Tag Archives: vegetable

The Botanist in the Root Cellar

How much actual root is in “root vegetables”?

The wintertime pantry is a study in vegetable dormancy. Our shelves brim with structures plants use to store their own provisions. Each embryonic plant in a seed—the next generation of oats, quinoa, dry beans, walnuts—rests in the concentrated nutritive tissue gifted to it by its parent. The starchy flesh within the impervious shell of a winter squash is alive, as are apples, hopeful vessels of seed dispersal. Maple and birch syrup are stored energy made liquid and bottled. And then there are the so-called “root vegetables.” The term covers a surprisingly anatomically varied set of nutrient storage structures, only some of which are actual roots. Our familiar root vegetables represent only a sliver of global plant species diversity but nonetheless include the majority of contrivances herbaceous plants use in order to live to sprout another season: taproots, hypocotyls, stem tubers, root tubers, corms, and rhizomes. Raiding your root cellar for the ingredients for a roasted root vegetable medley, then, provides a great opportunity to turn your dinner prep into a botany lab. All you need is a knife and cutting board.

Roasted stacks of sweet potato and parsnip, painted with sage butter and roasted. See Katherine’s sweet potato post for the recipe.

The case for tree thinking

First we need to consider the taxonomy of our candidate botanical subjects. Taxonomy is the scientific practice of grouping related organisms in hierarchies of similarity. We shove the continuous variation of living things into discrete boxes labeled species, genus, family, order, and so on. Carl Linnaeus started the taxonomic naming system two hundred years before Watson and Crick identified the double helix shape of deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA), marking the beginning of the genomics era. Modern practitioners bring many types of data—geography, fossils, genetics, morphology–to bear toward the twin goals of illuminating the pattern of plant species evolution and defining groups based on common ancestry.

A phylogenetic tree of the major plant clades. Each branch point (node) represents the common ancestor of the organisms on the descendant branches. A single food plant species is shown here at the tip of each branch, a sort of mascot for its lineage.

The visual embodiment of this effort is the tree of life (cladogram) that represents the pattern of plant species evolution by common descent (phylogeny–see our primer on reading phylogenetic trees and using them to understand broad patterns in plant evolution). Each branching point on the tree is a node that represents a common ancestor of all the descendant taxa on the branches that come from it. The species are like the leaves on the tips of the branches. A schematic tree of life is the only illustration in Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, the landmark book that provided the kernels of the core theories of evolutionary biology. Modern scientific convention tries to match old taxonomic names—because they are familiar and useful as a practical matter–with nodes on the tree of life. Small branches connect species to genus. Larger branches connect genera to families, families to order. The deep internal named nodes show the origin of the major clades. A clade is a group of organisms that descend from a common ancestor. A major clade is a significant branch on the plant tree of life that scientists have named for convenience of reference. You may remember some of these from biology class, like “monocot” and “dicot.” The former (monocots) has held up as a robust clade, but dicot is more complicated.

Green garlic, a monocot that stores its winter provisions as a bulb

As it happens, plant taxonomy before the advent of genetic data was reasonably accurate.  Even though our understanding of plant species evolution is far from complete, genomic analysis has provided few big surprises about common ancestry of plant species and membership of taxonomic groups. Early taxonomists had the wisdom to rely primarily on similarity of reproductive structures—seeds, fruit, flowers, spores, cones—to circumscribe named groups. Reproductive structures tend to change more slowly over evolutionary time than do vegetative structures in plants. So one may expect to find a fair amount of coincident similarity among distantly related species in roots, shoots, and leaves.

This is where our categorization of root vegetables by taxonomy collides with our categorization of them by morphology. In short order we will organize our root vegetable species according to which structures the plant has chosen to amplify as a subterranean or soil-adjacent storage organ. This is not the same pattern as taxonomic organization. Grouping our root vegetables by taxonomy first helps us understand similarity and difference within and between groups of closely related plants—families, in this case. In doing so we can develop gestalt for the culinary qualities within plant families and appreciation for the evolution of plant diversity evident on our own dinner tables.  Consider this intellectual nourishment, or perhaps the advent of a lens with which to view familiar foods anew.

Placing root vegetables on the plant tree of life

Around the globe humans utilize many dozens of plant species that bear underground (or near enough) storage structures. The most recent generations of people overwintering in the United States or Europe, however, chiefly engage with only a few. Perhaps only the most dedicated winter vegetable enthusiast will be familiar with all of the species on the following roster of root vegetables potentially available in Western grocery stores or farmer’s markets, although the list is unlikely to be exhaustive. I have organized the root vegetable species by families, and the families by major clade. Our list includes 15 of the 446 currently recognized plant families.

Whole sweet potatoes (Convolvulaceae)–NOT yams (Dioscoreaceae), NOT potatoes (Solanaceae), and NOT oca (Oxalidaceae)

Please take note of the disambiguation about the words “yam” and “potato.” The tubers marketed as “yams” in most American groceries are mostly actually sweet potatoes, which are also not potatoes. True yams are large tubers that are staples of tropical diets but relatively scarce in northern diets or groceries. In New Zealand the Andean oca is also known as “yam.” All of these are in different plant families.

Monocots:

  • Amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae): onions and shallots (Allium cepa), garlic (Allium sativum), leeks (Allium ampeloprasum), and other alliums
  • Ginger family (Zingiberaceae): ginger (Zingiber officinale), turmeric (Cucurma longa)
  • Dioscoreaceae: true yams (several species in the genus Dioscorea), including the purple yam (ube; D. alata).
  • Sedge family (Cyperaceae): water chestnut (Eleocharis dulcis)
  • Arum family (Araceae): taro (Colocasia esculenta)

Eudicots: asterids

  • Goosefoot family (Amaranthaceae): beets (Beta vulgaris)
  • Sunflower family (Asteraceae): salsify (Tragopogon porrifolius), burdock root (Arctium lappa), sunchokes (Helianthus tuberosus)
  • Carrot family (Apiaceae): carrots (Daucus carrota), parsnips (Pastinaca sativa), parsley root (Petroselinum crispum), celery root (Apium graveolens)
  • Morning glory family (Convolvulaceae): sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas; often mistakenly called “yams” in the United States)
  • Nightshade family (Solanaceae): potatoes (Solanum tuberosum)

Eudicots: rosids

  • Spurge family (Euphorbiaceae): cassava (manioc, yucca; Manihot esculenta), the source of tapioca
  • Mustard family (Brassicaceae): turnips (Brassica rapa), rutabagas (Brassica napus), kohlrabi (Brassica oleracea), radishes (genus Raphanus), horseradish (Amoracia rusticana), wasabi (Eutrema japonicum), maca (Lepidium meyenii)
  • Nasturtium family (Tropaeolaceae): mashua (Tropaeolum tuberosum)
  • Legume family (Fabaceae): jicama (Pachyrhizus erosus)
  • Oxalis family (Oxalidaceae): oca (Oxalis tuberosa), an Andean vegetable that is confusingly called “yam” in New Zealand

True taproots: carrot, parsnip, parsley root, salsify, burdock root, horseradish

Carrots (taproot and leaves–which make a great pesto)

Now grab a carrot, parsnip, parsley root, salsify, or burdock root for your roast vegetable medley. These are the only true taproots on our list. The roots are much longer than they are wide and taper to a point. Thin lateral roots sprout from them in random locations or in discrete vertical lines. If you cut it open and examine it in cross section you see the tough core of xylem-rich pith (water conducting tissue) in the middle surrounded by a cortical layer that separates the pith from the sweet storage tissue (parenchyma) and sugar-moving phloem that surrounds it. You have likely removed the aboveground greenery from these plants but should be able to tell or recall that it appears as if the leaves grow directly out of the crown of the taproots. They almost do. The anatomical stem on carrots and parsnips is a highly reduced disk on top of the taproot that serves as a bud-studded vascular transfer station, shuttling water and nutrients from the taproot into the leaves and flowering shoots.

Horseradish is also a taproot. A little bit grated into a sauce would make a delicious accompaniment to your roast vegetable medley. Incidentally, horseradish powder is the main ingredient in cheaper “wasabi” products available in American grocery stores, as the horseradish taste is superficially similar to that of true wasabi, which is also in the mustard family. Wasabi is also a root vegetable, but its underground storage structure is a rhizome, an underground stem, not a taproot.

Roots fused with stems (hypocotyls): celery root, beet, rutabaga, turnip, radish

celery root hypocotyls

A hypocotyl is a swollen fusion of taproot and stem base. The taproot portion is covered in fibrous secondary roots, most spectacularly in celery root. Leaf scars will be visible about these lateral roots, either surrounding the entire upper portions of the hypocotyl, as in celery root, or just at the top, as in beets and the mustard family hypocotyl vegetables (turnip, rutabaga, radish). All hypocotyl vegetables aside from beets are structurally straightforward but different from the taproots. A single layer of vascular tissue lays below the skin surface and penetrates into the storage tissue.

A rutabaga hypocotyl in the ground

Beets, however, are built from concentric rings of vascular tissue (xylem and phloem) and storage tissue (parenchyma), which is visible when the beet is cut in cross section. This ring structure is unique to the taxonomic order Caryopyllales, of which beets are a member. And as Katherine notes in her excellent beet post, the vibrant colors and earthy smell of beets are also unique. The former is due to betalain pigments, which are also unique to the Caryophyllales and distinct from the anthocyanin pigments present in all the other vegetables in our list (see our pigments post for a quick rundown of the most common pigments). The earthy smell is from a compound called geosmin. Beet is the only plant known to make it, and nobody knows why. Geosmin us usually produced by microbes in the soil and is liberated after rain to create that marvelous fresh smell after a storm.

chiogga beets show concentric vascular rings in dramatic fashion

Indidentally, our hypocotyl root vegetables here are all varieties, or subspecies, of species that also produce familiar leafy vegetables: rutabagas and the Russian or Siberian kales; turnips and Napa cabbages and mizuna; beets and Swiss chard; celery root and celery stalks or seeds. In each of these cases the variety produced for leaves has a much less pronounced hypocotyl than the variety produced as a root vegetable. Similarly, while the leaves on our hypocotyl root vegetables are all edible, they will be smaller and tougher than those on the varieties that have been bred for leaves. 

Bulbs: onion, garlic, shallots, leek

red onion bulbs growing in a planter box

Onions, shallots, garlic and other alliums might be the most famous “root vegetables” of all, but their delicious parts are constructed entirely of swollen modified leaves. The papery tunicate covering surrounding the fleshy leaf bases are also constructed out of modified leaves, all arising from the basal plate (true compressed stem) that interfaces with the spindly roots on the bottom. The fleshy part of each garlic clove is a single fat modified leaf. Inside each garlic clove or onion bulb is an apical bud that will send up new leaves and flowering shoots. Everyone who has had onions and garlic sprout on them can observe this. You can of course plant these sprouting bulbs in the soil to make a new plant. A leek is a bit intermediate between a true bulb and a big herb. They call the lower white region of overlapping succulent leaf bases a “pseudobulb,” a nod to the messy continuous nature of biology and the difficulty with labels.

slices of leek pseudobulb, showing overlapping leaf bases

Unless you’re using a variety of “sweet” onion, which has been grown or bred to lack sulfurous aromatic compounds, you might tear up when you’re cutting onions and shallots. Cutting these bulbs volatilizes the irritating compounds that otherwise protect our favorite bulbs from pests.

Root tubers: sweet potatoes, cassava

A root tuber is an enlarged root that stores starch and other nutrients. Smaller lateral roots often branch from its surface and obtain water and soil nutrients. Raw sweet potatoes are readily available candidate root tuber ingredients for your botanical scrutiny and roast vegetable medley. Cassava is not, nor should it be, at least in root tuber form. Starch derived from cassava might be elsewhere in your pantry as tapioca.

A convenient aspect of our most commonly used root vegetables is that they require very little manipulation or preparation before they can be consumed. You don’t even have to peel your sweet potatoes before you cook them. Raw cassava tubers, however, are laced full to bursting with cyanide. They are the third most important source of calories throughout the tropics, behind corn and rice, but require extensive preparation before consumption to remove the cyanide, including grating, drying, leaching and cooking.

Cassava tubers develop underground from certain roots that become fleshy storage structures. They continue to acquire water and nutrients via smaller secondary roots that dot their surface. If the plant in question grows from a seed, then the harvestable storage root may develop from the taproot that grows from the seed. This, however, proves an inefficient way to farm these species, as many more storage roots can develop on a single plant when that plant is started from a shoot—a stem with leaves. This is where the visual heuristic of placing root vegetable species on the branches of the plant tree of life gets literal with sweet potatoes and cassava. The key factor is the presence of numerous nodes—leaves along the stem and their attendant axillary buds. Cassava and sweet potato are among the plant species that can generate roots from the buds in their leaf axils under the right conditions, namely being in contact with moist soil. Roots that develop from non-root tissue (like stems) are called adventitious roots. When several nodes of a shoot are planted in the soil, many adventitious roots will develop, of which some can become enlarged storage roots. In cassava the starting shoot is a cutting from a mature cassava plant. In sweet potatoes the starting shoot is called a slip. Slips grow from buds on the proximal (closest to the parent plant) end of sweet potato tubers. On sweet potatoes this is the end with the scar where the tuber was cut away from the parent plant.

sweet potato developing slips

Rhizomes: turmeric, ginger, galangal, lotus, arrowroot, wasabi

A rhizome is a fleshy underground stem. It grows horizontally and sprouts new plants. Stems grow upward from buds near the soil surface, and roots grow from buds on the underside of the rhizome. It is structurally similar to stem tubers, like potatoes (see below), but it only grows horizontally, not in any direction, like a tuber. Rhubarb, asparagus, and irises also spread by rhizomes. If you decide to get out ginger or turmeric to flavor your vegetable medley, you’ll notice structural similarities to stem tubers, including nodes with buds.

Stem tubers: potato, sunchoke, jicama, yam

The eyes may or may not be the window into the soul, but they are our most conspicuous clue that potatoes are subterranean stem tubers, not roots. Katherine’s superb post on potato anatomy will walk you through this (potato) eye exam. Observe both ends of a potato. One end (the proximal end) bears the stump of the stolon (horizontal stem) that connected it to its mother plant. The other is tightly packed with small eyes that spiral out and around the potato. This is the growing (distal) end of the potato. New eyes originate at this end, so each eye is progressively older as you move toward the middle of the potato. Each eye contains a cluster of buds subtended by a semicircular leaf scar. The leaf in question was vestigial, translucent, and a remnant of it may still be present on your potato. Eyes are most easily visible on the “waxy” potato varieties (like Yukon Golds), which have less starch overall and a different ratio of types of starch than the “starchy” varieties (like Russets)–see Katherine’s post on potato starchiness for details.

potato eyes in spiral arrangement

The buds in each eye are axillary buds, structurally the same as Brussels sprouts. If your potato is exposed to enough light or warmth, the axillary buds will grow into new leafy stems, each of which can create a new potato plant. In this case your potato might also start synthesizing chlorophyll, turning it green. It will make toxic compounds at the same time, though, so if your potato is green you should either liberally peel it or wait to plant it in the spring.

Brussels sprouts on the stalk with residual leaf petioles. Brussels sprouts are spectacular axillary buds.

Nodes and buds are also easily visible on sunchokes, less so on jicama. True yams are actually structurally intermediate between rhizomes and stem tubers in that they might sprout adventitious roots. If you get your hands on an actual yam, instead of a sweet potato, you might see these.

sunchokes

Corms: taro, water chestnut (with a note on kohlrabi, which is not a corm)

A corm is yet another method by which plants have modified their stems to store starches and nutrients underground. The storage tissue is a swollen area of the stem above the roots and below the apical bud, from which leaves and flowers develop. Lateral buds on the stem produce modified leaves that produce a protective tunicate sheath around the starchy corm tissue. A thickened basal plate on the bottom interfaces with the roots and may sprout new corms (cormels). If you get canned water chestnuts or taro corms for your vegetable medley, these structures should be visible to you. Structurally, a taro corm is most similar to kohlrabi, which is what happened when plant breeders long ago took a weedy ancestral cabbage plant (Brassica oleracea) and bred for fat, bulbous stems. The leaf scars out the outside of a kohlrabi, and the nubbin of a root on the bottom, reveals that it is entirely stem.

Kohlrabi

The geophyte lifestyle

Potatoes are in the same genus (Solanum) as tomatoes (S. lycopersicum) and eggplants (S. melongena). The potato is the only one of these close relatives that hails from high in the Andes, where its underground tubers store the starches it needs to survive the harsh alpine conditions. This is a common ecological theme. Plants that create underground storage organs to withstand winter or seasons of drought are called geophytes. Even our short list of root vegetable species demonstrates that the geophyte lifestyle independently pops up all over the plant evolutionary tree, presumably in times and places where it may be adaptive. Even in just the Andes alone, potatoes are not the only domesticated geophyte crop with lowland relatives in the same genus devoid of starchy storage organs. Oca, confusingly called “yam” in New Zealand, where it was introduced in the mid-19th century, is otherwise known as Oxalis tuberosa. It makes stem tubers, like a potato. The specific epithet “tuberosa” separates it from non-geophyte species of Oxalis that are probably familiar to hikers and gardeners throughout the northern hemisphere. American health food stores sell dried maca hypocotyl (Lepidium meyenii) as a health food supplement, even though it is a staple crop throughout montane South America. Other Lepidium species are weedy little mustard plants. In the summer your garden may be teeming with flowering nasturtiums (Tropaeolum majus). You’ll notice a distinct lack of a fat, starchy stem tuber. Not so with mashua (Tropaeolum tuberosum).

branched taproot on a carrot

You should be well on your way at this point to getting your root vegetable medley into the oven. Finish peeling your vegetables, if you must, and dice them into approximately equally sized chunks. Toss them with a small amount of oil and salt. Add herbs if you would like. Spread them in a single layer on a baking tray or roasting pan and roast in the oven at 375 degrees Fahrenheit until they are tender, about 40 minutes. It is helpful to turn the pieces and move them around with a metal spatula halfway through the cooking time.

I like to serve these roast vegetables with some kind of sauce, often a strained yogurt mixed with salt and herbs. This is a dish filled by design with concentrated energy to maintain life through harsh seasons. The geophyte lifestyle is periodically useful for us all.

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 a cheap but healthy way to bulk up a 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

Closing out the International Year of Pulses with Wishes for Whirled Peas (and a tour of edible legume diversity)

The United Nations declared 2016 the International Year of Pulses. What’s a pulse? It’s the dry mature seed of a large number of species in the legume family (Fabaceae): various beans, peas, soybean, chickpeas, lentils, peanuts and other groundnuts. 2016 is days from ending, so it’s high time I get up the Fabaceae diversity post I’ve been meaning to write all year long. This rounds out our year of legume coverage, which included Katherine’s posts on bean anatomy, peanuts, and green beans

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Christmas Lima beans (Phaseolus lunatus), soaking before cooking

One out of every 15 flowering plant (angiosperm) species is a legume, a member of the large plant family Fabaceae (Christenhusz and Byng 2016, LPWG 2013). Boasting around 19,500 species in 750-ish genera (LPWG 2013), the Fabaceae is the third-largest plant family in the world, trailing behind only the orchid (Orchidaceae: 27,800 species) and aster (Asteraceae: 25,040 species) families (Stevens 2016). By my count, people only use about 1% of legume species for food (my list of edible legume species is found here), but that small fraction of species is mighty. People eat and grow legumes because they are nutritional superstars, can be found in almost all terrestrial ecosystems around the world, and uniquely contribute to soil fertility in both wild and agricultural ecosystems. 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

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

Rapunzel

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A close relative of The rapunzel plant (Campanula rapunuloides). Photo from Wikipedia.

I never suspected that I’d learn something about edible botany by indulging my 3-year-old’s princess obsession, but I have. According to the Brothers Grimm, Princess Rapunzel is named after the cultivated  vegetable of the same name, growing in a witch’s garden. The wording of the story suggested to me that the Grimms’ contemporaries would be familiar with the plant as a vegetable, that it wasn’t a fantastical invented thing. Apparently rapunzel was a popular vegetable in the Grimm’s Europe.

Formally the rapunzel plant is Campanula rapunculus, native from southwestern Asia through central Europe to North Africa. The genus Campanula contains upwards of 500 species of what are commonly called bluebells, bellflowers, or harebells, widely distributed throughout the northern hemisphere. Many if not most of those species have edible flowers, leaves and roots (see links herehere, here and here). The Brothers Grimm don’t specify which parts of the plant were particularly enticing to Princess Rapunzel’s mother.

Our princess, in the Tangled-inspired dress from Santa

Our princess, in the Tangled-inspired dress from Santa

Many species in the closesly-related genus Adenophora also have edible roots, leaves and flowers. These genera add a taxonomic family, Campanulaceae, to our list of taxa with culinary species. Campanulaceae joins the sunflower family (Asteraceae) as culinary families in the order Asterales. Rapunzel seeds are for sale, and it can grow in Anchorage, where we will be moving this spring. My little Rapunzel will have to beat the moose to it in the garden next summer. It’s so interesting to me that this was once considered a common, mainstream cultivated vegetable, but now it’s considered a fringe edible plant or something to be “wildharvested.” It’s fun to learn about plants that were once widely cultivated for food but have since fallen out of fashion. Wonder why that is.

Alliums, Brimstone Tart, and the raison d’etre of spices

If it smells like onion or garlic, it’s in the genus Allium, and it smells that way because of an ancient arms raceThose alliaceous aromas have a lot of sulfur in them, like their counterparts in the crucifers. You can combine them into a Brimstone Tart, if you can get past the tears.

The alliums

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garlic curing

The genus Allium is one of the largest genera on the planet, boasting (probably) over 800 species (Friesen et al. 2006, Hirschegger et al. 2009, Mashayehki and Columbus 2014), with most species clustered around central Asia or western North America. Like all of the very speciose genera, Allium includes tremendous variation and internal evolutionary diversification within the genus, and 15 monophyletic (derived from a single common ancestor) subgenera within Allium are currently recognized (Friesen et al. 2006). Only a few have commonly cultivated (or wildharvested by me) species, however, shown on the phylogeny below. Continue reading

Okra – what’s not to like?

What is hairy, green, full of slime, and delicious covered in chocolate? It has to be okra, bhindi, gumbo, Abelmoschus esculentus, the edible parent of musk. Katherine explores okra structure, its kinship with chocolate, and especially its slippery nature. What’s not to like?

Okra flower with red fruit below

Okra flower with red fruit below

People often ask me about okra slime. Rarely do they ask for a good chocolate and okra recipe, which I will share unbidden. With or without the chocolate, though, okra is a tasty vegetable. The fruits can be fried, pickled, roasted, sautéed, and stewed. Young leaves are also edible, although I have never tried them and have no recipes. Okra fruits are low in calories and glycemic index and high in vitamin C, fiber, and minerals. The plant grows vigorously and quickly in hot climates, producing large and lovely cream colored flowers with red centers and imbricate petals. The bright green or rich burgundy young fruits are covered in soft hairs. When they are sliced raw, they look like intricate lace doilies. In stews, the slices look coarser, like wagon wheels. And yes, okra is slimy. And it is in the mallow family (Malvaceae), along with cotton, hibiscus, durian fruit, and chocolate. Continue reading

How to make an artichoke: the facts about bracts, part 1

Inspired by spring and the appearance of both artichokes and asparagus, Katherine explains artichoke morphology in the first of two posts about bracts and scales.

Artichokes don’t exactly look like food, and their name in English is homely and offputting.  The scientific name is no better.  Cynara cardunculus variety scolymus rolls off the tongue like a giant ball of tough spiny bracts.  I’m not ready to call it an onomatopoeia, even though artichokes are giant balls of tough spiny bracts.  And the word “bract,” on its own, is just flat-out ugly.  But artichoke bracts have delicious meaty bases, and they protect the tender inner part of the bud which we call the heart, so I am a C. cardunculus var. scolymus bract fan. Continue reading

A very close look at potato leek soup

To understand how potatoes behave in the stock pot, Katherine puts a favorite soup under the microscope – literally.

Potato leek soup is the perfect soup. It is heaven pulled from the ground in all its humble grassy beauty. Potato leek soup is good-looking, simple, and flexible. It can be made vegan and provides nutrients and fiber with few calories. It is cheap, scales up for a crowd, and freezes well. Plus you have to love a soup with more names than ingredients. As a comforting wintertime staple, we call it what it is – potato leek soup. In tiny cups, sprinkled with chopped parsley and freshly ground black pepper, it becomes potage Parmentier, a rich tasting but delicate entrée to an elegant dinner party * . Chilled, with fresh cream, it is Vichyssoise, the cool, light partner of a good baguette and a glass of Pouilly-Fumé on the patio in summer. And my mother-in-law has demonstrated many times that when the holidays overwhelm your fridge, you can store a huge pot of potato leek soup on the porch overnight – as long as you put a brick on the lid to keep the raccoons out.

This amazing soup is the just about easiest thing in the world to make. Julia Child’s version is probably the most widely used, and the one I like: simmer equal parts cubed potato and sliced leek in water until they are tender. Add salt to taste and puree. A bit of cream is optional. A dusting of chopped parsley and freshly ground black pepper is divine. I like to err on the side of more potatoes than leeks, but the soup is robust to variations in proportion.

But is it really so easy? If you trust the internet more than you trust your favorite dog-eared chocolate-spattered cookbook with the broken spine and decades of marginalia (silly you), you may worry that without the right kind of potato and extremely careful handling, your soup will end up gluey. Is any wallpaper not pre-pasted these days? Doubtful, but everyone seems to describe gluey potato soup or mashed potatoes as “wallpaper paste.” I will say right up front that gluey soup has never happened to me, but given all the stress over this utterly simple soup, it seemed worth investigating. Continue reading