Your Edible French Garden

"I had never heard of eating carrot tops until I met Tom McCombie. I was actually a little skeptical, so before I asked Tom for the recipe, I checked to make sure carrot tops were edible." – Creasy, from Edible French Garden










The little French garden is truly the centerpiece for French cooking. By quick comparison, we think about that fine salad that we order from any given number of fine restaurants here where we live, and it still seems to often be that little random mix of greens on hand – hopefully not iceberg, but one never really knows.

Creasy offers up a series of possibilities for using the harvest right outside the kitchen door – a roasted garlic spread, a green aioli, and the reference from above, Cream of Carrot Top Soup, which turned out, for Creasy's sampling, an absolute delight. For this recipe, it call initially for the creation of a stock mixed by sauteed onion, garlic, butter and thyme for seasoning. Add to this 2 medium potatoes peeled and chopped and let simmer for half an hour, then puree to desired consistency, adding cream if desired.

Finally comes the carrots themselves. She calls for us to "pick over the carrot tops, removing any stems or yellow leaves" then plunging them into a pot of boiling water. After only a touch of the boiling heat, the greens also then get pureed. One can just about imagine the smell of the two separate purees at this point – carrots have one of the more distinct, earthy, bright smells of all vegetables. Serve the soup by filling the bowls first with two thirds of the carrot, then ladling the green puree in the middle, creating layers that no doubt resemble the layers of carrots themselves.

As I write this, it seems like an almost overly simple description, but it seems to reflect a bit like the very process of making real soups from the potager garden – simplicity is the very essence of it all, and trying to highlight the distinct flavors of the fresh ingredients themselves. A little touch of thyme over the top; maybe the potatoes come from a little portion of the garden? Fresh as possible cream? It takes just little steps of extra time to do the nimble work of the kitchen garden.

Pima Canyon

"Give me a hidden eddy
a residence free from dust and noise.." – Cold Mountain












I would take all day long
the perch from above the desert houses
where the canyon ridgeline
is its own long and narrow home
I could follow the open steps
of bighorn sheep trails that branch down
through the nighttime saguaro
holding lamps of moonlight for me

Pima Canyon

"the unobstructed spirit is clear
the empty cave is a mystery
a finger showed me the moon
the moon is the hub of the mind." – Cold Mountain










I stood alone near the courtyard gate
it looked out over an unused tennis court
net sagging from sun and neglect
tumble weeds rolling across the broken lines
for a moment you can place yourself
into another generation as Pima Canyon
in the distance would not have changed
saguaros watching so young and green

Pima Canyon

"I longed to visit the eastern cliff
countless years until today..." – Cold Mountain, 9













Some day we will walk beyond
the false horizons of Pima Canyon
you must let go of everything
to disappear into the Seguaros and Prickly Pear
Bighorn trails will branch to hidden arroyos
miners caves and snake dens silent
we'll look down from the sandy turrets
and find the city is a feast of clouds  

French Garden Encyclopedia

"Asparagus are a passion in France." – from Edible French Garden









Asparagus seems to be one of those garden staples that has yet to be effected by the hands of monoculture tampering. That is to say, a good stalk of asparagus, if ripe, if hopefully local, still holds onto what must have been an ages old taste of the raw woods combined with the sort of silkiness and creaminess when cooked that only it can produce. With wonderful names like the Argenteuil and the Jersey Knight and UC 157, what's not to love except for the fact that we don't see enough of them being bred into the world. My favorite image of asparagus is a wild patch that I had once seen on some old and unused land from a family farm. The area had only a few solo stalks spriting randomly

up out of the ground. By themselves, and when not expecting to see them, asparagus are quite a sight, long, barblike, dark green, one can only be left to wonder why the wildlife had not plucked this up just yet. Cut those down at the base, and we know the rest. French chef's it is said go ahead and peel the stalks before cooking, then boil those until tender and cover with mere salt and pepper or hollaindaise. Maybe use leftovers for the omelete the next morning. No matter how you look at it, asparagus is quite a gem and would have to claim a sizeable portion of my own potager garden.

Pima Canyon

"..thousands watch her briefest dance
but surely this won't last
the hibiscus can't bear cold" – Cold Mountain 7











By firelight we listed to Flamenco Sketches
as the wind behind us blew down
dusty graveyard of stones and Seguaro
and dove into the cool blue pool water
along the perimeter javelina scouted
as the witchy trumpet of Miles cried
up into the pink horizon for audience
close your eyes you'll hear the desert sing

Pima Canyon

"...a lost traveler here
looks in vain for the sky." – Cold Mountain, 6












Without the golden buds April
here is still held by dying winter
the backs of surrounding bluffs
stiff and dark like ragged coats
a few house wrens settle into
scarce pines above the bays
and the lonely lover of sunlit trails
waits inside lamp lit rooms

Pima Canyon

"Looking for a refuge
Cold Mountain will keep you safe..." – Cold Mountain












A brief walk last night around
the Council Ring at Arboretum
sent my mind back to Pima Canyon
so many circles of rock
and dry dust barely a person in sight
so when do you feel safest –
among the burr oaks or saguaro
or the highway full of metal ghosts

Pima Canyon

"The Cold Mountain Road is strange
no tracks of cart or horse..." – Cold Mountain










2

Take away the roads to foothills
and you have the bright green
flags of the thousands of seguaros
an untouchable landscape rough
by weathered rock every trail
an accident through blades of pear
through the cross thatched ochotillo
where one could learn to live again

Pima Canyon

"Towering cliffs were the home I chose
bird trails beyond human tracks..."  – Cold Mountain











1

Days of living among the Seguaro gone
fine green homes for trail birds
the Pima women used to sit around
their base and collect flowers for home
no true mountain freedom left
only trails mapped out with detailed guides
there's something of a truth gone-by
only found in the desolate rock bent desert

Inside the Catalinas

"A man could be a lover and defender of the wilderness without ever in his lifetime leaving the boundaries of asphalt, powerlines, and right-angled surfaces. We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it." – Abbey, from Desert Solitaire











Finger Rock Trail up Pima Canyon
a perpetual fire of shades of green –
first thing you notice, the sequined
array of the Seguaro, the ochitillo –
prickly pear abloom by a yellow we forget

Stop and look into the thousand little
dens that line the seguaro – common wrens
hole up here, no doubt a subtle feast
from within gaurded against the sun

Foothills lined by gargantuan brick homes;
down below the city rises up from desert,
but all that seems possible up along the trail
as the bedrocks fan out in permanant waves
and the foot has to be careful,
watching, all the while, for crossing
creature from palo verde limbs

Cold Mountain knew the trouble
of cities. The ghosts of a million intentions,
caught up and could never see how
the trail of Finger Rock leads to a nothing
of sage and where the ochotillo
sprawls up like such a foreign fan

and reminds you that...

Inside the Catalinas

"If you had to choose the most romantic corner in the world, what corner would you choose? I know mine. It is a corner that has fired the imagination for three thousand years. It is a corner packed with stirring drama, touched by pathos and deluged with poetry...It is the corner that Homer has immortalized in the first great masterpiece of European literature. It is Troy."
– Richard Halliburton, from The Glorious Adventure








It's no accident that you find Wisconsinites on virtually any trip where there is regular sunshine. Hiking once along one of the more rugged trails in Vail, I had met only one person on the trail – He was walking down and I up. We spoke for a moment, just long enough to find out he had lived in Madison for many years. Head down to Florida, there they are again, bands of them; spend a little time in Arizona, and there they are again. It's not that Wisconsinites need to complain any more than Chicagoans, Minnesotans, or South Dakatans – they all have plenty to complain about as well, no doubt. But there must be something about being landlocked in general farm country with a winter season that, although itself might be withering a little in intensisty due to climate change, does offer up a long and dreary spring, the kind that sets people on their way... any where.

Halliburton had chosen Greece as his final destination in his Glorious travels; Edward Abbey made Moab Utah his most special and lovely place in the class Desert Solitaire. It seems it might be time for all of us to pick one of these. Heading to Tucson tomorrow morning early, well, I think I'll pick that one. Here's a few things I already know: there are nearly 300 days of sunshine located there in the desert. The Wisconsinite, fumbling around in April, comes to think that perhaps we get ten a year. Who knows? I know that Tucson has a range of mountains that I would like to live on, clean my eyes of precipitation for awhile, handshake a cactus, get so hot that I feel I might burst to flames, and jump into some blue pool so cool as to shock the skin off.

As with Abbey, who confided that it was not Moab itself, the city, that was his favorite, but of course the surrounding landscape, the outcrops, the wind swept rocks, his snakes under the cabin, that dazzled him, I feel the same of cities. I might be sipping a tequila in a Baja taco juke, but my eye is out there on the Catalina Foothills, following the contrasts of the blue sky and the brown earth. There is something we come to forget when we are bathed in the drip drip of beige back here in Cheeseland: the sun can make you heal, whether you are even looking for that or not. A comfort, even if temporary, envelopes you much like a childhood blanket, and most of what you run across out there on the city streets or the Finger Rock Trail, become compatible, unified, and you learn to love the world again.

The Edible French Garden

"That my first garden should be in the south of France in an obscure village west of Avignon my seem a bit odd, but life can be like that..." – Richard Goodman, from French Dirt









It's been an ongoing temptation since my original reading of A Year in Provence to daydram away the stark reality of miserable weather here in the midwest by picturin myself inside some cozy village brown brick surrounded by what I now know is called a paterre, or formally designed kitchen garden, usually elevated to a level substrate and, wonderfully, picked at and seeded daily, depending on the soup of the day.

That last part probably captures the essence of the dream better than any other aspect – wild and fresh soups! The obvious visual beauty of the paterre, in all of its various design possibilities (arabesques, grotesques, escutcheons, and so on) is really quite the obvious part of it all. For this, I imagine the daily morning walk along the laced paths, perfectly rounded in spots, trimmed, flowering, and in perpetual harvest. And yet there is something about the strictly visual garden that never quite seems to add the needed motivation to garden.

Instead it's the very drawn out process of the planning of the menu that serves the gardener cum cook with the greates delight...I would imagine. Take your recipe that morning for a wedding soup and begin to assess what is and what is not on hand or by root or leaf. Pick the appropriate flowers and herbs for a garni; clip the single leek; dissect the basil if need be. You are now a full participant in the ways of nature and stove, all by your very own design and handicraft.

Then I realized that I have my own little paterre right outside my back door: a vestige of the design that was left us by the previous owner who had installed walls of the courtyard that held planting beds with its own little irrigation system. What wonderful insight! Along one portion, facing south and west, we have planted our cilantro, our basil, and our thyme; I have, as it turns out, clipped away at the leaves and plucked the lettuce for soups themselves.

Sometimes dreams can stand directly in front of your face. Maybe we spend far too much time assuming that they lie far away in other lands and that only if we had a place there, we would then come to recognize the insight of the paterre. A Year in Provence certainly charged the south of France with a brand new quality of draminess; Under the Tuscan Sun, although inspired by more hairy circumstances, shows us the story of a woman finding her truer self at her country house in Italy, no doubt with the kitchen garden looming somewhere out there on the outer rim of the imagination. Now, what do you do when it is indeed right in front of you?

Someday the Edible French Garden

"Having mastered many French cooking techniques, I was on my way to enjoying great French food at home, but it wasn't until I had my own garden that I could duplicate many of the true flavors of France." – Rosalind Creasy, from The Edible French Garden







It's downright fun to be a newbie in so many realms at once. Like many other home cooks who try their hand at semi-gourmet, I have dabbled in French cooking in the past, taking a cue here and there from Julia Childs (as Creasy had also to begin) and another favorite Dorie Greenspan among several others. There is so much history and depth to the style that as we move through French food writing (I think of Elizabeth David's masterpiece), we see that French culture and French food are often one in the same thing. Add a beautiful language and the luminous Provence, and we are bound to be wrapt by a dream of dabbling a bit more whenever possible.

The edible French garden is a wonderful avenue to get a second look at the underpinning of all those great French recipes. Living in the American midwest, the French edible garden is, of course, not entirely a possibility, but I have always believed that there is a little bit of dreaming involved with cooking inspired from other countries, other cultures. Creasy begins by pointing out three techniques that seem to be of the most importance to cultivating the French garden: precise harvesting, growing baby salad greens, and the practice of blanching vegetables in the garden. And so that seems like a good place to start for the newcomer.

Precise harvesting, she suggests, has to do with the gardener knowing exactly when and how often harvest a variety of delicate vegetables such as haricot verts, the famously named French filet bean, which are "exquisitely tender if harvested when tiny (a sixth of an inch across), but tough and stringy if larger or more mature." This seems like an interesting place to make a quick comparison as we consider our standard vegetable purchasing and usage, which is more than likely dictated by the very maturity that she suggests, and then clumped, usually, into those great bins on the produce shelves at the grocery store. Now I imagine an artful batch, handpicked, tied and well stored, cooked as they should be, and I dare say I would predict a difference in flavor that might be shocking to most eaters of the standard green bean. 'The French go to great lengths to monitor harvesting because they feel that perfect haricot verts, petis pois, and melons are worth the extra wait."

Growing Mesclun Salads has a long tradition says Creasy. This is another word for a Provencal salad that combines many flavors and textures of greens and herbs. "The object is to create a salad that is a concert for your mouth by including all the elements your palate can experience." One can can imagine walking the corridors of the Villandry garden that Creasy pictures at the beginning of her book and picking and choosing that very symphony based upon what looks brightest and most beautiful and that would likely match together well. We see this now with many packages of salad varieties in our own grocery store – the baby argula and spring greens is a good example – but one that could not logically stand up to the creative mixture of the Mesclun. I would imagine that this creative picking is really an another way to get to know your garden and would likely create a sort of partnership that was far more interesting than the head lettuce variety.

Garden blanching is a process whereby the French sort of choreograph the amount of sunlight a particular vegetable receives, also called forcing, and used to actually reduced certain overly strong tastes. These vegetables, she says, are "lighter in color than nonblanched and in most cases more tender. Vegetables most commonly blanched are asparagus, cardoon, cauliflower, celery, dandelions, romaine lettuce, and the chicories, including Belgian endive." We can imagine the process of blanching coming into being by settling our imagination back to a time when it would have been found that some vegetables, although edible, were bitter, stringy, or astringent, but that if they were handled in a different way, placed under some cover, became considerably more manageable. In a way, she points out, we blanch simply because some vegetables are less civilized. For our time, in our grovery store garden, vegetables such as parsips, for example, or rutabega and turnips, are all vegetables that few of us would eat raw, but which when cooked in unison with either other vegetables or a stock, are some of the most satisfying that we can cook with.

Devil My Eggs

"As to the omelette itself, it seems to me to be a confection which demands the most straightforward approach. What one wants is the taste of the fresh eggs and the fresh butter and, visually, a soft bright golden roll plump and spilling out a little at the edges." – Elizabeth David, from "An Omelette and a Glass of Wine"






For years I have thought about the prospect of a little corner cafe dedicated solely to the fine art of eggs. Is there anything that an egg, in some way or another, can't supplement? There were always a few nuanced staples that I thought might work nicely on the menu, recipes that are hearty for dinner, light for lunch, scrambled for breakfast if you like. Could we consider, for example, an egg pizza? I don't mean flourishing the top of the pizza with a few stylish sunny side ups (although that can certainly work as well) but I mean an egg concoction that serves as the crust, supporting any number of favorite ingredients on top, and of course plenty of cheese, a natural partner. Egg in soup? Not a stretch – we already see that in several Asian dishes. Or, taking the lead from David above, omelettes with, say, pot roast tucked nicely inside, so as to satisfy the hunger of the dinner crowd. Egg burritos? Already seen those as well and why not.

For the time being, however, before that little side cafe finds traction along some cute city street not far away from here at the house, I rely on the occasional simple omelette (no roast allowed!) and the deviled egg. Like other quick and easy dishes that leave us wondering why we don't have this particular food around at all times, the Mediterranean Deviled Egg is a wonderful little concoction offering up in their little hollows your proteins, your texture, your vegetables and your dining ease.

This recipe called for the addition of the Greek tziki sauce instead of mayonnaise. This in itself could probably suffice as a wonderful addition, as tziki includes quite a variety of ingredients, including yogurt, cucumber, garlic, salt, perhaps dill, mint or parsley.

This itself gives the cook a series of ideas for what could be. Why not swap out the mayonnaise for a yogurt based sauce at any time? One could see adding virtually anything on hand – aromatic oil, your favorite green chopped up, herbs on hand, and so on. Now, dice up some roasted red bell peppers and toss them over the tziki scoops, and then chop and toss a handful of baby arugula over the top of that, adding not only a friendly visual but a raw vegetable. Sprinkle over with some pepper?

Now, it's possible a person might not be able to live on deviled eggs alone, but it's getting close. I've always felt the deviled is considerably more substantial than other appetizers on standard menus. I could easily see serving a variety of deviled, build your own, from an ingredients list offered on the menu. A glass of white wine along the side and you have the solid bases for that neighborhood restaurant.

In a Small Boat I Could Leave Here

"I often mourn this body that doesn't really belong to me.
When can I forget this life of contention?
The night is deep, wind quiet, ripples smoothed flat.
In a small boat I could leave here
and live out the rest of my life on this river and the sea."
– Su Shi, from "Returning to Lingao at Night, to the Tune of 'Immortal by the River."







It is true that the heart and soul by spring
is leery of finally waking out of winter sleep.
The eye latches onto the new white sheets
of sunshine that drape along the house sides;
spring red-wings and robins spark
the tightly pulled drum of surrounding silence,
and something stirs inside by rote.
Across the street a small river conncted
to a string of ancient glacial lakes.
By water one could escape forever.

Bluebird Diaries

"Shooting the Hundred-Pace Rapids
Su Shih saw, for a moment,
it all stand still
'I stare at the water:
it moves with unspeakable slowness.'"
– Snyder, from "The Canyon Wren"








Big Oak Trail–
narrow little old deer path
in among some budding locusts  dogwood abounds
buckthorn, shooting honeysuckle,
bittersweet vines make up the underbelly
               of half spruce forest
                                        a thousand little accidents

and there is the Quercus Alba
limbs so leafless as to look like clay–
as it stands there by spring a carryover
from old stone farm days
when savannah was the city but no one to write it all down
no one to take the snapshots  no one left us a proper song
       of
          lost
               openings

we walk along the picnic point trail
dog and I
and pull her back from sniffing every touched acorn
every mouse track leaf by leaf
and move closer to the narrowing of the isthmus
where lake water can be seen to either side
city off to the right
ancient glacial formations to the north–
                   used to be all one giant glacial lake

as the city hushes
a university boat comes tumbling up along the shore
picking up experimental buoys

Su Shih talks of typhoon,
"A dragon boat of a hundred tons couldn't cross this river
but a fishing boat dances there like a tossed leaf."
The shoreline in shadow
coarse metal waves dig into the tree-lined rock
but
somewhere back in among
the prairie now – burned for the season –
char-black,
still, gardeners not yet arrived to their plots,

two bluebirds
                        flit up from their built nest
up into a simple basswood,
blue flags

away April to the coming sun

Bluebird Diaries

"...the shadowed bronze
of the kamani and the blue day opening
as the sunlight descends through it all like the return
of a spirit touching without touch..."
         – Merwin, from "Before a Departure in Spring"









Song of the Yue Boatman


We may as well float along the path  for it is but a spit of land  ancient  of glaciation and the city across the bay only modern roots of windows and wall  we may as well float along the path  out ahead where it narrows  past the lagoon  where few people congregate  a string of firepits we imagine all ablaze under an umbrella of dark sky and starts spread down their laces onto the water seeking the sand of the crushed beaches  here we are but boatman of a kind  stand upon your canoe your flatbottom drift along this moveable sky of water what does the scene look like of water of land of sky and stars for you  soon it will be time to hide back in the city back inside the walled lives  prod your boat oar through the shallows of every step  yesterday right here is where the bluebird wept  identified by white breast  identified by how it was a dash of the golden sky and knew nothing of you boatman of the Yue  boatman of the world  and it did not say goodbye  but loved instead

On the Tucson Trail:
Learning to Cook Baja

"When I think of great tacos with fillings off the griddle or grill, my wanders to a little hole-in-the-wall somewhere in northern Mexico where there was a glowing bed of hot coals over which perched a thick iron gate or griddle searing a smoky char into the edges of thin-sliced meat." – Rick Bayless, from Mexico One Plate at a Time










Making the transition from dependent upon the standard variety of Mexican restaurants found here in the cold and chili-less midwest, to trying your own Mexican and Southwest recipes becomes a little intimidating. There are those simplified cookbooks that show you the standards – the taco, burrito, the enchilada, but then you begin to finger through Rick Bayless Mexico One Plate at a Time, and you realize what you should have known all along: authentic Mexican cuisine is bound to be various, historical, and quite different than what you are used to seeing around the block.

Tacos, for example, take on a whole new culinary landscape. Options begin to talk a lot about domed griddles, open coal fires, skirt steaks and poblanos. Or, how's about the Potato-Chorizo Tacos with Simple Avocado Salsa? The American mind weaned on the finely diced and greasy hamburger-based tacos that might climb up the hard corn shell with the likeliest of plain lettuce, chunks of tomato, and maybe a splash of salsa and a layer of chedder turn into something quite wild (more on this recipe later).

The Shrimp Tinga Taco is a nice little marker along the Tucson Taco Trail, with the filling that is showcased by the two dozen shrimp, coated with an orange-chili spice blend which includes dried orange, chili powder, paprika and oregano, simmered with green bell pepper and then the zingy tomato based Tinga sauce. This reduces down a proper stew, quite thick if you let it, then sprinkled over with vinaigrette cabbage and carrot coleslaw for a contrasting texture. Finally, in a nod to the American standard, but completely different in effect, is the famous cotija cheese, the saltiest of cheeses, but a perfect addition to a tomato stewed shrimp. The cotija melts and adds the edible glue. The corn tortillas slightly browned and hardened, and now we are getting a little closer to the Baja.