why beets taste like dirt

Beets taste like dirt because they contain a compound called geosmin (meaning “dirt smell”). Geosmin is produced in abundance by several organisms that live in the soil, including fungi and some bacterial species in the genus Streptomyces. Humans are extremely sensitive to low concentrations of geosmin – so much so that we can smell it floating in the air after rain has stirred it up from the soil (Maher & Goldman, 2017). While people generally like that rain-fresh scent in the air, it’s less welcome elsewhere. For example, we perceive it as an off taste in water drawn from reservoirs with a lot of geosmin-producing cyanobacteria. In wines, geosmin contributes to cork taint. Continue reading

The Chestnut Song

“The Christmas Song” tops the charts every December, but there’s lots more to know about those chestnuts roasting on an open fire. We peel back the layers in this essay, which is one of our two contributions to this year’s Advent Botany holiday collection.

I first tried chestnuts when I was a student in Paris. The holiday season was peaceful that year, as it should be, and I’ve cherished my memories of it all the more as intense protests are spreading through France, and violence has shattered a Christmas market in Strasbourg. In that long-ago December, though, my most consuming emotion was a kind of double nostalgia. I missed home, and yet I wasn’t quite ready to leave that beautiful city behind. As I walked for hours and hours gathering last looks, it was thrilling to get caught up in the sudden early darkness of winter and the elaborate holiday windows of the grand old department stores. During one evening promenade, I saw a street merchant who had anchored himself in the middle of the streaming agitated crowd and was patiently tending a pan of marrons grillés, freshly roasted chestnuts. The scene was so sepia toned, so achingly 19th century, that I had to have some, just to glut my sentimentality. I bought a newspaper cone of the hot aromatic nuts and managed to peel one with my cold fingers right there on the sidewalk. Continue reading

Botany lab/rant of the month: that’s a magic beanstalk, not a soybean

In chaotic times, there are moments when you just have to take comfort in order anywhere you can find it. Katherine reviews some basic plant growth rules and takes a major company to task for undermining botanical literacy.

Would you buy milk from a dairy whose smiling cow mascot had an udder perched on top of her head? Would it bother you to see waiving teats where her ears should be? What if the unsettling image were wrapped in a lyrical ode to ungulates and to the steadfast farmers who rise before dawn to tap into “all that mammalian goodness”? Would a Holstein hagiography be enough to distract you, or would the contrast between carefully crafted ad copy and a negligent disregard for bovine biology trip your bullshit meter?

I think about this every time I buy soy milk made by one particular giant of the non-dairy milk industry. Normally I make my own soy milk – it’s cheap and fast and delicious – but sometimes life intervenes and I have to go with convenience. At my favorite local grocer, that means buying this brand. You might think it’s the gellan gum and the “natural flavors” that offend me, but really I just can’t get over the carton.

Have you ever really thought about the magic of plants?” the carton beckons. Well, yes! Yes I have! Like me, these producers have “been rooted in plant power for over 20 years.” Wow, we have so much in common! I am invited to enjoy “all that leafy goodness” and call them “plant-based, plant biased or just plain plant-prejudiced.” No plant blindness here, right? 

Except for this, the botanical version of a cow with an udder on her head and a tail growing out of her chin:

Someone's wildly inaccuarate idea of a soybean plant. the brand name has been obscured to protect its reputation.

Someone’s wildly inaccurate idea of a soybean plant. The brand name has been obscured to protect its reputation. Click to enlarge.

Judging by the edamame pod randomly stuck onto a stem, this altered photo is supposed to represent a soy bean plant (Glycine max). The words below (“Discover the power of plants at [redacted].com”) almost promise botanical accuracy. Yet, for comparison, here is an actual soybean plant, with its trifoliate leaves and bushy growth habit:

Soybeans in Warren County, Indiana

A soybean plant growing in Indiana.

Not only is the image on the soy milk carton clearly not a soybean plant, but the chimeric little sprout violates basic patterns of plant construction. When I showed the carton to my class this spring, the students were all over it with fervor and a sharpie.

Why it matters

There are many extremely important and urgent challenges facing humans and other organisms all over the planet right now, including some negative social and ecological impacts of soy and the potential for new tariffs on U.S. soybeans to make these worse. So why direct righteous ire against the photo on a carton of soy milk? First of all, what biology teacher (or parent or anyone) wants to see inaccurate or misleading images, especially if they appear every single morning on breakfast tables across the country? Second, at the risk of overstating my case, I believe that someone made deliberate choices about both the text and the image on this carton in order to evoke health and sustainability, but that these choices actually expose indifference toward the plants, the farmers, and the natural world. Similar indifference has gotten our species into a lot of trouble. We all get things wrong, but it’s important to try not to.

How a plant body is supposed to look

The green world is full of gigantic trees and tiny floating plants and delicate vines and cacti and orchids and palms and titan arums. Even if we leave aside mosses and ferns to focus on seed plants, it’s obvious that natural selection has taken a very simple basic developmental program and pushed it in almost every conceivable morphological direction. A common set of plant growth rules accommodates the varied forms of a quarter million or more species – which is astonishing – and yet the graphic designer for this soy beverage company somehow managed to stitch together an oddly improbable plant.

Under the basic developmental program, the set of stem cells (the meristem) at the apex of a growing shoot spins off a series of appendages (e.g. leaves) at regular intervals, arranged along the stem in a regular pattern. Most often, appendages spiral around the stem or occur in opposite pairs. The resulting basic vegetative unit is a leaf (or leaf homolog such as a bract, scale, or spine), the span of stem below it (the internode), and a bud at the place where the leaf meets the stem (the axil). A shoot grows by adding these units in sequence. New leaves continue to expand and internodes continue to elongate for a little while, so leaves near the tip of a shoot tend to be smaller and closer together than they eventually will be. Buds in the axils of the appendages may themselves grow out as branches that reiterate the basic body plan. The result is a modular and potentially nested structure composed of repeated subunits.

Basic flowering plant body plan

Flowering plants (and other seed plants) are built from a series of basic vegetative units, consisting of a leaf and an associated axillary bud and the internode below it. Axillary buds may develop into branches that are similarly built of a series of vegetative units. When plants begin to flower, bracts often develop in place of leaves, and flowers emerge from buds in their axils. Note that this generic plant is not meant to represent any particular species.

When a plant starts to flower, this regular organization does not go away, even if it is modified somewhat. For example, flower clusters (inflorescences) are generally produced at branch tips and along shoot axes where leafy branches would have emerged. And while leafy branches are associated with (subtended by) leaves, inflorescences are subtended by leaf-like appendages called bracts. Inflorescences themselves might transition to a complex branching architecture that differs from the rest of the vegetative plant body, but they still produce flowers in a regular pattern. Because individual flowers are conceptually (and evolutionarily) a bit like branches, they also are usually associated with bracts (Rudall & Bateman, 2010). A notable exception is plants in the mustard family (Brassicaceae); one of the genes that tells a meristem to switch gears and make a flower also suppresses formation of a subtending bract (see summary in Krizek, 2009).

Practically, what this means is that any branch, flower, or inflorescence should be associated with a subtending leaf (or bract, scale, or spine) and that any leaf (or bract, scale, or spine) potentially has a bud, branch, inflorescence, or flower associated with it. The regularity and simplicity of this fundamental pattern of seed plant development gives you a powerful framework for interpreting plants. You no longer have to ask what kohlrabi is; the leaf arrangement gives it away. You can use a combination of clues to distinguish a single compound leaf from a branch. It’s fun.

True, the pattern is not always obvious. Leaves and bracts fall off (although they often leave evident scars), and axillary buds can be extremely small or obscured. Leaves can also be reduced to tiny scales, such as those on a potato tuber. Flowers and fruits of the chocolate tree (Theobroma cacao) appear to emerge directly from an old branch, but in fact they are associated with long-gone leaf axils. And woody plants can produce new shoots adventitiously at their bases or when they are damaged. But we were talking about soybeans, not redwoods.

A magic beanstalk

Returning to the image that set off this screed, I might be able to see it as a harmless, fanciful botanical embellishment if it weren’t for the soybean pod deliberately pasted onto the stem. Surely these plant-prejudiced people could have paused their musings on the magic of plants and simply observed an actual soybean plant. They might have noticed that soybeans have compound leaves with three leaflets and that they grow more like bushes than vines. With a good photo, the artist could have gotten this image right without knowing anything at all about how plants develop. However, the text strongly implies that the central values of the company are rooted in a genuine understanding of plant biology, so I think it’s fair to hold them to a higher standard.

Now that I’ve said my piece, it’s time to take a virtual sharpie to that carton and make it botanically correct. Here’s my version.

Making soy milk at home

Homemade soy milk has many advantages. The beans for a half gallon of soy milk cost about a quarter of what you would pay for a carton at a store. Making your own is also more sustainable: bulk dried beans are less resource-intensive to ship than packaged liquid, you can often choose the source of your beans and how they are grown (e.g. organic from the U.S.), and you can control waste from the process. For example, I mix the solids strained from the liquid milk with salt, nutritional yeast, and whatever spices are handy and pack them for lunch. To the milk, I can add vanilla or not as I like. I can throw some oats or nuts or soy lecithin into the boil if I like.

  • 1 cup dried soybeans
  • water for soaking
  • 8 cups of water
  • dash of salt
  • 1/4 cup of rolled or steel-cut oats or almonds or cashews
  • immersion blender
  • fine strainer or cloth strainer bag

Soak soybeans in a medium saucepan (1.5 qt) for at least 6 hours. If you are using steel-cut oats, almonds, or cashews, soak them too.

Bring 8 cups of water to the boil in a large stock pot. The larger the better to reduce the chance that the mixture will boil over.

Drain and rinse the soybeans and return them to the sauce pan. If you are using rolled oats, add them here.

Pour some of the boiling water over the beans to cover them by about an inch, and immediately puree them with the immersion blender. Using boiling water denatures some enzymes that can cause off flavors, and an immersion blender is much safer than a regular blender for hot liquids.

Pour the blended beans into the large stock pot with the rest of the boiling water. Turn the heat to the lowest setting possible. After about 5 or 10 mins, put a lid on the pot and let it cook for another 45 mins. Add a dash of salt about midway through.

Do not leave the pot alone until it has been simmering without trouble for a while. The mixture has a tendency to boil over and make a huge mess within the first 5-10 mins.

Allow the mixture to cool for an hour or so and strain it. Refrigerate the milk right away.

The remaining solids can be flavored and eaten as they are, stirred into breakfast oatmeal or grits, baked into muffins, etc.

References

Krizek, B. A. (2009). Arabidopsis: flower development and patterning. eLS, 1-11.

Rudall, P. J., & Bateman, R. M. (2010). Defining the limits of flowers: the challenge of distinguishing between the evolutionary products of simple versus compound strobili. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London B: Biological Sciences, 365(1539), 397-409.

Pirates of the Carob Bean

Maybe the name takes you back to gentler days of Moosewood Cookbook and the dusty spicy local co-op. Or maybe you were a kid back then and fell for a chocolate bait-and-switch. Whether you are sweetly nostalgic or wary and resentful, it’s worth giving carob another chance. Katherine argues that it’s time to pull this earthy crunchy 70’s food into the superfood age. She offers foraging tips and recipes to help you get to know carob on its own terms.

From November through January, the carob trees in my neighborhood dangle hard, lumpy, dark brown fruits resembling lacquered cat turds. They are delicious and nutritious and of course I collect them. I am, without apology, a pod plundering, legume looting, pirate of the carob bean. CarobPiratesIf you seek adventure and happen to live in California, Arizona, or on the Mediterranean coast, you can probably pilfer some carob fruits yourself and play with them in your kitchen. If you lack local trees or the pirate spirit, you can order carob powder and even whole carob beans with one simple click.

Although plundering season begins just as the year is ending, I always wait until January to gather carob fruits for two reasons. First, carob functions mainly as a healthful chocolate substitute, and during the holiday season, fake chocolate just seems sad. In January, however, eating locally foraged carob feels virtuous and resourceful. Second, November and December are when my local carobs make the flowers that will produce the next year’s crop, and those flowers smell like a pirate’s nether parts after a shore leave. Or so I imagine, and not without precedent. A man who should have been inured to such salty smells, Pliny the Elder, natural historian and commander in the Roman Imperial Navy, described the flowers as having “a very powerful odor.” It’s not clear why these flowers have a sort of seaman scent, since the main volatiles wafting from the flowers – linalools and farnesene – smell like lilies and gardenias (Custódio et al., 2006). In any case, I keep my distance until the flowers have finished mating season.

Carob trees

Despite their stinky flowers, carobs make great street trees and produce a valuable crop in many Mediterranean-type climates. They are beautiful, tolerant of dry and poor soils, pest resistant, and tidy. Carobs are legumes – like familiar peas and beans – but they belong to a different branch of the legume family (Caesalpinioideae), one that contains mostly trees and woody shrubs with tough inedible fruit (Legume Phylogeny Working Group, 2017). Carob pods look about as edible as Jack Sparrow’s boots, and the species’ scientific name, Ceratonia siliqua, means “horny long pod,” which well captures the intimidating nature of their leathery fruit. But as you will see below, the fruits are easy to harvest and process, and their sweet pulp is worth seeking out. Continue reading

A holiday pineapple for the table

This deep dive into pineapple anatomy is our contribution this year to the very fun Advent Botany essay collection, a celebration of plants that are at least somewhat tangentially connected to the winter holidays. In previous years we’ve contributed essays on figs, peppermint, and sugar.

December is the time to bring out the fancy Christmas china, polish the silver pitchers, and . . . bedeck your best bromeliads. In 2017, as in 1700, no proper hostess can be without a pineapple for her centerpiece. Here we unpack the botany of pineapple, which is as complicated and fabulous as its cultural history. A proper hostess, after all, should also be able to dazzle her guests with tales of tropical fruit morphology. Continue reading

#Celery

It’s hard to get too excited about eating celery, but if you can manage to see a dip-drenched celery stick as a dynamically loaded cantilevered beam, then its stringy bits suddenly start to look like incredible feats of bioengineering. The mildest mannered member of the crudité platter turns out to be a misunderstood superhero.

If you are about to celebrate Thanksgiving, chances are good that you have a lot of celery in your immediate future. It shows up in dressing and cranberry relish and especially in leftovers, like turkey salad sandwiches. When I was growing up, my sister and I were tasked with picking the carcass for turkey hash, which, in our family, was basically turkey soup stretched with lots of celery and potatoes and never enough salt. Although frugal and nutritious, this one-pot crusade against food waste did not inspire a lifelong love of cooked celery. But you don’t have to like celery the food to admire its alter ego, celery the plant.

Leaves, not stems

Celery the food may not excite you, but celery the plant – the bundle of dynamically loaded cantilevered beams – is a biomechanical superhero worth exploring in the kitchen. Celery (Apium graveolens) is one of the clearest examples of how a plant’s life in the wild over tens of millions of years yielded anatomical adaptations that determine how we use it now. Because of its evolutionary responses to biomechanical challenges, it is now perfectly built to hold peanut butter or scoop dip, and when sliced, its crescent moon shapes are pretty in soup and chopped salads. On the other hand, its tough strings catch between teeth and are not easy to digest.

Celery stalks are the petioles (“stalks”) of compound leaves. They are not stems, in spite of widespread misrepresentation in elementary school lesson plans. They may look like stems to some people because they are thick and fleshy and have prominent veins running lengthwise through them. But there are several morphological clues to their leafy identity, including these: Continue reading

Virgin birth and hidden treasures: unwrapping some Christmas figs

Enjoy Jeanne and Katherine’s holiday take on figs and figgy pudding which will appear on December 19th in Advent Botany 2016. For a longer read, check out our original 2013 version.

Figs reach their peak in summertime, growing fat enough to split their skins under the hot sun. It’s nearly impossible to keep up with a bountiful tree, and many a neglected fig is extravagantly abandoned to the beetles.  

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Beetles gorge on a fig. Click to enlarge

But here we are, halfway around the calendar in dark and cold December, and we feel grateful for the figs we managed to set aside to dry. Their concentrated sweetness is balanced by a complex spicy flavor that makes dried figs exactly the right ingredient for dark and dense holiday desserts. As we mark another turn of the annual cycle from profligate to provident, what better way to celebrate than with a flaming mound of figgy pudding?

Well, except that the traditional holiday pudding contains no figs. More on that later, along with some old recipes. First, we’ll unwrap the fig itself to find out what’s inside. Continue reading

Buy me some peanuts!

As part of our legume series, the Botanist in the Kitchen goes out to the ballgame where Katherine gives you the play-by-play on peanuts, the world’s most popular underground fruit. She breaks down peanut structure and strategy, tosses in a little history, and gives you a 106th way to eat them. Mmmmm, time to make some boiled peanuts.

Baseball is back, and so are peanuts in the shell, pitchers duels, lazy fly balls, and a meandering but analytical frame of mind. Is this batter going to bunt? Is it going to rain? What makes the guy behind me think he can judge balls and strikes from all the way up here? What does the OPS stat really tell you about a hitter? Is a peanut a nut? How does it get underground? What’s up with the shell?  A warm afternoon at a baseball game is the perfect time to look at some peanuts, and I don’t care if I never get back. Continue reading

Botany Lab of the Month, Superbowl Edition

In 2016, the International Year of Pulses, we’ll be writing a lot about pulses (dried beans and peas), and we’ll also tackle the huge and diverse legume family more broadly. This weekend Katherine kicks things off with February’s Botany Lab of the Month: beans and chickpeas for your Superbowl bean dip and hummus.

The species name of Cicer arietinum means "ram's head."

The species name of Cicer arietinum means “ram’s head.”

Beans are a bit like football: a boring and homogeneous mass of protein, unless you know where to look and what to look for. In this lab, we’ll make the smashing of beans into bean dip or hummus much more interesting by taking a close look at some whole beans before you reduce them to paste. The directions are very detailed, but this whole lab can be completed in the time it takes to explain the onside kick.

Of course, if you have only pre-mashed refried beans in your pantry, it’s too late. Then again, if you are using canned refried beans for your recipe, you are probably not living in the moment or sweating the details right now. That’s OK. Go watch the game and let us know when someone scores. Continue reading

Botany Lab of the Month (Oscars edition): potatoes

This month we introduce a new feature to the Botanist in the Kitchen: Botany Lab of the Month, where you can explore plant structures while you cook. In our inaugural edition, Katherine explains why she would like to add her nominee, Solanum tuberosum, to the list of white guys vying for Best Supporting Actor.

In one of this year’s biggest and best movies, Matt Damon was saved by a potato, and suddenly botanists everywhere had their very own action hero. It’s not like we nearly broke Twitter, but when the trailer came out, with Damon proclaiming his fearsome botany powers, my feed exploded with photos of all kinds of people from all over the world tagged #Iamabotanist. The hashtag had emerged a year earlier as a call to arms for a scrappy band of plant scientists on a mission to reclaim the name Botanist and defend dwindling patches of territory still held within university curricula. Dr. Chris Martine of Bucknell University, a plant science education hero himself, inspired the movement, and it was growing pretty steadily on its own. Then came the trailer for The Martian, with Matt Damon as Mark Watney, botanizing the shit out of impossible circumstances and lending some impressive muscle to the cause. The botanical community erupted with joyous optimism, and the hashtag campaign was unstoppable. Could The Martian make plants seem cool to a broader public? Early anecdotes suggest it’s possible, and Dr. Martine is naming a newly described plant species (a close potato relative) for Astronaut Mark Watney.

In the film, that potato – or actually box of potatoes – was among the rations sent by NASA to comfort the crew on Thanksgiving during a very long mission to Mars. After an accident, when the rest of the crew leaves him for dead, Watney has to generate calories as fast as he can. It’s a beautiful moment in the movie when he finds the potatoes. In a strange and scary world, Mark has found a box of old friends. They are the only living creatures on the planet besides Mark (and his own microbes), and they are fitting companions: earthy, comforting, resourceful, and perpetually underestimated. At this point in the movie, though, the feature he values most is their eyes. Continue reading