We All Like a Little Weed Now and Then

If you can't beat 'em...

Seriously, you won't ever win.  The best thing you can do with dandelions is pull them out by the roots, then eat them.

Cranberry Beans with Dandelion Greens

It's getting close to the end of storage season, but sweet
local carrots can still be found.

1-1/4 c. dried cranberry beans (or dried pinto beans)
1 carrot
1 shallot
1/4 tsp salt
5 cups chicken stock (use vegetable stock if you're a vegetarian, water will do in a pinch but it won't turn out as well)
1 big bowl full of dandelion greens
1 tbsp pork fat (or lamb drippings or olive oil, in case you're a vegetarian)
1 clove garlic julienned  

Don't bother peeling the carrot and shallot, you'll remove
these before eating.

a splash of dry vermouth (or dry white wine)

Soak beans in water overnight. Drain and rinse thoroughly.

Wash carrot and shallot, leaving the skins on.  Put beans, carrot, and shallot in a large saucepan.  Add salt and stock.  Bring to a boil over medium heat; reduce heat and simmer until beans are tender (approximately 2 hours).  Remove carrot and shallot and continue cooking to desired consistency.

The larger, darker and pointier a dandelion leaf, the more
bitter it will be.  That's great for cooked greens.  Save the
smaller, paler and rounder leaves for eating raw.

While the beans are cooking, wash dandelion greens several times (like 4 or 5 times, soaking in between) in cold salted water.  This is particularly important if you were enthusiastic when weeding, leaving the dandelions covered in soil and detritus like we did...  Pick over carefully, watching out for precocious slugs and other early season pests.  Feel free to be choosy about the leaves, dandelion aren't precious and it's not like you paid for them.  Dry the leaves in a salad spinner or by lightly rolling in clean tea towels.  (Don't forget to reserve any unopened buds for making capers.)

When the beans are very nearly done*, heat pork fat** in a skillet over med-high.  When the fat is good and hot, saute dandelion greens until wilted add the garlic and saute for a minute.  Deglaze with vermouth***.

*Or if you made them a day ahead, reheat when you are ready to cook the dandelion greens.

**The first time Fefe made this dish, she used drippings from a pork roast.  The next time she made it, she tossed the pork fat into the pan then thought it smelled strangely like lamb fat... which it was... sometimes it's hard to keep track of the various jars of drippings in the refrigerator.  The good news is that both work.

***The first time Fefe made this dish, she used vermouth to deglaze the dandelion pan.  The next time, as she was recovering from the shock of the lamb fat incident, she quickly grabbed the vermouth bottle only to discover it was empty.  Luckily, there was some white wine handy.  Luckily further, white wine also does a lovely job in this recipe.

Dandelion leaves will wilt fairly quickly in a hot pan, so wait until the beans are ready before cooking them.

Serve your delicious dandelion greens over the beans as a side for lamb chops or as a hearty lunch with crusty bread. Season with salt and pepper, to taste.

~~~

Yes indeed, it's dandelion season again.

If you've been reading this blog word for word like I expect you to do (right?), you'll know we've had a slow start to spring.  Here we are in mid-May and this week we woke up to a crust of ice.  Not frost, actual ice.  A thick layer coating the entire surface of the visible world.

The snow shovels are prominently displayed on our front
porch as a charm to ward off further snow.  It didn't work
all winter, so I'm not sure why I think it will work now, but
I feel it will...

No matter, the ground itself has thawed, so it's time to call an abrupt stop to all indoor projects and take advantage of the short northern growing season on this cold Atlantic island.  As not to unnecessarily jinx this reprieve, we can't yet put the snow shovels away.  We've even moved them out to the front porch where the afternoon sun illuminates them: our talisman against rogue late-May snowstorms.

It's time to catch up on the work we didn't do last fall.  Prune the perennials that need pruning before they start growing and prep the garden beds.  Which means weeding.  And, oh, boy, do the weeds ever take advantage of any bit of open space.  

While you're out there madly digging, hoeing, forking or raking the weeds out of your vegetable beds, reserve the dandelion.  Be brutal and get them out by the roots, but put them aside because they're good eating. The earlier you can do this in spring, the more tender and less bitter the dandelion leaves will be.  For this dish, a bit of bitterness works well, so later season dandelion is also suitable.

Seriously, it's like if you turn your head away for a moment,
more dandelions suddenly appear.

If you don't have vegetable plot, I suspect you can find dandelion in your lawn or flower gardens.  No yard?  No worries.  Dandelion can be found pretty much anywhere that soil has been disturbed.  Go for a walk with a trowel and a basket; avoid foraging on roadsides (you don't need any exhaust or road salt in your food) but take advantage of trails and hedgerows or cooperative neighbours.  You may even come across an enthusiastic lawn-owner with a wheel barrow full of dandelion already plucked from the ground.  

Save the smallest, roundest leaves for salad and pesto.  Use the older, darker, pointier leaves as cooked greens (like in this recipe).   The unopened flower buds make excellent capers.  For a plant so universally hated, it's pretty magical.

Even cats like dandelion.  Or do they hate dandelion?  Can't remember.

Late Summer Stew

The days are getting shorter, the nights are getting cooler.  Use late summer vegetables from the garden for this warming and nourishing stew.

 

Lamb and Broad Bean Stew (if you are Fefe)

Lamb and Fava Bean Stew (if you are caribougrrl)

450g (more or less) lamb, cubed
salt and pepper to season
2 tbsp olive oil
4 black peppercorns
1 bay leaf
4-6 sprigs thyme
2 onions, quartered then sliced
7 carrots, sliced crosswise
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
4 cups chicken stock (see below)
3 tbsp minced garlic
100g shelled fava beans

Plan a couple days in advance if you need to get the end of last year's lamb out of the freezer to make room for the new stuff.  Thaw and cube; bones in or out, whichever you prefer.

Season cubed lamb with salt & pepper.  In a large heavy-bottomed saucepan heat olive oil and sear lamb until browned on all sides, then remove and set aside. You don't want the lamb crowded in the saucepan or it will not brown well; do this in batches if necessary.

Add peppercorns, bay leaf, thyme and onion to hot oil and sautee until onion is translucent and slightly browned.  Add carrots and continue to sautee until carrots begin to soften.  Add garlic and stir to combine.

Add lamb and chicken stock to pot.  Bring to a boil then reduce and simmer, covered, for 45 minutes.  That's about the right amount of time for cleaning and freezing the berries you undoubtedly picked earlier in the day.  Check the stew once in a while and give it a stir; add more stock or water if necessary.  

Add the parsley and fava beans and cook for an additional 8 minutes (or until broad beans are cooked).

Serve with boiled new potatoes and steamed yellow wax beans (or whatever other veg is coming out of your garden).  Season to taste with Worcestershire sauce.

~~~

 

Simple Chicken Stock (Really)

fresh or frozen chicken backs and wing tips*
2 large onions, peeled (optional), topped and tailed
1-2 carrots, peeled (optional, but if not peeled, scrubbed free of dirt)
a few peppercorns
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme**
1 sprig parsley**

*or the carcass of a roast, or some chicken necks, or other parts trimmed from chicken when prepping for other meals... we usually have a bag in the freezer where we keep the back and wing tips (spatchcocked chicken is a staple during bbq season) until we're ready to make stock
**vary your seasonings according to what you have and how you might use the stock, if you don't know how you will use it, err toward very basic (peppercorn and bay leaf only)... you can add flavour later, but you can't remove what's there

Place chicken peices in a large saucepan or stock pot or dutch oven.  Add enough water to cover.  Add vegetables and seasonings.  Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer for a couple of hours.  That's enough time to play a round or two of a German board game.

Let the stock cool to room temperature, strain through a sieve into a large bowl and cool completely in the refrigerator.  Scrape surface fat off the cold stock.  If you are not using the stock right away, portion into useful sized freezer safe containers (1 or 2 cup volumes), and freeze until needed.

~~~

If you don't normally make your on stock, you should start to.  I know that makes me sound like someone without kids (true) or much of a social life (also true), but homemade stock makes all the difference in the world. And it's easier than you think, it practically cooks itself.  More importantly, you don't have to wait until you need it to make it: stock freezes very well and won't be harmed if you have to thaw it by putting it in a saucepan and heating it up from frozen.  Plus, what else are you doing on Sunday afternoon?

Okay, it doesn't have to be a Sunday, but whenever you have a few minutes to fill a pot with water and roughly cut up some vegetables, followed by an hour or two where you are puttering around the house and can check on the pot once in a while.  Like a Thursday night after dinner when you're poking around the internet reading food blogs, hanging around in case your hypothetical children need help with their hypothetical homework.  Or in the wee hours of the morning if you're an early riser and the weather's too nasty for a long dog walk.

I know you can buy pre-made broth or stock in tins and tetra-packs.  You can even buy them in the organic section.  Or you can substitute water.  But don't.  Water doesn't give you the layered-flavour richeness of broth.  And even if you can find a commercial broth that you can honestly read the ingredient list and sodium content and be happy purchasing, that broth someone else made won't fill your house with the smell of nuturing, hand-crafted coziness.

Five Things to do with Chive Flowers

Having been over-run with chives earlier in the year, we are now over-run with chive flowers.  It's a good problem to have, so much so it isn't really a problem: for starters, the flowers are awful pretty, so they make us happy whether we use them or not.  But even better, they are edible and we like eating flowers.  Admittedly, there is a myriad of ways to use the flowers, but here are our five favourites. 

Any suggestions?  Fefe says she is tired of chive flowers, but caribougrrl is still looking for more ways to eat them.  Leave us a comment!

ONE:  Chive Flower Mayonnaise

The thing that makes chive flower mayonnaise is that although you make mayonnaise as usual, you add chive flowers to it.  Sometimes simple ideas are the best.

2 egg yolks

3 chive flower heads

1/4 tsp salt

1 tsp hot mustard powder

2 tsp white wine vinegar

1 c. sunflower oil

Take the eggs out of the fridge well before making the mayo; you want the yolks to be room temperature or slightly warmer.  Choose big full chive flowers, rinse them off, and get rid of any bugs or debris in them.  Once dry (go ahead and help this along by rolling gently in a clean tea towel), pull the individual flowers out of the head.

In a medium mixing bowl, whisk together egg yolks, chive flowers, salt, mustard and vinegar until combined and smooth.  The next part, the bit that really makes the mayonnaise, is tedious and boring but very simple... unless you lack patience or stamina, you can't really go wrong.  You will find lots of advice for ways to make mayonnaise with a blender or food processor, but in my experience you will get your best results by hand whisk.  As an added bonus, painstakingly hand-whisking oil and eggs into mayo gives you the opportunity to experience a small miracle and really puts you in touch with food production in a personal way.  This is a highly satisfying job.  

Right then, ready?  Add oil a drop or two at a time, whisking until fully incorporated (no liquidy oil spots visible).  Keep adding a drop or two at a time until it emulsifies quickly and easily.  Take a moment to stretch out your hand and forearm, and start adding the oil in a slow thin stream, whisking constantly.  If you start to see a slick of oil on the mixture, stop adding oil and whisk until incorporated.  Take occasional breaks as needed to rest or stretch your arm.  Or rope someone else into helping.  Keep adding oil slowly until you get the desired thickness.  This is not aioli, don't make it runny.  If you come to the end of the cup of oil and it's too thin, add more oil.

Transfer to a clean jar and store in the refrigerator.  This will keep only a couple of weeks, so use it!  

Variation -  Fermented Chive Flower Mayonnaise:  If you want to make a mayo that lasts for months rather than weeks, add some whey and lacto-ferment it.  I find it pretty successful taste-wise; the texture is not quite as nice, but the trade-off is preservation.  That means you can make a double or triple batch after making an angel food cake or meringues to use up the yolks, even if you don't have immediate plans for the mayo.  Here's what you do:  drain some yogurt with active bacteria in it to get the whey (the liquid that drains off).  Add 3 tbsp of whey to the recipe (1-1/2 tbsp per egg yolk) and reduce the vinegar to 1 tsp.  Mix the whey in with the other ingredients before adding the oil.  The mixture will take more than a cup of oil with the additional liquid, so just keep adding until it feels right.  Transfer to a clean jar with a lid, store at room temperature in a dark place (like a cupboard) for 7-12 hours.  I know, it's counter-intuitive to leave mayo at room temperature, but that's what you do; this is when the good probiotic bacteria culture the mayo and increase the shelf-life. You need to let them do their growing magic so they can prevent the growth of dangerous bacteria.  

Among other uses, chive flower mayonnaise is a great dressing for summer potato salad and an excellent topping for cod and crab burgers.

TWO and THREE:  Chive Flower Vinegar and Quick-pickled Chive Flowers

Make Wholesome Ireland's Chive Flower Vinegar.  Infusing white vinegar with chive flowers turns it a fantastic shade of pinky-purple, gives the vinegar a subtle but undeniably present onion-y chive-y flavour.  The vinegar adds some charm to your salad dressings and I suspect is delightful on fish & chips.  As a bonus:  Follow the full instructions and when you strain the vinegar, reserve the quick-pickled chive flowers and eat them too.  Fefe Noir says that, sprinkled with salt, the pickled chive flowers are just like strong pickled onions: perfect with a punchy cheese.

FOUR:   Chive Flower Pizza Dough

Use the recipe for dandelion flower pizza dough, substituting pulled-apart chive flower for the dandelion fluff. The chive flowers are less subtle so you might want to reduce the volume (or not, they're very tasty) or use whole grain flour (or not and keep the chive flowers highly visible).  What more can we say?  Makes a really good pizza crust. 

FIVE:  Chive Flower Felafel

Add chive flowers and chives (or substitute for part or all of the parsley) in your favourite felafel recipe.  Mmmmm...

Three Cheers for Rhubarb!

One batch of rhubarb cordial turns into three summer drinks.  Perfect for warm evenings on the front porch.

From the Left: The Rhubarb Sangria, The Rhubarb Royale, and The Rhubarb Daiquiri.  One batch of rhubarb cordial provides the extra-special not-so-secret ingredient for all these drinks.

The Rhubarb Daiquiri

(for a pitcher)
1/2 c. freshly squeezed lime juice
1-1/2 c. rhubarb cordial (see recipe below)
1 c. amber rum

(for an abstemious single drink)
1 oz. freshly squeezed lime juice
3 oz. rhubarb cordial
2 oz. amber rum

This is not the over-sweetened slushy stuff you get at Thank God I Don't Work Here on two-for-one Tuesdays.  We have provided the measures for a single daiquiri, but make a pitcher.  Really, make a pitcher.  This is a rock star of a drink.  

Mix all the ingredients in a glass pitcher sometime in the afternoon, like just before you weed your garden or take your dogs for a long walk.  Chill in the refrigerator.  Rim serving glasses using a wedge of lime and dredging in sugar (we like a martini glass for this).  Put the glasses in the freezer.  Go do something outside for a couple of hours.  Give the daiquiri a stir before pouring into chilled glasses and enjoy.  Here's the good news: because you made a pitcher, there's another one waiting for you.


The Rhubarb Royale

(per single serving)
1 oz. rhubarb cordial (see recipe below)
3 oz. dry white cava

Pour one ounce of rhubarb cordial in the bottom of a champagne flute, top up with cava (about 3 oz.).  Garnish with a curl of fresh rhubarb (a carrot peeler works perfectly for this).  You could, of course, substitute champagne or other sparkling white wine for the cava, but why would you?  Cava is a beautiful bubbly, made in the same method as champagne and is substantially less expensive than similar-quality french champagnes.  

When we were moving from Ontario to Newfoundland, we took our time driving out.  In Nova Scotia, we spent a few days at Risser's Beach Provincial Park, taking a break from the road, picking up sand dollars in the surf, and making ridiculously pretentious meals on our campfire (like fire-roasted beetroot and goat cheese salad).  One day when we were too hot and tired for cooking, we drove down the road to MacLeod's Canteen and had fish & chips (some of the best fish & chips we ever ate, incidentally) and rhubarb fizz.  We went back the next day for more rhubarb fizz.  We are fans of fish & chips (who isn't?) but the rhubarb fizz completely stole the show, and we talk about periodically even now, 11 years later.  The Rhubarb Royale is a grown-up (that is, alcoholic) tribute to that rhubarb fizz on the beach.

Hey... where did this cat come from?

The Rhubarb Sangria

1 c. rhubarb mash (by-product of rhubarb cordial, see below)
1/2 c. brandy
1/2 c. freshly squeezed orange juice
1 bottle cheap red Spanish wine   
orange wedges for garnish
ice cubes

In a blender, puree rhubarb mash and brandy.  Pour rhubarb-brandy mixture into a glass pitcher or carafe (the container needs to be able to handle 1.5 liters of liquid).  Let the flavours mingle for a little while (long enough to fold a load of laundry or do some dinner prep work).  Add orange juice and red wine to the pitcher, stir thoroughly.  Serve over ice in red wine glasses or tumblers, garnished with a wedge of orange.

Use an inexpensive red wine for this, but not one that will leave you with a headache. So pick a red wine you might drink on it's own, but stick to the lower price range that you typically buy from (we used a temperanillo).  The rhubarb matches the wine for flavour and there's a lovely subtle burn from the brandy; altogether a beautiful way to boost your fiber intake and get a good dose of antioxidants; not to mention all that vitamin C between the rhubarb and the orange juice.  Oh yes, we're totally selling this to you as a health-food... 

How to Make a Ridiculously Easy Rhubarb Cordial

recipe adapted from Eat Like a Girl

2 lbs. rhubarb, chopped roughly (thumb-sized hunks)
1-1/2 c. water
1 c. (scant) sugar

Combine rhubarb, water and sugar in a heavy bottomed saucepan.  Bring to a boil over medium heat and cook for about 15 minutes, until rhubarb is softened and has broken down and become stringy.  The sauce should be slightly reduced and thickened.  Stay in the kitchen while the rhubarb is cooking and watch your pot -- it can boil over suddenly if you aren't paying close attention (ask me how I know).  Remove from heat and let cool about a half hour (hey, that's enough time to read a couple chapters of that book you are trying to finish!).

Left: Rhubarb chopped into thumb-sized pieces.  Right:  The thick stringy stew ready for straining.

Strain the liquid into a jar or other suitable glass container:  this is the cordial, congratulations, it really is that easy.  The cordial will keep refrigerated for about a week.  If you want to save some for later, freeze in ice cube trays or other appropriate-sized containers then transfer the frozen blocks to freezer bags to make your freezer space more flexible.  Reserve the rhubarb mash for sangria (above) or to use in smoothies in the next couple of days.  

Most cordial instructions tell you to use a jelly bag for straining.  We bought a jelly bag a few years ago and used it exactly once:  for some reason, jelly bags are cat hair magnets, so it didn't last long in our house.  We use a drip coffee system for straining cordials, jellies and such the like, and have found it has a couple of advantages.  Firstly, the gold mesh filter does not seem to capture cat hair.  Secondly, there is not need for creating a complex string and weights hanging system; you just set the filter on top of your jar and don't worry about it.  Plastic drip holders and filters come in a couple of sizes (mug sized and coffee pot sized), are pretty inexpensive and a lot less messy than mucking around with muslin or jelly bags.  

Dude, where's my rhubarb?

In which Fefe Noir and caribougrrl search the countryside for abandoned rhubarb patches, embarrass a fish monger, and make a surprising discovery close to home.

We stopped in Perry's Cove to have a quick look for rhubarb and took advantage of the scenery to take a picture
of what 4 lbs of fresh cod looks like.

Over the last couple of weeks, we have been using a lot of rhubarb; partly because it is rhubarb season but largely because it has been a bit of work perfecting a particular rhubarb recipe for the blog.  Something we've discovered with this blogging business is that "this is great, next time we should try this or tweak that" is fine when you are cooking for yourself, but it doesn't pass muster when you are cooking in order to tell someone else how to make something.  Through the jigs and the reels, we have exhausted our rhubarb supply.  We have exhausted the supply of rhubarb we can politely beg from our neighbours.

Fefe had a tickle in the back of her mind of having seen a decent rhubarb patch somewhere, that looked like it didn't belong to anyone.  Maybe along the shoreline?  Maybe at an abandoned house?  Somewhere in Newfoundland for sure, she thought.  Fefe, by the way, has a poorly developed hippocampus. We figured even if we didn't find the patch from her memory, there are enough derelict homes around that we might strike gold on our rhubarb mission.

There are some great old houses, sadly abandoned,
but that's the way of things.  Watch your step for sheep
poop, but some apple trees and raspberry canes to keep
in mind for future forays. 

It sounds a bit shady, I know... but think of it like dumpster-diving for rural people.  Food left uneaten simply because it's not actively tended.  (We did have cash in our pockets and were prepared to buy some at a roadside stand if necessary.  But free is better when it doesn't cause any harm.  So a-scavenging we went.)

At a Sunday-drive pace, we meandered through Carbonear and Freshwater with no luck, but it was early still.  Heading into Victoria, Fefe and I startled the dogs (happily snoozing in the back seat already) with a burst of excitement.  Not rhubarb, no.  As good or better: a sign for a fish truck!

The significance of this is probably lost on most, if not all, of you reading here.  Firstly, in Newfoundland, it's not at all strange to stop on the side of the road or in a parking lot and buy fresh, frozen or salted fish from a truck.  Up until sometime last summer or fall, one of these trucks was permanently situated on the south side of Harbour Grace.  So for years, we bought our fish across the harbour from the house.  Lovely.  But then the truck was gone, and until the moment we spotted that fish truck sign, we hadn't found one convenient to home for buying local fish.  So what luck, right?  Whee!

He was out of halibut and scallops, so we went for the fresh
cod.  Note the greens hanging in bags in the background.

In all the ado I forgot to ask the very charming fish truck man his name, but: the fish truck is in Victoria on Thursdays and Saturdays, and in Clarke's Beach on Wednesdays and Fridays.  He was happy enough to let us take a picture of his set up, but turns out to be camera-shy himself.  Or maybe we just startled him with what must have seemed like disproportionate exuberance? (I have to confess that when I get excited about something, I talk too much and too fast and it's possibly overwhelming if you were planning on a calm, steady, ordinary day of selling fish.)  In any case, he waved away the camera and ran for cover.  

Since we had just started out, not yet found rhubarb, and were reluctant to turn back, we bought some ice at the gas station up the road and turned our rhubarb basket into a makeshift cooler.  Did I mention that when I'm excited and talking too much, I sometimes take leave of my senses?  I bought 4 lbs of fresh cod (there are only two of us) AND a big bag of turnip greens (our garden is full of both salad greens and cooking greens... I mean, it's evident the absolute last grocery item we could possibly need is leafy green veg, but there you have it, I just had to have some).

caribougrrl wore her favourite rhubarb-hunting footwear,
 but to be honest, you'd have trouble finding an event
that she didn't think of as an excuse to wear rubber boots.  

As an aside, but an important one if you ever plan to tour Newfoundland by car, the drive we continued on is part of the Baccalieu Trail, one of the official "scenic routes" of the province.  Newfoundland has few roads and most roads outside of St. John's that aren't the Trans Canada highway, are coastal, so driving almost anywhere in the province is part of a scenic route.  I don't mean to sound dismissive... the scenery really is spectacular in a wild-fantastic tumble-into-the-ocean way.  Not that we noticed, eyes trained as they were to try and pick out patches of broad deep-green leaves breaking up the otherwise scrappy early summer vegetation.  Incidentally, the blueberry plants are heavy with flowers right now, and not that I'm wishing time away, but I'm already looking forward to berry season.  


We diverted whenever the road looked reasonably safe and occasionally pulled over to check out some promising vegetative patterns (no luck).  We spotted a few lonely looking rhubarb patches that on closer inspection appeared to belong to a house being lived in.  We took the dogs for a walk at Perry's Cove (no rhubarb) and toyed with the idea of knocking on a couple of doors where the backyard rhubarb looked like it wasn't being used.  Yet in the end, our mainlander selves got the best of us and we decided to keep looking rather than be sociable.

In Ochre Pit Cove, there was a brilliant looking patch of rhubarb that seemed to belong to an obviously empty and unused house.  But so many neighbours out about.  Deciding to wait for a more covert opportunity we pressed on.  The gas gauge by now was getting a bit low; worrisomely low actually.  We went past a few abandoned properties taking a mental note to check on the way home if we didn't have better luck before then.  There are some really huge rhubarb patches tended in front yards and back yards along that stretch of coast.  We began to develop rhubarb-envy.  When the gas station I knew would be our saving grace in Northern Bay turned out to be closed down, we decided that was the signal to turn ourselves around and head back.

Those abandoned properties we saw earlier were too long abandoned.  If there had ever been rhubarb, there wasn't any more.  But some good finds anyway:  a few apple trees in bloom, though from the evidence at the scene, we might have to fight through some grazing sheep for them come fall (I am only mostly kidding, I wouldn't aggravate sheep just for a few apples, and we do have an apple spot already, but you never know when you need a second picking ground).  But those are the breaks, sometimes these scavenging trips are a bust.  For good measure, we kept going slowly and kept our eyes peeled all the way home.  And forget the money in our pockets, not only had we spent it on fish and greens, but there was nary a roadside rhubarb stand to be seen.    

When we'd finally given up, easy walking distance from
home, there it was.  The mythical feral rhubarb!

A few hours after we'd started out, feeling a teensy bit disappointed (but we had fish!), we drove back into Harbour Grace.  Which is when Fefe Noir was struck by a metaphorical thunderbolt.  Harbour Grace.  Along the water.  Walking distance from home.  THAT might be where she'd seen the rhubarb.  

The full haul.

Sure enough, precariously clinging to the edge, there it was.  A rogue patch of beautiful rhubarb, likely taken root after being dumped with other yard waste over the edge.  So we got out, sat securely on what we hoped was solid cliff-edge and plucked enough rhubarb to both meet our immediate needs and ensure some new growth. 

Likely part of the reason we exhausted our own rhubarb is that we have been picking it incorrectly over the last few years and thereby not encouraging it to spread.  As it turns out, you should not cut it with a knife.  Grab and twist those suckers right out of the ground. (If you'll allow me another diversion, here is where I confess that I grew up parented by gardeners, gardeners who know how to maintain rhubarb, gardeners who undoubtedly taught me how to pick rhubarb.  I should have paid better attention.)

Fully successful and feeling rather pleased with ourselves, we took our bounty back home.  We ignored the spatchcocked chicken in the fridge prepped for our supper; it could wait another day.  What we needed at the end of this day was obvious: fresh cod, wrapped with sage in bacon, cooked on the barbecue   Life doesn't get any better.  Well, it does, but if I told you what we drank with it, that would spoil an upcoming post...

Bacon and sage wrapped cod.  Life could be worse.

  

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.