Tag Archives: Katherine Preston

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. If 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.

Whole carob pod (left) and immature pod opened to show pulp and seeds. The pulp hardens and turns pale brown at maturity. Click to enlarge.

Evidence suggests that people have indeed been seeking out carobs for a long time. Although carob’s origin is uncertain, the species seems to have evolved in the eastern Mediterranean and wild plants would have been available to foragers well before agriculture arose in the region. The plant geneticist Daniel Zohary believed that carob was domesticated late, perhaps only in Roman times, but that it spread quickly throughout the Mediterranean region once people learned how to propagate the trees. Remains of horny pods were found in the 1st century ruins of Pompeii (Zohary, 2002), where carob trees perished alongside our noble friend Pliny the Elder. The University of Cyprus has recently embarked on a project called “Black Gold” to reinvigorate the island’s ancient tradition of carob cultivation and develop new food products from it. Right now, countries around the Mediterranean produce tens of metric tons of carob annually, and one Australian company has jumped into the market with an Aussie Sharkbar.

HistoireDesMétéores - p419

Is there a carob tree here? Mort de Pline (Death of Pliny). Jean-Édouard Dargent [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Carob powder is derived from the fruit wall, and this is what we will process for the recipes below. A less visible but incredibly common carob product appears on ingredient lists as “locust bean gum,” which comes from the gelatinous endosperm of the seeds. It is used to thicken cosmetics and almond milk and to keep crystals from forming in ice cream.

“Locust” is a common name for several of carob’s close relatives, hence the confusion, but I’m still puzzled by the marketing choice of “locust” over “carob” for a list of ingredients you might eat or rub into your face. Squeamishness over true six-legged locusts may underlie another common name for carob, “St. John’s bread.” His “meat was locusts and honey,” but surely John the Baptist subsisted on sweet tree pods and not icky arthropods.

In ancient Greece and Rome, dry carob seeds provided a standardized weight for jewelry, which we now call the carat. So if your own pirate’s code precludes stealing actual gold and gemstones, you can still fill your bandana with carats of a sort.

24 carat magic!

Becoming a carob pirate

First, I must state clearly that we Botanists in the Kitchen are committed to sustainable use of wild foods and do not endorse actual pirate behavior, including stealing carob beans from private property or taking anything from parks or forests where collecting is prohibited. The interests of others and the conservation status and abundance of any plant must always be considered.

Fortunately, taking a few handfuls of carob fruits before they hit the ground does not damage the trees or deprive anyone but slugs of a snack. Carobs are not native outside of the Mediterranean and anyhow they do not reproduce readily by seed, so you are unlikely to affect their propagation. And honestly, as much as I love them, publicly available carob pods are not in high demand. In fact, you may be doing your community a service by keeping them off the sidewalk. After all, the trees are planted for their foliage, not their fruits.

To collect carobs, you must first find them. The Friends of Urban Forests have collected a useful series of tree maps for many cities, including several where carobs grow. City streets, public parks, and college campuses are good places to look as well. Even without a map, if you have local carobs, you should have little trouble because carobs are among the easiest to spot once you have a search image. They brandish bold compound evergreen leaves with elliptical thick green to blue-green leaflets, about 1.5 inches (4 cm) across, arrayed in pairs along a red-tinged rachis.

A single large carob leaf, with four pairs of leaflets. At dusk, leaflets fold up towards each other, like pairs of hands, thanks to the thick pulvinus at the base of each leaflet. Click to enlarge.

Their trunks become rakishly knobby and gnarled with thick ribs running along their length. They often have low branches, making harvesting easy, and in mid-winter the black pods dangle in conspicuous clusters. Of course, during early winter flowering season you can always find them with your nose.

But there is a twist in the story. Not all carob trees make pods. Ceratonia siliqua is dioecious, with some individuals bearing only pistillate (“female”) flowers and others bearing only staminate (“male”) ones. And yes, female flowers smell just as bad as male flowers do. My favorite local tree, however, is one of the occasional hermaphrodites, whose flowers bear both pistils and stamens. It is plausible that humans selected for hermaphroditic individuals during domestication (Zohary, 2002), and that my local genotype reflects that history.

Inflorescence with hermaphroditic flowers. Flowers have both pistils (stigma, short style, ovary) and stamens (anthers on filaments). They lack petals, and their sepals are very short, obscured by the green nectary. Click to enlarge.

Each flower in a cluster is tiny and completely lacks petals. A set of short sepals is almost entirely hidden by a fat green gland that secretes odoriferous nectar to attract and reward insects. That offensive scented nectar seems gratuitous, however, because the flowers have several hallmarks of wind-pollination: highly reduced perianth (sepals and petals), well exposed anthers, and dioecy (separate male and female flowers). On the other hand, they lack other wind-pollination traits, most obviously a long and feathery stigma to capture wind-borne grains and numerous anthers tossing out buckets and buckets of pollen.

Only a few ovaries per inflorescence survive to become a carob pod. This one is happy to see you. Click to enlarge.

Attracting insects thus appears to be important, and one study reports that the flowers don’t make any fruit without wasps and flies to pollinate them (Arista et al., 1999). Unfortunately, it looks like we have to tolerate the raunchy smell to get to the treasure. Nobody ever said a pirate’s life was a bed of roses.

 

Recipes

Although carob is often used as a chocolate substitute, and it does taste similar to cocoa, carob has a unique flavor profile that deserves to be taken on its own terms. The flavor can be enhanced by roasting the pods gently for about 10 or 15 minutes. Roasting also turns residual moisture in the fruits into steam, which swells the cavity inside so that the seeds come out more easily.

It’s more fun to make your own, but you can find commercial carob powder in many stores, and both powder and syrup can be found online.

Carob “mocha”

Use about 5 pods per cup.

Roast pods in a toaster oven at a low temperature (about 250ºF or 120ºC) for 10-15 min until they swell up and blister slightly. Their high sugar content makes pods burn easily and deeply, so keep a watch on them and remove them quickly if they start to char.

Crack open the pods and remove all the seeds.

Grind the pods in a coffee or spice grinder to the consistency of ground coffee.

Carob mocha brewing in a French press

For rich flavor, I like to use about half a cup of ground carob in a 4-cup French press to yield two hefty mugs. Brew for about 15 mins.

Add heated or steamed milk to taste.

Carob syrup

Use to sweeten tea or coffee or to make carob-peanut balls.

You will need about 8 pods and two cups of water for every tablespoon of syrup desired. Pods do not need to be roasted, but allowing them to dry out for a week reduces the tannins and yields a smoother flavor.

Rinse any dust from the pods. Remove “stems” (pedicels). Hand break the pods into 1-inch lengths or roll over them with a marble rolling pin or a thick-walled wine bottle to crack and crush them. Pirates can use a bottle of rum.

In a sauce pan, bring to a boil one cup of water for every 4 pods. Remove from heat, add the broken pods, cover and allow to steep for several hours, until the water is the color of iced tea.

Reheat the water and simmer the pods for another 30 mins, or until the liquid looks like breakfast tea or very weak coffee.

Remove the pods and continue to simmer the liquid extract until the depth of the water is about half an inch.

At this point, right before it is thick enough, the syrup can burn very easily. For the final reduction, either strain it into a small sauce pan and heat gently under constant vigilance, or strain it into a glass measuring cup and microwave it a few minutes at a time.

You will know it is ready when it has been reduced in volume to half a tablespoon per cup of starting liquid. It will thicken a bit when it cools, but will always be more like maple syrup than molasses. Refrigerate for storage.

Carob peanut balls

Peanuts and chocolate are a classic combination, but peanuts and carob really belong together, as they are in the same family. If you can’t make or find carob syrup, you can use clover honey instead and sort-of add a third member of the fabulous Fabaceae.

Roast and grind 2 or 3 carob pods, as described in the mocha recipe above, but continue to grind to make a very fine powder. Put the powder through the finest sieve you have to remove grainy bits. A gold filter for coffee or a very fine tea strainer works well. The leftover grainy bits can be steeped for tea.

Mix a tablespoon of powder with about a teaspoon of carob syrup (or a bit less honey).

In a coffee grinder or mini food processor, grind a half a cup of whole peanuts into smooth peanut butter.   Add salt to taste. Add the powder and syrup mixture and blend to combine.

Allow the mixture to sit for an hour as the powder binds with the peanut butter.

Roll mixture into about a dozen small balls. Roll the balls in carob powder to coat them. You may need a second coat if they become sticky.

Carob peanut balls (right) and carob powder (left). This batch was rolled in sugar for some sparkle. Sugar is not necessary for taste because carob is naturally sweet.

References

Arista, M., Ortiz, P. L., & Talavera, S. (1999). Apical pattern of fruit production in the racemes of Ceratonia siliqua (Leguminosae: Caesalpinioideae): role of pollinators. American journal of botany, 86(12), 1708-1716.

Custódio, L., Serra, H., Nogueira, J. M. F., Gonçalves, S., & Romano, A. (2006). Analysis of the volatiles emitted by whole flowers and isolated flower organs of the carob tree using HS-SPME-GC/MS. Journal of chemical ecology, 32(5), 929-942.

Legume Phylogeny Working Group (LPWG) (2017). A new subfamily classification of the Leguminosae based on a taxonomically comprehensive phylogeny The Legume Phylogeny Working Group (LPWG). Taxon, 66(1), 44-77.

Pliny the elder. The Natural History of Pliny, vol. 3, Chapter 16 (8), translated by John Bostock and Henry Thomas Riley, 1855

Zohary, D. (2002). Domestication of the carob (Ceratonia siliqua L.). Israel journal of plant sciences, 50(sup1), 141-145.

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

Sugar

This is our first of two contributions to Advent Botany 2015.

Sugar plums dance, sugar cookies disappear from Santa’s plate, and candied fruit cake gets passed around and around. Crystals of sugar twinkle in the Christmas lights, like scintillas of sunshine on the darkest day of the year. Katherine and Jeanne explore the many plant sources of sugar.

Even at a chemical level, there is something magical and awe-inspiring about sugar. Plants – those silent, gentle creatures – have the power to harness air and water and the fleeting light energy of a giant fireball 93 million miles away to forge sugar, among the most versatile compounds on earth, and a fuel used by essentially all living organisms.

Sugar naturally occurs in various chemical forms, all arising from fundamental 3-carbon components made inside the cells of green photosynthetic tissue. In plant cells, these components are exported from the chloroplasts into the cytoplasm, where they are exposed to a series of enzymes that remodel them into versions of glucose and fructose (both 6-carbon monosaccharides). One molecule of glucose and one of fructose are then joined to form sucrose (a 12-carbon disaccharide). See figure 1.

Sugars: glu, fru, and sucrose

Figure 1.

Sucrose is what we generally use as table sugar, and it is the form of sugar that a plant loads into its veins and transports throughout its body to be stored or used by growing tissues. When the sucrose reaches other organs, it may be broken back down into glucose and fructose, converted to other sugars, or combined into larger storage or structural molecules, depending on its use in that particular plant part and species. Since we extract sugar from various parts and species, the kind of sugar we harvest from a plant, and how much processing is required, obviously reflects the plant’s own use of the sugar. Continue reading

Throwback Thursday Thanksgiving feast

We’ve got several posts in the pipeline – and this year we are contributing to Advent Botany – but meanwhile, we bring you posts from the past to nerd-up your kitchen as you cook. Don’t forget, nothing deflects from an awkward personal revelation or a heated political conversation like a well-placed observation about plant morphology.

We wish you a happy, healthy Thanksgiving!

Continue reading

Triple threat watermelon

Will seedless watermelons make us superhuman or turn our children into giants?  Hardly, but they do give home cooks the power to count chromosomes without a microscope.   Just a knife or a hard thunk on the sidewalk are enough to get a watermelon to spill its genetic guts.

If you were reading a Hearst Corporation newspaper in late 1937, you might have thought humanity would eventually be swallowed up by giant carnivorous plants, unwittingly unleashed by uncontrolled biotechnology.  The San Francisco Examiner reported on November 21st of that year that the discovery of an “elixir of growth,” meant that “…science may at last have a grip on the steering wheel of evolution, and be able to produce at will almost any kind of species…”  including “…a plague of man-eating ones.”  In 1937 Americans had much more important things to worry about, just as we do now.  Still, that discovery may in fact have threatened one cherished aspect of the American way of life by triggering the slow demise of late summer state fair watermelon seed spitting contests.  It doubtlessly paved the way for seedless watermelons, and in 2014 the total harvest of seedless watermelons on American farms – nearly 700 thousand tons – outweighed the seeded watermelon harvest more than 13 to 1 (USDA National Watermelon Report). A similar pattern is emerging this year.  Is there no stopping the attack of the seedless watermelons?

Image from microfilm of an actual page in the San Francisco Examiner, published Sunday November 21, 1937. Found in the Media and Microtext Center of Stanford University Libraries.

CLICK to read. Image from microfilm of an actual page in the San Francisco Examiner, published Sunday November 21, 1937. Found in the Media and Microtext Center of Stanford University Libraries.

And more important, how is it even possible to get seedless fruit from an annual plant?  From a plant whose only mode of reproduction is through those very seeds?  From a plant that cannot make suckers as bananas do and cannot be perpetuated endlessly through grafts like fruit trees and vines?   Such is the challenge posed every single year by watermelons, but thanks to the “elixir of growth” discovered by Albert Blakeslee and subsequent work by Hitoshi Kihara, one of the most prominent agricultural geneticists of the 20th century, the world has an elegant solution. Breeders continually improve the varieties available, and consumer demand keeps growing, yet seedless watermelon production methods have remained essentially unchanged for three quarters of a century. Continue reading