Author: Stephanie March

Forget baseball, it’s just a bunch of millionaires running around in a circle. Hot dogs are full of toxic elements. And the bald eagle, while a majestic site indeed, is actually a bit of a scavenger and bully. There is one symbol that all Americans can embrace, one icon that is known and loved by millions. It is that most democratic of fruit: I give you the apple.

Think about it. Unlike the flag, no one is campaigning to pass legislation on whether you can burn an apple or not. In fact, setting the apple to flame may be one of the highest compliments you can pay to the luscious fruit, bringing out the sugars which meld beautifully with cinnamon. The apple is as diverse as the country itself. At last count, there were more than 7,500 varieties, and new varieties are being cross-pollinated every year. Many of us learned our first lessons in capitalism as we tried, usually in vain, to swap the apples in our lunches for something better down the table. And maybe we learned a little bit about politics, too, as we shined them and gingerly set them on the teacher’s desk.

Where would our country be without the Big Apple? One theory is that the nickname was coined by jazz greats like Charlie Parker because Manhattan was known for having “lots of apples on the tree,” that is, lots of jumping jazz joints. Our affection for apple pie is legendary and timeless, but during the Depression, to save money and stretch ingredients, hard-pressed Americans would make it with just a bottom crust. Only more affluent families could afford apple pies with an “upper crust.” And does anybody not know how to “keep the doctor away”? The apple’s lofty place in our culture is well preserved in the language, too—from “the apple of your eye” to a certain personal computer with a cultish and loyal following.

In a pie, sauce, or fritter, peeled or unpeeled, smothered with caramel or left fresh, crisp and clean, we all have our apple preferences. In fact, last year the average American consumed 16 pounds of fresh apples and 29 pounds of processed apples (juices, ciders, apple products, and so on). Grown in every state in the continental United States, most apple orchards are in Washington, New York, and Michigan. We rank second only to China among the top apple-producing countries of the world. Last year, our total apple production was about 230 million cartons, valued at around $1.5 billion. Of that crop, 25 percent of the total fresh-market crop was exported to countries like Mexico, Canada, Taiwan, and Indonesia.

Like most things American, the roots of the original apple tree lie elsewhere. Some believe the apple is as old as temptation itself, owing to the story of the Garden of Eden. Most agree that the apple originated somewhere in the Caucasus region between the Black and Caspian seas, today known as Kazakhstan, where 300-year-old, 50-foot trees still bloom. This area was a well known stop on the silk trade route, and it’s likely that travelers filched wild apples and traded the seeds. Eventually, the domesticated apple evolved, and was subsequently spread through the world by the Romans. A few varieties and practices were lost with the fall of the Romans, but many more were saved, thanks to the orcharding customs of Christian monks. Further east, Muslims, too, preserved the traditions of cultivation through the tenets of Islam, which explicitly encourage botany.

As the apple came to the New World with the settlers, new legends and traditions sprang up. The simple and good-hearted apple farmer John Chapman of Leominster, Massachusetts became famous in the 1800s for distributing apple seeds and trees to settlers in budding frontier territories like Ohio, Indiana, and beyond. The myth—and the Disney portrayal—has Johnny Appleseed roaming the sunny countryside wearing ragged clothes and, oddly, a tin pot as a hat. A true American hero.

Whatever region you travel to in this country, you’re sure to find different varieties you’ve never seen before. The Ginger Gold, currently cultivated in Virginia, owes its existence to hurricane Camille, the 1969 storm that destroyed much of the orchard of Clyde and Ginger Harvey. Many years later, they discovered a tree grown from a seed that had been blown into the orchard from somewhere else, a tree unlike they had seen before. By the early 80s the tree had born fruit, and they realized they had a unique and delicious new variety on their hands. They promptly named it after the lady of the house.

Ginger Gold is known as an up-and-comer, as is the locally created Honeycrisp. Minnesota orchards are known for a distinctive assortment of apples that are rare or absent from the rest of the country, apples like the Fireside, Wealthy, Prairie Spy, Haralson, Red Baron, and Honeygold to name a few. Haralson, with its crisp tartness, is probably our most popular, but Honeycrisp is creating a buzz both locally and internationally. In fact, it’s probably the most talked about variety in the country at the moment. Introduced in 1991 by a University of Minnesota research team, it’s a cross of Macoun and Honeygold varieties. Crisp and very flavorful, Honeycrisps usually ripen around the end of September or the beginning of October.

The other thing Minnesota orchards are known for is good old Midwestern fun. The absolute best way to spend a bright fall day is to haul the family out to one of the locally owned orchards. It’s almost impossible to find one that doesn’t have hayrides, ciderfests, jumping goats, pick-your-own, and—of course—a corn maze. (If you can get to Aamodt’s, in particular, they have a killer ciderbrat with an onion/apple relish that is sweet and tart—an inimitable autumn treat.) It’s good to sit under the autumn sky, cider in one hand, an apple-brat in the other, supporting your local farmers and being a red-blooded American.

Local Orchards near
the metro area
North: Pine tree Apple Orchard
White Bear Lake
(651) 429-7202

South: Appleside Orchard
Highway 3
Farmington
(651) 463-2505

East: Aamodt’s Apple Farm
Hwy 36 & Manning Ave (Cty 15)
Stillwater
(651) 439-3127

West: Apple Jack Orchards, Inc.
4875 37th St SE
Delano
(612) 972-6673

Stephanie March is a regular contributor to The Rake.

Consider the radish. A noble vegetable to say the least, the radish is easily recognized by most people. While it may not be universally loved or fawned over on chic menus around town, the radish has a fame that allows it to be readily picked out of a veggie bin. Unfortunately familiarity, or lack thereof, may cause us to pass over a more deserving vegetable, one that has been known and loved through antiquity, but doesn’t own a spot on the grocery list of today’s shoppers. What’s worse, this mystery plant is one of a cook’s best weapons, edible and versatile from stem to stern. Fennel is the underdog of the kitchen.

There are quite a few factors which contribute to the mystery surrounding fennel. Is it an herb? Is it a vegetable? Is it a seed? Yes. Isn’t fennel the same thing as anise? No. While it may share a touch of the licorice flavor of anise, it is a completely different plant. In fact it’s two plants. Florence fennel, foeniculum vulgare dulce, or finocchio as the Italians know it, is cultivated primarily for its wide bulb, which is eaten like a vegetable. Common fennel, foeniculum vulgare, is known to grow wild and has no bulb. It shares the same sturdy stem and frothy leaves as finocchio, but is mostly harvested for its seeds. So: The word “fennel” applies to all the parts of two separate plants—the greens, the stalks, the bulbs, and the seeds. As you might expect, the full range of what this plant can do in the kitchen is staggering.

Native to the Mediterranean, fennel is one of the oldest cultivated plants in the world. The Greeks believed that Prometheus hid the fire he stole from the sun in a fennel stalk as he brought the gift to humankind. Greek athletes ate fennel seeds before their Olympic competitions, ensuring enlivenment and strength. The Romans found their own uses, including no less than 22 different medicinal applications for the plant, as outlined by Pliny. Women counted on its use as a diuretic and learned that a tea of fennel leaves, passed through mother’s milk, could cure a colicky baby. For as long as writers have been writing, there have been words glorifying fennel and its virtues—a cure-all for such maladies including headaches, toothaches, coughs, asthma, and arthritis—and even suggesting that its use could cause substantial weight loss. Among fennel’s many fans you can count Milton, Shakespeare, Dumas, and Jefferson. Isn’t that enough to get it on your weekly list?

I hear your concerns: What does it taste like? What the hell do I do with it? Enter the fear of black jellybeans. On a recent trip to Lunds, I noticed that the fennel bulbs were labeled as “anise or fennel.” It may be a way for people to understand a bit better what the flavor nuances of fennel are, but it mostly makes people turn and say ick! Not to knock anise but, among other things, it is used to flavor such liqueurs as Ouzo and Pernod and has a strong sweet liquorice flavor. While fennel does impart a nuance of that flavor, it suffers a grievous slander with the association. The key to the real flavor of fennel lies with its preparation.

So how should you prepare it? Surprisingly enough, the answer is, “Any damn way you please.” Fennel is versatile and flexible, and it will forgive a multitude of culinary mistakes. However you prepare it, the subtleties and intensities will come out in different ways. Shaved or chopped raw fennel in a salad will yield a fresh clean taste. (In Italy it is often eaten raw at the end of the meal to cleanse the palate.) When heated in a variety of ways such as braising or sautéing, fennel is transformed into a new food. The crispiness turns to tenderness and the flavor becomes more understated and mellow. Fennel lives well wherever you put it, chopped into soups and stews, battered and fried as finger food, baked into bread as the Romans did so long ago. The seeds alone have countless uses, from sausage seasoning to Chinese five-spice. Honestly, fennel is the secret weapon of chefs, and I mean to spread the word.

If you are still afraid to go the course alone, your best bet is to sample the wares of others. The ever-remarkable work of Chef Alexander Roberts at Restaurant Alma is a great place to start. He has been serving fennel in different forms on many a menu. The best example presently is his seared tuna and shaved fennel. Roberts loves fennel for its versatility and rare balance between vibrancy and delicacy. He suggests that another mouth-watering way to enjoy fennel through the fall is in a gratin with cream and herbs—especially as an accompaniment to meats.

As you begin to understand and appreciate the complexities, you should head to Vincent for the full fennel experience. It is a culinary staple there and Sous Chef Don Saunders likes it because it often provides a natural sweetness, substituting nicely for more pedestrian sugars and sweeteners. Incidentally, he thinks tarragon is a great match for fennel. You can test this theory out with their salmon dish, which uses all the components from the ancient plant with a touch of tarragon. The salmon is coated in fennel seeds and seared, served with a risotto made with lobster stock and fresh shaved fennel, and the beautiful dish is garnished with the deep fried greens. If that doesn’t inspire you to look beyond the radish and the anise, you really need to get out more!

Restaurant Alma
528 University Ave., Mpls.
(612) 379-4909
Vincent
1100 Nicollet Ave., Mpls.
(612) 630-1189

Stephanie March is a Minneapolis writer.

We are a deserving people. We bear down under the barrage of cold and wetness for some eight months, to emerge into the light for the remaining four. We understand our lot in life, we choose it. We have stronger character for the winters we suffer, and we have a deeper love and appreciation for the summers that thaw us. Looking forward to the gifts of the sun, we revel on our bike paths, enjoy our many outdoor dining options, and throw fests at every turn for every reason. If there is one icon to give form to our passions about summer, to illustrate the brief hedonistic streak in an otherwise puritan life, it is the food that is all about joy—the tomato.

Round, red, and luscious, the tomato is the picture of pleasure. It has no rough outer shell to peel, no artichoke-like defenses. It is soft and fleshy to the touch. You need not worry about stems, cores, or nasty pits; the seeds simply slide down your chin with the first ravenous bite.

Indigenous to Central and South America, the tomato was cultivated by the Incas and Aztecs as early as 700 C.E. The conquistadors took the Nahuatl name tamatl along with the fruit and introduced it to Europe in the 1500s. At first the tomato found its most loyal following among the hot-blooded Mediterranean countries of Spain, Portugal, and Italy. The Italians, so enamored of this succulent fruit dubbed it pomo d’oro or apple of gold. You have to wonder—Who were the Italians before the tomato?

As the tomato moved north, its legend grew. The French renamed it pomo d’amore, or the love apple. The Germans called it the apple of paradise, believing it to be the actual “apple” offered to Adam by Eve. But many, like the British, shunned the red beauty as a poisonous berry. Perhaps because it’s in the nightshade family, they had a right to be nervous. In fact the foliage of a tomato plant is poisonous. During the 18th century the Linnaean name of the plant was coferred—Lycopersicon esculentum, but it was known as “wolf’s peach.”

Unfortunately the fear of tomatoes traveled with the colonists as they set out for the New World. It wasn’t until the 1800s when the Creoles in New Orleans unleashed the tomato in this country with their fiery gumbos and jambalayas. By the 1850s the tomato was in produce carts and home gardens in every city in America. In fact some of the varieties begun in gardens at that time are considered priceless gems today.

The “heirloom” tomato has been bandied about on chic menus for a few summers already. With names like Green Zebra, Blondkopfchen, Mr. Stripey, and Eva Purple Ball, these are definitely the showgirls of your vegetable garden. Some of these varieties have been around since the 200 years passing from family to family, and some have been created in the past decade through cross pollination. Regardless of their lineage, the heirloom market has boomed and thereby created more colorful, complex, tasty fruits.

And yes, the tomato is a fruit. If you want to get into a heated, passionate discussion, gather a botanist and a chef to discuss the intractable fruit-or-vegetable controversy. The botanist will have logic and science on his side. He will point out that generally, a fruit is the edible part of the plant that contains the seeds, while a vegetable is the edible stems, leaves, and roots of the plant. Fruits are apples, oranges, papayas. Vegetables are cauliflower, carrots, and rhubarb. At this point the chef will throw down her tongs and scoff. Papayas and tomatoes in the same camp?! If not by science, then by common law, she will say, the tomato lives with vegetables, making a much more palatable existence among the garlic, onions, and savory foods of the world. Leave the syrupy sweet stuff to the trees. The tomato will dwell with the ground vegetables.

It hardly matters, when you contemplate that first beautiful vine-ripened tomato from your garden. One that in the throes of spring planting was only a vision in your head as you patiently waited for the sun to work its mojo. The rubbery tomatoes in the grocery aisle that are hydroponically grown are meant to give you a December fix, to reawaken the frozen part of the tongue where summer lives; that’s all. Beware any restaurant that offers a tomato bruschetta or caprese in November or March. They should be held accountable for their light pink/whitish affront to the senses.

The true and pure way to enjoy summer is to take pleasure in a tomato straight from the plant. Carry a small dish of kosher salt out to the garden, pluck and sprinkle. Stand there with the warm August sun beating on your neck, the juice running down your arm. Heady from the buzz of the garden around you, savor that moment—like only a sunburned Minnesotan can.

The Second Best Way to Eat Your Garden Tomatoes

A Mess of Caprese

Traditional mozzarella caprese is usually sliced and laid out in layers. I think this way is more fun and gives a bigger bang in each mouthful.

Coarsely chop three or four big fat tomatoes. Throw them in a big bowl. Tear a ball of fresh mozzarella into little chunks. Throw them in the bowl. Grab a handful of fresh basil, chop it how you like, throw it in the bowl. Roughly chop or mince three cloves of garlic, in it goes. Get some good extra virgin olive oil and douse the mess in the bowl. Don’t be afraid to jump in with your hands and toss it around a bit. Try not to make it too soupy.

Cracked pepper and salt it to your liking. Maybe some red pepper flakes?

All you need now is a big crusty loaf of bread as your fork. And a hammock.

Stephanie March is a Minneapolis writer.

The first time I heard Martha Stewart say “herbs” with a pronounced H, I had to laugh thinking the übermom had a glitch in her matrix. Then I learned there was a whole H / no-H debate, and you had to pick your side with the courage of your convictions. Those who Proudly Pronounce feel as if they’re on the cutting edge, the smug in-the-know trendies looking forward and not back. The anti-H bunch feel like purists, traditionalists who won’t shy away from a pinch of French affectation.

Herbs and spices have enchanted humans from the beginning. Sure their aromas have drawn us and their flavors have tantalized us, but we’ve discovered other uses such as healing our ailments, wooing our mates, telling our future, and cleansing our pasts. Herbs and spices have a rich role in the human history play, playing integral roles in creating and shaping cultures at points along the way.

Officially the definition of an herb is a bit loose. An herb is classified as the fragrant leaf of any plant that grows in temperate zones and does not have a woody stem, which basically encompasses anything not a tree, bush, or shrub. Most people define an herb by use: Plants in the kitchen or medicine cabinet are herbs. Plants that are merely decorative are flowers—or just, well, plants.

Historically “spices” referred only to tropical-zone aromatics, but the American Spice Trade Association defines spices as “any dried plant product used primarily for seasoning purposes” (my emphasis). Included are tropical aromatics (pepper, cinnamon, cloves), leafy herbs (basil, oregano, marjoram), spice seeds (sesame, poppy, mustard) and dehydrated vegetables (onions, garlic). So it seems that all herbs are spices, but not all spices are herbs. Whether you call it coriander or cilantro, the power comes not in the name but in the ability to bewitch.

Some 5,000 years ago, the Chinese emperor Shen Nung compiled the first documentation on herbs. The Sumerians cataloged hundreds of plants on clay tablets around the same time. The ancient Egyptians were huge importers of Babylonian thyme and coriander and Chinese star anise, cumin, and saffron. The Egyptians were quite versed in the aromatic properties of herbs and spices. In fact they produced oils and essences specifically for the grave, hoping these treasured commodities would help ease the transition from this life to the afterlife.

Maybe we should thank the Romans for kicking butt all over the world. As they conquered they spread their culture—and with it their herbal influences in the form of garlic, parsley, dill, mint, thyme, and sage. They further expanded local spice stores by creating a trade network throughout the far-reaching Empire, bringing cinnamon, ginger, pepper, and the like from the Orient.

As new and exotic herbs and spices were being introduced through the Middle Ages, the secrets to their many properties were being unlocked. Fervent naturalists set out to compile exhaustive catalogues of information about herbs. These massive compendiums were like medieval Good Housekeeping mags, chock full of herbal gardening tips, a recipe or two, spiritual spells and witch repellent, medical advice, hair tonic ideas, and some general words of wisdom about life.

Each herb became a story, symbolizing the needs of the people who used it, entangling their cultures in the roots of the plant. Rosemary is the herb of remembrance, stemming from the practice of medieval students who intertwined sprigs of rosemary in their hair to stimulate their brains during study. A presence at both beginnings and endings, rosemary was worn as a crown in Greek and Roman wedding ceremonies and placed in the hands of the dead during funeral rites. Mint has always been a bit “loose.” Named for a flirtatious water nymph, Minthe, who was changed into the plant by the underworld goddess Persephone, mint spreads promiscuously through Minnesota gardens. There are many different varieties of mint, but all were thought to be associated with lust and white magic. Except by the Victorians, who oddly decided that mint was the symbol of virtue. Garlic is practically as old as time. The Islamic tradition states that garlic sprouted in the devil’s footprints as he left Eden. If you are Buffy or Balkan, you believe garlic dispels vampires and can cure whooping cough, as long as you place a bulb between your toes.

Herbal remedies and their healing properties have always existed hand in hand with an herb’s spiritual worth. Sage is from the salvia genus, from the Latin salvere—to save. Up to the 18th century sage was thought by doctors to be an efficacious fertility treatment, and if taken daily, would ensure a long life. Dill is named after an old Saxon word related to “lull,” and Southern Baptist mothers used to give the wrigglin’ chilluns bouquets of dill, fennel, and caraway to chew during church. Think it’s all ballyhoo and poppycock? Well, echinacea has been named the Herb of the Year 2002.

Soothing the mind, body, and spirit has been the charge of herbs for centuries, but the majority of users today just want a sassier piece of chicken. The culinary advantage of herbs is forever exploited by young chefs who “discover” the varied uses of fennel or designate thyme as the It-flavor of the month. For those who wish to cultivate some ancient alchemy of their own, it’s as easy as popping down to Target and picking up an Herb Garden Kit.

If you’re more inclined to large-scale herb gardening or heirloom varieties, there are many local resources to help you. The best and brightest on the scene is the Shady Acres Herb Farm, located in Chaska, with outposts at the Minneapolis and St. Paul farmers’ markets. They have unique varietals, crazy amounts of information, funky herbal dinners (on the farm), and you can order online. And they say “erb” not “herb,” but they probably won’t mock you.

Shady Acres Herb Farm
952-466-3391
www.shadyacres.com

Stephanie March is a Minneapolis writer.

Goodness, it’s spring and the woods are infested with mycophagists. The warm sun and the stirring breezes bring out the madness, the mushroom hunters. They’re out there turning dead logs, rustling through the dark and damp places where most bipeds will not tread. They walk for miles, minding neither dirt nor rain, all in hopes of snaring some elusive and delectable fungi. Some have fever dreams the night before a hunt, in which they stumble upon a pristine patch of morels—oh, to dream. Though most come home tired and achy, nearly all will admit they are addicted to hunting ‘shrooms.

As the many hunting clubs and associations will attest, ’shroom hunting has become quite the sport. Anyone with a good guide and a stout walking stick can foray into the wilderness and scrounge for toadstools. But the wise and long-lived hunter knows that it’s an extreme sport, nay a deadly one. The danger may even follow you home. The bluefoot, chanterelle, enoki, hedgehog, pompom, and chicken of the woods are just a few of the edible varieties of mushroom found here and there. The Great Lakes area alone contains more than 2,000 varieties. Unfortunately, only about 5 percent of those are edible.

The very-good/very-bad nature of mushrooms has long been known. Some 4,600 years ago, Egyptian Pharaohs were so enamored of mushrooms that they decreed them to be food for kings, never to be touched by mere commoners. In ancient cultures across the world you can find sacred rituals involving mushrooms. Many believed in their powers to heal, to deliver enlightenment, and to guide lost souls to the netherworld.

But it’s the dark side of mushrooms that has propelled myth and legend. Ever since Claudius choked down the last mushroom dish his wife would prepare for him, there’s been mycophobia. The Middle Ages identified the mushroom with the occult because of its uncanny ability to grow three times in size the morning after a rain. Fairy rings, the circles in which some varieties of mushroom grow, were thought to be where elves cavorted and the devil churned his butter.

The French, of course, love mushrooms. It’s widely believed that around the time of Louis XIV, Parisians began to cultivate mushrooms in the caves surrounding the city. Even now there are miles and miles of mushroom beds in suburban caverns near the capital. But Americans have far surpassed the Europeans in mass consumption. The biggest commercial operation in the world is located in Pennsylvania, where the legendary pickers harvest with miner’s hats and lamps.

At the grocery store, you’ll most easily find Agaricus bisporus, a mass-produced hybrid cousin of the modest field mushroom. Though you’ll find it on your pizza or in your cream of mushroom soup, the common ‘shroom is not on the radar screen of the serious hunter. Spring is morel season, and the self-proclaimed “morel capital of the world” is Boyne City, Michigan. Each May, the town holds the enormous National Mushroom Festival. ‘Shroomers from all over the country come to share stories and tell kooky mushroom jokes. But not to reveal their hush-hush hunting grounds.

Morels, like many mushrooms, have a rolling season, peaking at different times in different parts of the country due to the changing weather. Hunters forage in field and forest, park and golf course. For this lurking sportsman, private property is pure enticement if they suspect a morel may be thriving somewhere beyond the fence. If they scored in a particular place last year, it’s a safe bet for this year. But forget about simply asking directions. The coveted morel is hoarded by those who are lucky enough to happen upon it. It is typically found in moist areas, among dying or dead elm, sycamore, and ash trees. Old apple orchards are often a happy hunting ground. And here in the Twin Cities, it’s not uncommon to see them popping up in the backyard. Morels have short, thick, hollow stems, topped with sponge-like pointed caps, resembling honeycombs. Morels may be tan, yellow, or black. They have a rich, nut-like flavor and woodsy fragrance. With this in mind, it weakens the devout to think how many are dispatched by lawnmowers, rakes, and undeserving squirrels.

The best way to get with the in-crowd is to join up with the Minnesota Mycological Society (Bringing People and Mushrooms Together for Over 100 Years!). This University of Minnesota group has a newsletter with hunting tips, and they lead two or three collecting forays each month into proven growing areas all over Minnesota and western Wisconsin. Following them around in the city is a prudent thing to do too. They recently held their annual awards dinner at Chet’s Taverna. Chef Mike Phillips has been known to create several amazing dishes with many varieties of wild mushroom. Chef Mike won’t reveal his local sources for mushrooms. He does admit that he prefers local mushrooms over any imports. “Especially imported morels which you can get any time of year now, but are grown in Turkey and are a little odd.”

If you’d rather leave the sleuthing to the booted and bedraggled, you can beat a path to the Bayport Cookery where, from May 1 to June 30, they’re hosting their 12th annual Morel Festival. Chef and owner Jim Kyndberg tells The Rake that he buys his morels from a “licensed forager” in order to comply with Health Department codes and standards. Kyndberg has become a bit of a local resource, with crazed people calling on him to identify all kinds of things they’ve dug up in various backyards. Seems the true ‘shroomers are a little bit damp and nutty themselves.

Chet’s Taverna
(651) 646-2655

Bayport Cookery
(651) 430-1066

Stephanie March is a Minneapolis writer.