Appreciating Fennel

Years ago my sister won a scholarship to study in Florence. Being a good sister, I made the oh-so-difficult decision to visit her in springtime. One of my many fond memories of the trip was smelling anise when walking around. "Oh, that's the 'finocchio,' wild fennel," my sister said. I loved the scent, but neither my sister nor I developed any particular enthusiasm for fennel itself.

My indifference has basically continued to this day. When I see the fronds from afar, I think "Dill!" and get disappointed when I see my mistake. This is not to say I never eat fennel. Once in a while, especially when I see a nice bunch in the Union Square Greenmarket, I'll buy some and eat it raw, thinly sliced with a generous sprinkle of salt.

But this member of the carrot family fennel does have many enthusiasts -- like my friend Hiroko. I'll let her take it over from here.

I like to use the whole fennel, including the fronds - they have a nice green color - in salads, but sometimes markets in the US sell them with the fronds removed. I guess they are too bulky and take too much space on the store shelf. So it was a nice surprise when I found a fennel with whole fronds attached in a Tokyo supermarket.

It was so gloriously tall and bushy - look how it was compared to
a 5ft tall kid!

In the summer, I like to eat fennel raw in a salad. It's super easy to prepare! Just remove the tough core and outer part, then slice the fennel think with a mandoline. 

I like fennel with orange (quite refreshing) - it tastes like celery with a bit of anise flavor, so it goes well with the sweetness of orange.

Or with thinly sliced zucchini and a mustard vinaigrette.

When we're in Switzerland [Hiroko's husband is Swiss], we often eat fennel with roast meat. [Editor's note: Avert your eyes! This is a vegetarian blog.] 

On my recent trip to Munich, I obviously enjoyed the city too much, with copious amount of sausage and beer, so I was eating roasted fennel for breakfast and drank fennel tea. They help digestion.

It really worked (so I went out to eat more) !

Now who couldn't appreciate that?

Greetings from Costa Rica

Do Costa Ricans come to our fruit markets and think, "What the heck is that?"

I wondered about this as I marveled at the variety and novelty of the produce revealed in this photograph taken by my sister at the Mercado Central in San Jose, Costa Rica.

Just one single photo and yet so much to check out.

Up on top: Kiwis, got it. They're probably called "kiwis" in Costa Rica, too. When I traveled around Europe on an Interrail pass after college, "kiwi" was the one constant. If you're "kiwi" in Hungarian, believe me, you're "kiwi" in most languages.

The other easy one, with the center/left position: Mandarina, or mandarin oranges. Even if there's some confusion on the mandarin/orange/clementine front, we're basically on pretty firm ground with the popular citrus fruits.

I also see some pears, cantaloupe and avocado on the top part of the picture, with nary a sign to contradict me.

As we go down the picture things grow a bit more exotic.

In the bottom left corner, we can see the sign for "Pitahaya."  Pitahaya,
more commonly known in the US as dragon fruit, is an outstandingly photogenic fruit so it's a bit of shame to exclude it from this - or any - photo. Still, it's an old friend, with just enough familiarity and strangeness to be the star of our most popular "What the heck is that" blog post.

Another "What the heck is that?" friend, rambutan, is located in the center/bottom of the photograph, and is here called "Mamon Chino," which I learned, thanks to this blog, means "Chinese sucker." I can't wait to incorporate this new insult into my vocabulary! The "sucker" part of the name presumably comes from sucking out the fruit after removing the rambutan's thick, spider-firework peel, although I'm not sure how different that is than eating many other kinds of fruits; the "Chino" comes from rambutan's Asian origins.

Finally, the really exotic. 

Is that a pile of guava on the right side? Does the sign read "Guavahi"? The Spanish word for guava is "guayaba," not "guavahi," which, come to think of it, doesn't seem like a word at all. Come on, fruit vendors in overseas produce markets, take some pity on me and work on that penmanship. In exchange, I'll do a blog post on guava (or its even more mysterious cousin, guavahi) soon.

My heart rate quickened at the sight of the pile of "anona" in the center - they looked just like cherimoya, a luscious tropical fruit that I love. Other tropical fruit with army drab armor include guanabana and many other varieties. Tough skin on the outside, ice cream-like flesh inside. Wise farmers all over the warm world - Central and South America; Northern, Central and Southern Africa; the Middle East; South and Southeastern Asia - grow members of the armored family, whose fruits have inviting names like "sugar apple" and "custard apple." Anonnas, as they are known in English, closely resemble cherimoya but have segmented flesh that hugs the fruit's shiny seeds.

Finally, two kinds of Jocote. According to a description from Tasty Tropical Fruits in Costa Rica, jacote are eaten when unripe (green skin) and fully ripe (red or yellow skin), but the fruit is tart either way: “Initially upon biting into the fruit your tongue is bombarded by an intense wave of sourness which then subsides into a semi-sweet flavor with a chalky texture. The closer to the pit you get, the sweeter the fruit becomes.” If, for some reason, you want to see some Nicaraguan guys hanging out and eating some jocote, check it out here, and marvel at the full range of possibilities You Tube offers. Jocote seems to be the same fruit as siriguela, one of the sour fruits of Brazil's Northeast featured in my friend-of-friend Isabel's slideshow of Brazilian fruit.

Jacote is a fruit which looks like a small deformed golfball and its colors range from green to yellow to red. The fruit can be eaten both when its skin is green and unripe as well as once it has matured and turned red or yellow. Ripe and unripe alike, the fruit maintains a tartness to its flavor. Initially upon biting into the fruit your tongue is bombarded by an intense wave of sourness which then subsides into a semi-sweet flavor with a chalky texture. The closer to the pit you get, the sweeter the fruit becomes. It is also possible to eat the skin of this fruit as well!
- See more at: http://www.schooloftheworld.org/tasty-tropical-fruits-in-costa-rica/#sthash.j3JJvjkp.dpuf

Jacote is a fruit which looks like a small deformed golfball and its colors range from green to yellow to red. The fruit can be eaten both when its skin is green and unripe as well as once it has matured and turned red or yellow. Ripe and unripe alike, the fruit maintains a tartness to its flavor. Initially upon biting into the fruit your tongue is bombarded by an intense wave of sourness which then subsides into a semi-sweet flavor with a chalky texture. The closer to the pit you get, the sweeter the fruit becomes. It is also possible to eat the skin of this fruit as well!
- See more at: http://www.schooloftheworld.org/tasty-tropical-fruits-in-costa-rica/#sthash.j3JJvjkp.dpuf

Jocote isn't just another tart, Vitamin C laden fruit in Costa Rica: a jocote tree served hosting duties in April 1842 for the peace treaty that overturned the government of Barulio Carrillo. The treaty became known as the "Pacto del Jacote."  Take that, cherry tree that George Washington allegedly cut down!

Whew. That was a lot of information in one photo! Of course, plenty of questions remain. I would be remiss if I didn't comment on the prices, thoughtfully included in the photo. At 532.90 Costa Rican colon to $1 US, the price of 2,500 is $4.75, the cost per kilo for ripe jocote, dragon fruit and rambutan. Cheaper still are the unripe jocote at 1,000 colon/kilo. Why so much cheaper if both varieties are tart? A good question. Anonas are less than half the cost (1200/kilo) of the rambutan, etc., which strikes me as an incredible bargain. 

The real question: how soon could I get there?

The Cult of the Sour Cherry

They're elusive. They're delicate. Their growing season is short. They make a brief appearance in select markets - I counted only a few sightings at the Union Square Greenmarket - and none at all at most gourmet stores. Consequently, their fans, an "almost cultlike following," in the words of the New York Times, have been known to head to farms to pick their own. My sister planned her her backyard garden with them in mind, and has reorganized and replanted repeatedly, hoping for some success.

Just what is about sour cherries that warrants such devotion?

"They are perfect," my sister said when I posed this question to her."Their shape and size are very pleasing. Their flavor is perfectly sweet and sour. Their texture is nice and light, not as dense as sweet cherries, although I like sweet cherries too. If only they weren't so hard to come by."

Sadly, my sister's sour cherry tree looks more like her fig tree than this lush beauty.

So it's off to the market.

For those who blinked and missed the Greenmarket's crop of sour cherries, a pilgrimage must be made to Brighton Beach. Forget hipster Brooklyn enclaves like Gowanus  and Red Hook that are making the "Brooklyn" brand an international shorthand for coolness. For produce lovers, this Russian area is Brooklyn's best neighborhood. This rule applies doubly for enthusiasts of produce that is popular with Eastern Europeans.

In case you're wondering if sour cherries fall into this category, take a look at this UN Food and Agricultural Organization chart (courtesy of Wikipedia) or a rival chart about sour cherry production embedded in this Power Point presentation.

Rank	Country	Sour cherry production in Metric Tonnes
1	Russia	235,000
2	Ukraine	178,000
3	Turkey	140,000
4	Poland	138,000
5	Serbia	116,000
6	USA	98,000
7	Hungary	82,000
8	Germany	80,000
9	Iran	51,000
10	Georgia	15,000
11	Moldova	15,000
12	Belarus	15,000
13	Denmark	14,000
14	Albania	8,200
15	Croatia	7,500

(For those Russians who can't cope with sour cherries' short season, there's always компот (compote). 

Sour cherries fall into two categories: the dark red morello, which have red flesh, and rosy red amarelle, which have pale flesh. (Compare the picture at the top of this blog post with the picture below.)  Montmorency cherries, an amarelle variety, are the most widely sold in the US.  

But how do sour cherries stack up against  "regular" Bing cherries? I bought some of each to find out.

As you can see from the pictures, sour cherries (on the left) are smaller and rounder and a little lighter in color. Their flesh is less dense than the Bing cherries' and their taste is - no surprise here - tangy and and a bit pucker-worthy, less uncomplicatedly sweet than the Bings' taste. Both kinds of cherries were very pleasing. In the interest of being thorough in my research, I ate all of both kinds.

Sour cherries have a different nutritional profile than sweet cherries. They have a little less sugar and fewer calories. Their tart taste is also associated with their high concentration of antioxidants. 

According to researchers at Oregon Health & Science University, sour cherries have "the highest anti-inflammatory content of any food." A roundup of the health benefits of sour cherries by the National College of Natural Medicine is impressive: tumor reduction in parts of the gut; improved quality and duration of sleep (because of sour cherries' melatonin; decreased post-exercise muscle soreness and inflammation; and greater strength following exercise. Choose Cherries, the website of a trade group that promotes sour cherries, lists studies that link sour cherries to reduced risk of heart disease; reduced risk of stroke; reductions in the inflammation associated with arthritis and gout; and reductions in blood cholesterol and triglycerides. The American Chemical Society's Journal of Agricultural & Food Chemistry suggested that sour cherries might be helpful in lowering diabetic people's blood sugar levels and increasing insulin production, prompting the author of its announcement to write, "Perhaps George Washington wouldn't have chopped down his father's cherry tree if he knew what chemists now know."  

Of course, before there were chemists analyzing sour cherries' health benefits, there were chefs creating sour cherry delicacies: sour cherry soup (fondly recalled as a summertime treat by my Viennese neighbor Rose), kriek lambic beer, Persian sour cherry-saffron rice, Turkish nectars and syrups, and my husband's favorite dessert, cherry strudel. (He, like other Upper East Siders of a certain vintage, still mourns the loss of the great Mrs. Herbst but gains comfort in the existence of Andre's Cafe and European Bakery.)

And you needn't be from Eastern Europe or Western Asia to appreciate the culinary possibilities: the US has its own ode to sour cherries: cherry pie.

But when you're torn between fried cherry pie pockets and medicinal "superfood" tart cherry powder - a divide that nicely epitomizes our oftentimes crazy approach to food in this country - remember, there's a lovely fruit in there. 

And you don't have to be a cultist to enjoy it.

Grow Your Own, Part 2

I don't have a backyard like my sister does, so my balcony garden is a strictly containers-only arrangement. In the past I've grown - I mean attempted to grow - interesting and ambitious stuff such as cantaloupes and raspberries. The raspberries did fine on their own, but the cantaloupes required pollination. This work is normally falls under the job description of a bee, but our balcony is on the 16th floor, where the flying insects are typically mosquitoes. The one and only time I saw a bee, it was interested only in the tiny flowers of a basil plant. "The cantaloupe flowers, you stupid bee! Go to the cantaloupe! What's your problem?" I shouted, jabbing my finger at the showy blossoms of our cantaloupe plant. Amazingly, the insults and crazed pointing didn't work. The bee ignored me and continued its engagement with the miniature basil buds. My husband ended up pollinating the cantaloupe blossoms with a paintbrush. The plant yielded netted one cantaloupe the size of a softball, thoroughly inedible.

This year I grew some sensible and very good stuff: very sweet cherry tomatoes, flavorful hot peppers and a range of herbs.

I've been pretty delighted with this year's garden. The basil in particular has been bountiful enough to share - the true pride of the summer gardener.

But there's no sense in getting cocky. There in the corner, is the fig tree, faithfully watered in its doomed container with odd bits of failed seed growth and an expired dill plant. 

That's okay. I grew up in a Mets fan family, a cult in which irrational optimism is given voice in the cheer: There's Always Next Year.  

My Sister's Garden

Over the weekend I paid a visit to my sister's garden. The fig trees look about the same. To use a euphemism, they look "dormant," though if it's any consolation, their dire situation is part of trend so widespread it prompted a New York Times article, "A Fig Tree Dies in Brooklyn, and Other Boroughs."

But my sister's other plantings look great.

Blueberries!

 

  
Tomatoes!

Strawberries!

Parsley!

Corn!

Broccoli!

Grapes!

 

 Pears!

Of course, even a successful gardener is entitled to a little envy. 

Despite my sister's best efforts, her sour cherry tree - planted in in homage to our grandmother's sour cherry tree in Far Rockaway, Queens - and because she really, really likes sour cherries - isn't doing so well. But unlike fig trees, cherry trees don't seem to be suffering from general blight this year. Check out this beauty, thriving on East 19th Street in Manhattan, that prompted a pang or two:

Evidently we're not alone in our admiration of this tree - its lowest branches were suspiciously free of fruit. (My grandmother's tree was popular with humans, birds and squirrels alike, though the humans were the most aggressive grazers, causing a disproportionate denuding of the lowest branches.) In case you're wondering, I'm innocent - at least of this particular crime.

What's growing in your garden?

Grow Your Own

The determination some folks have to grow a lawn, despite challenging conditions - arid land, tiny plots - is so strong that it requires psychological insight. One compelling theory suggest that human beings possess a deep impulse to recreate the African savanna, the cradle of human existence, by cultivating a lawn.

Are my sister and I similarly driven by powerful forces in our pursuit of the Rockaways gardens or our youth?

Growing up, we lived in a house with a backyard. Our home was 9 blocks from the ocean, barely within the New York City limits. Our backyard had toads, roses, honeysuckle and best of all, a fig tree, courtesy of our next-door neighbors who had planted a tree right up against the lot line. Every summer would bring a bumper crop, with zero effort on our part. Our generous neighbors were happy to share the bounty - a very good thing, considering that most jurisdictions accept the legal theory that whoever's lot houses the tree trunk owns all the fruit as well. Thank you, Stern family!

Of course, I fantasized about having a similar agricultural experience on my Manhattan balcony. Last year I bought a small fig tree at the Union Square Greenmarket. It developed lush foliage but no fruit. I wrapped it like a mummy to withstand the winter's frost, and have been tending it it carefully since springtime. Here's how it's going so far: 

Sigh. The weed in the corner is obviously doing a lot better than the fig tree is. 

I'd blame the container the fig tree is in, but my sister's two fig plants - one from the Union Square Greenmarket and the other from a botanical center - aren't doing much better, and hers are in the ground in her garden.

A gardening guru told her not to worry; dead-looking fig trees were capable of rebounding in early summer and even bearing abundant fruit by summer's end.

In a an ode to Brooklyn's fig trees, the food writer Melissa Clark attested to this phenomenon, writing,

[I was told that] fig trees are forgiving; if they die in winter, they can come back from the roots and bear fruit. I can vouch for this. That first winter, I wrapped my fig tree in old blankets, giving it a bucket for a hat. In spring, I unwrapped the tree. Everything else in the garden flourished. The mint and lemon balm grew tall and fragrant. The roses budded. But the poor fig tree remained adamantly brown, and I was scared I had killed it. Finally, in June, I gave up hope and lopped off the branches to stake my tomatoes. Then in July, I noticed my tomato stakes were pushing out leaves, and the stump in the barrel had started to grow. Suddenly, instead of one fig tree, I had six. I kept the hardiest of the lot and gave the others away. Now, my tree is laden with darkening fruit, branches bending under the weight. Every year the yield increases. First I got 2 figs, then 5, then 20. Now it's too many to count.

So we keep watering and keep harboring hope. 

Meanwhile, the farmers in Union Square have gone into floral overdrive, taunting me a bit with their lush greenery.

One plant in particular continues to catch my eye.

So far I'm holding strong and just tending to the fig tree I have rather than buying a new one. Really, I have no reason to think a replacement plant would necessarily fare any better. 

Besides, if I want a hardy plant, I know what to grow - a plant chock full of Vitamin C and calcium and more beta-carotene than carrots. 

And on a 16th story balcony, feral cat pee shouldn't be much of an issue.