Nasturtium Dolmades

Nasturtiums are one of the most versatile plants in your flower garden: they look pretty, you can eat the flowers and leaves raw in salads, you can pickle the buds and seed pods to make capers... and, as it happens, you can stuff the leaves to make dolmades.

Nasturtium Dolmades

inspired by Cafe Nilsen
and adapted from Madhur Jaffery's World-of-the-East Vegetarian Cooking

for the filling:

1/2 c. long grain rice
1/2 c. finely chopped herbs (we used a mix of parsley, mint and dill)
5 small spring onions, including greens, minced
1/8 c. pine nuts chopped
1/2 tsp salt
good grinding of black pepper

for wrapping:

15-20 of the largest nasturtium leaves in your garden
several large chard leaves... or whatever green you have in abundance and is looking moth-eaten; or if you have a mother of a crop of nasturtium with leaves to spare, a bunch of those... in any case, enough to line a small sauce pan*

for the steaming broth:

1/4 c. olive oil
1/4 c. fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp sugar
3 garlic cloves, smashed
1/4 tsp salt
water (about 1/2 c., more as needed)

*choose your pan keeping this in mind: you need to be able to pack these tightly so they don't unroll when cooking, you also need to have a heatproof plate that fits inside the pan to weigh down the dolmades... you can layer the them but you cannot make a loosely packed pan tight... so choose the smallest pan you can get away with

Make the filling:  Bring 5 c. water to a boil, add the rice, return to boil and boil rapidly for 5 minutes.  Drain and rinse well under cold water.  Mix together with remaining filling ingredients, set aside.

Next we stuff the leaves. If you have PMS, a hangover, or are in a generally crooked mood, cover your filling and refrigerate and try again another day. If you are feeling happy and well-adjusted, or at least reasonably calm, feel free to proceed. 

Stuff the dolmades:  Line the bottom of your saucepan with leaves.  We used chard leaves because we had some old stringy chard in the garden; it's not important what sort of leaf you use, but the idea is to keep the dolmades from sticking to the bottom of the pan.  Lay a nasturtium leaf stem-side down; put a scant teaspoon of filling slightly lower than center.  If you use too much filling it will burst through the leaf during cooking, so yes, it doesn't look like a lot, but trust us, it's enough.  Gently fold the bottom of the leaf over the filling (about 1/4 of the way up, depending a bit where the filling landed); gently fold the left and right sides in.  Starting at the bottom, slowly and carefully roll up into a little package.  (See helpful diagram for stuffing and rolling the leaves.)  Place seam-side down in the pan.  Repeat until you are out of leaves, out of filling, or your pan is full.  Pack these in tightly to prevent unrolling during cooking.  You can have two layers if you need to.

Steam the dolmades:  BEFORE YOU PUT YOUR LIQUID IN, place your heatproof plate in the pan on top of your beautifully rolled dolmades to weigh them down.  Mix together ingredients for steaming broth; pour broth into pan over plate.  Over medium heat, bring to boil then cover and turn down to a simmer.  Cook on simmer for 1 hour.  Keep checking the pot: you want to steam these babies until the rice is cooked but you don't want to run out of liquid so add water if needed.  However, at the end of the hour, your liquid should be fully or mostly evaporated.

Cool and serve at room temperature or refrigerate and serve cold.

 ~~~

These dolmades taste just like the traditional stuffed vine leaves... but a little less vine-leafy-bitter and a little more nasturtium-leafy-spicy.  This is one of those dishes that, when we moved to Newfoundland, could not be found for love nor money.  If we wanted a dolma, we had to make it, which wasn't all that daunting because they were something Fefe Noir made on occasion for dinner parties and potlucks.  But  never mind finding dolmades at a restaurant or in a grocery store, back then you couldn't even buy the critical grape leaves except unpredictably at high-priced specialty stores.  

As far as we're aware, there is only one farmer in the province growing grapes, at a scale that sounds most probably for personal consumption or as a novelty crop... and clear across the island, so not very handy for trying to buy a couple dozen leaves.  These days, you can buy bottled grape leaves at the local grocery stores (in St. John's, anyway), and we sometimes do, but that's a winter purchase.  You can even buy tinned dolmades (which are rather handy for picnicking or camping) and I'm willing to bet they can be found in at least a few restaurants across the island.  At any rate, it turns out the grape leaf is entirely unnecessary if you're willing to make it up and make do with what's on-hand... in late summer when the nasturtiums in your garden are going like mad, collect some of those leaves and make a batch. 

Abundance-of-Chives Pancakes

More chives than you know what to do with?  Have no fear!

recipe adapted from Yi Reservation.  

for the dipping sauce:
1 tbsp rice wine vinegar
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tsp golden syrup (or honey)
1 tsp grated ginger (or more or less)
1/4 tsp minced fresh hot pepper* (or more or less)
1 tsp minced fresh chives

for the pancakes:
3 c. unbleached all purpose flour
pinch of salt
3/4 - 1 c. hot water (tap hot)
2-3 c. chopped chives, including buds and/or flowers
sesame oil
sunflower oil

To make the dipping sauce, mix together vinegar, soy sauce, syrup or honey, ginger and hot peppers and let stand for at least half an hour.  Sprinkle chives over surface just before serving.

*We had some unusually hot serrano peppers on hand, so we used those and it worked nicely. If we'd had those lovely little hot thai chiles, we would have used those.  Regardless, something with more heat than flavour is what you are aiming for.

Mix flour and salt together in a large mixing bowl; add hot water a little at a time, mixing it in as you do so.  Only add as much as you need to make a soft dough.  Knead a few times (5 or 6) to smooth the dough.  Form into a ball.  Put a bit of sesame oil on your hands and rub over dough.  Cover bowl with a towel and let the dough rest for 20-30 minutes.

Lightly oil your work surface and rolling pin.  Divide dough into 6 pieces.  Working with one piece at a time, form a log with the dough and roll out to a thin, oblong sheet.

The tricky part of this operation is rolling the pancake but don't panic: there are photos below to help illustrate the process.

Rub the surface of the dough lightly with sesame oil.  Sprinkle 1/3 - 1/2 c. of chives over the surface of the dough.  Roll up tightly from the long end, making a log.  Coil the log around itself making a spiral.  Keep the long seam  on the inside of the coil.  Roll the spiral into a flattened pancake, approximately 7 inches in diameter (or to whatever thickness you prefer).  

Left: rolling the chives into the pancake from the long end.  Right: the spiral resulting from coiling the long roll on itself.  Center: the flattened pancake ready for frying.

The oiling and the multiple rolling is what makes the flaky layers in this pancake.  Chives may break through the surface, but don't sweat it.  If your aesthetic sensibility can't handle this, you can roll your original sheet less thinly, or use fewer chives.  Bear in mind, however, this recipe is about making use of the bounty of chives in the garden; the pancake is simply as a vessel for the chives, a delightful chive-delivery system if you will, so we've really packed them in. 

Heat some sunflower oil (or canola or avocado or lard, whatever you like to cook in) in a cast iron skillet over medium-low heat erring on the side of medium.  Cook each pancake until golden and crispy, about 3 minutes per side.

Cut into wedges with scissors, and serve with dipping sauce.

~~~

Ever since we made scallion pancakes for the first time (just this past winter, I have no explanation for how it took so long to discover this gem of a food), we have been looking for an excuse to make them again.  Too many chives?  Perfect.

There are literally tens of thousands of recipes out there for scallion pancakes.  What we liked about Yi Reservation's was the relatively low cooking temperature making it easier to get a crispy exterior but still cook it through without burning the outside.  Also, we like his ambitious project and, being cat owners ourselves, we really like that his profile photo includes a cat.  There are worse ways of picking a recipe, right? 

Chives will grow successfully pretty much anywhere... in the ground, in a pot, in dry conditions, in wet conditions, in the far north (far-ish, anyway) and the deep south.  They are perennial and need very little maintenance.  Seriously just about anyone can grow chives, so everyone should try it.  The thing is, of course, eventually there are more chives than you know what to do with.  Don't worry about it.  For one thing, if you alter your mindset to see chives as a green vegetable rather than simply a spice or a garnish, you can really use them... in recipes like this pancake, by the cupful in quiche or salads, or stuff them in the belly of a trout.  And if you can't get past the garnish-mentality hurdle, then be assured chives make a nice ornamental.  The flowers are really pretty and, though smaller, are much cheaper than the purely ornamental alliums.  Grow them in your flower beds like we do! 

The Very First Salad

...of the gardening season, that is.

a very simple recipe:

a mix of very young greens from the garden
a handful of chive flower buds (optional)
walnut oil
salt

Fefe said, "This is the kind of salad you could eat with your fingers if it wasn't so cold out."  In fact, it's the kind of salad you probably should eat with your fingers.  Get up close and personal with your food.


Fill your favourite salad bowl with the very first spring greens from your garden. (We have a mix of mizuna, spinach, arugula, grand rapids lettuce, and some rogue tatsoi).  Garnish with chive flower buds.  Drizzle with walnut oil.  Sprinkle with salt.  Enjoy.

If you don't use pesticides, don't let your dogs pee on your garden, and avoid mowing your lawn just prior to picking salad greens, then you will not need to wash them.  Washing greens this young will only bruise them anyway.  If, however, you are a germophobe then (a) feel free to ignore the advice and (b) don't accept a dinner invitation at ours.

Greens this young have a very delicate flavour, so respect that... don't lose them in a complex dressing.  

If you've never eaten a raw chive flower bud, be aware that they pack a bit of a punch.

~~~

This week at the local grocery store, a head of romaine lettuce costs about $3.50.  This romaine lettuce is, well, unappealing:  browned on the leaf edges, a bit on the limp side and trimmed excessively by the produce staff to make it presentable.  I forgot to look at the origin (since I wasn't buying it, after all), but it wouldn't surprise me if that head of lettuce had travelled across the continent to get here.  All in all, it would make for a depressing salad.

But that's what makes this time of year so fantastic.  We get the satisfaction of dodging the miserable mass market salad.    We get to feel superior and self-congratulatory as we munch on our own, home-grown greens.

We are early sowers of lettuce (but lazy-early, we aren't growing year-round under a hot box... yet... if you are using a hot box, take this opportunity to feel a wee bit superior yourself).  Every spring it feels like we wait FOREVER for the ground to be workable enough for the first cold-tolerant seeds to be put in.  And then Fefe is out every day, bundled up in wool layers, scouring the ground with her eyes, anxious to see signs of germination... it's usually when she's finally given up and re-seeded (not that she lacks patience or anything, ahem), that things finally start to go.

Plucking a bit of self-seeded tatsoi from the midst of the over-crowded grand rapids leaf lettuce (a wee bit of arugula in the foreground).  Note the arm warmers.  We may be gardening, but we are still cold.

It's possible our impatience can be accounted for by being transplanted mainlanders.  We grew up with spring happening with the calendar: in March.  Not here.  Spring is fleeting in Newfoundland: snow tends to keep falling through April (sometimes into May) and it stays cold for a long while.  The best way I've found to recognize spring here is when the foggy days start to outnumber the frozen ones and the wind, which is never gentle sticking out here in the Atlantic ocean, picks up enough to rob the air from your lungs every time you open your mouth.  After a couple of weeks the wind settles a wee bit, or at least it become less constant (or maybe we just get used to it?) and we hit our last frost date in June.  By the last frost this year, we were picking our first salad.  

This garden-eagerness of ours is often noted by neighbours and passer-bys when our gardening efforts begin in earnest.  There is no end of helpful and well-meant advice that it is much too soon to put in this or that seed.  And some years they're right.  But we take our chances because what's the worst that can happen?  Nothing.  And in that case we cut our losses and simply seed again. 

Due to the helpful nature of a particular stray neighbourhood child, and maybe the wind, the mizuna and spinach are very friendly with each other this year.

At any rate, as a result of Fefe's somewhat exuberant planting of leafy greens, thinning is generally necessary... something of a desperate necessity, actually.  There is no point, however, in thinning too early; why waste all that potential food by pulling it up before it's worth eating?  So the very first salad of the year is when the greens are just smaller than the "baby" greens you can buy at the supermarket and crowded in so tight you are starting to worry about it.