What the heck is that? Jicama

Not every fruit or vegetable is a showstopper. Not every kind of produce is gorgeous or dramatic or just plain weird.

Some produce items have a quiet kind of charm. Jicama is in that camp.

It's hard to image a less attention-grabbing look than jicama's. Jicamas are squat and dun-colored, and like potatoes, jicamas are tubers. Native to Mexico, the jicama was brought by Spanish colonialism to the Philippines and from there, elsewhere in Asia.

What accounts for the multi-continental spread of this modest root vegetable? Perhaps this very modesty is the secret source of the jicama's popularity.

First, as a root vegetable, jicama keeps very well. Dry, temperate storage (not refrigeration) can keep the jicama usable for months - the essence of low maintenance.

In taste, too, the jicama is modest. It tastes like a very mild, starchy apple, with a light, refreshing quality that lends well to many uses. It can be eaten raw or included in a stir-fry -- with never a fear that it will overpower a star ingredient, spice or condiment.

Jicamas are often found showcasing the great Mexican flavors of lime and hot peppers (or its kissing cousin, hot sauce). Sounds good to me!

To make a modest and refreshing Mexican snack, peel the jicama. Rid of its tough outer skin, the jicama bears a striking resemblance to a water chestnut - albeit an extraordinarily large water chestnut.

"Preparation" thereafter is extremely simple: just cut into thick matchsticks.

Some salt, some lime and your choice: hot sauce or finely diced jalapeno.

That's it? Really? Okay, you could put it on a plate.

Or add it to a platter of crudites, for a color pop against the red bell pepper and baby carrots. Julienne it and add to salads. Serve it with creamy dip or hot refried beans. Jicama can be counted on to bring a refreshing, mild taste and satisfying crunch to whatever you have in mind.

You can cook with jicama, too. Any dish that could incorporate water chestnuts is fair game for jicama - soups, stir fry, pot stickers. Jicama is a good team player.

I'm sure jicama wouldn't mind this praise - even if it would never go out of its way to draw attention to itself.

Siempre Es Primavera - Guest Blog Post from Mexico City

As this never-ending winter grinds our spirits into filthy slush, it's cheering to think about spring - anyone's spring.

My friend Bethanne has been spending a lot of time in Mexico City, which has a famously mellow average temperature of around 60 degrees. It's always springtime there!  This is sounding mighty attractive right now.

Even better, Mexico City has massive markets that draw upon Mexico's unbelievable agricultural bounty, and a tradition of displaying produce - even at modest roadside stands or hanging out near the socks and toys - in aesthetically pleasing ways.

Playing peek-a-boo near the nopales (pads from the prickly pear cactus), avocados and chayotes, a crisp member of the squash family.

Radishes, herbs like cilantro and mint, and attractively bound young and mature onions occupy market space as proudly as movie tie-in plushies.

Even black trash bags on the ground can make a nice backdrop for flowers, squash, prickly chayotes and mushrooms.

Of course, if the humble roadside stand looks good, imagine what a real market stand will offer!  Citrus fruits, apples, bananas, green pomegranate, peaches, magenta dragon fruit and the scaly monster-with-a-sweet-heart guanabana.

This market photo showcases more dragon fruit, beautifully cut red pomegranate, limes, guanabana's relative, cherimoya, and sapodilla (recently seen in the Filipino markets as the more diminutive chico.  

If huge bunches of herbs (I think I'm seeing oregano, laurel culantro and epazote, among others) are sold next to bags of cement, you know they're pretty central to a country's cuisine.

Similarly, huge bins of dried chile peppers - anchos, chiles de arbol, moritas (chipotles), pasillas, etc. - prove the centrality of these flavor powerhouses in Mexican cuisine.

I'm feeling warmer already. Thanks, Bethanne!

What the heck is that? Tamarind

When my friends Anna and Rabi took a trip to the U.S. Virgin Islands, I said the same thing I say to all my traveling friends: "Send me some pictures of the produce! Send me some pictures of the produce markets!"

Anna said that the town she visited was too small to have an interesting market. Instead, she took a picture of something else that I found interesting: a tamarind tree.

Anna’s husband Rabi is originally from Sri Lanka, where tamarind is extremely popular. Actually, tamarind is popular all over the world. The word “tamarind” comes from the Arabic words “tamar hind,” or ”Indian date,” but tamarind’s popularity extends far beyond just South Asia. The tree is indigenous to Africa, but now grown in warm spots everywhere. In Mexico, tamarind is a big star, showing up in Jarrittos sodas, agua fresca beverages and ices. Just about every tropical country has some candy or jam that features tamarind, and many cuisines, such as Thai and Indian, use tamarind to give recipes  dishes a certain sweet-sour piquancy. Evidently English colonists couldn't get enough either: tamarind is a key ingredient of Worcestershire sauce.

Here are some highlights from the extensive tamarind foodstuff collection at Kalustyan's, the wonderful international spice store: juice, two kinds of candy, chutney, paste, concentrate, etc.

More recently, however, I’ve started to see something even more interesting for sale: fresh tamarind. I've found it in Chinatown, naturally - all interesting produce sooner or later shows up in Chinatown - and East Harlem, which has many groceries catering to Mexican shoppers. 

I had to try it.

The picture on the tamarind box was pretty accurate: brown pods with a crackly shell and a sticky interior. A twiglike vein ran the length of the pod, and seeds hid underneath the sticky fruit.

The tamarind pulp was certainly tropical fruit-sweet, like dates or dried bananas, with the puckery tang that has made tamarind popular in cooking.

I got into a bit of a groove: Crack off a bit of the shell, peel off the rest. Loosen the twig-vein, which I found somewhat repulsive. Bite off a section of tamarind. Spit out the shiny seed. Chew the tamarind pulp.

Contemplate whether in fact I liked tamarind. Decide I wasn't sure. Reflect on the flavor's similarity to fruits I don't particularly like - bananas, dates - but acknowledge that this sticky sweetness is offset by the tamarind's tang, which I did enjoy. Consider the need for for more experience of that flavor. Bite off another section. 

When there was no more tamarind pulp left to chew, I was forced to acknowledge that I did like tamarind, won over, as millions or even billions of people have, by its sweet-sour charms.

It's hard to argue with a pile of seeds, twig-veins and shell bits.