What the heck is that? Broccoli leaves

Of course, broccoli leaves = the leaves of the broccoli plant.

But who knew these leaves, now collectively dubbed BroccoLeaf, had become their own produce product?

One of my favorite fruit vendors recently had bunches of organic broccoli leaves for sale. A plastic sign tied to each bunch announced the debut of a new vegetable: BroccoLeaf: "The Broccoleaf has arrived," it (virtually) intoned. The sign, ingeniously wedded to a rubber band, declared,

With all the wonderful nutrients of broccoli, the BroccoLeaf provides even more versatility and vibrancy to your food! Add BroccoLeaf to your eggs...Chop BroccoLeaf and add to any salad...BroccLeaf is perfect for pastas and main dishes..Try BroccoLeaf in your smoothie.

It was hard not to conclude that BroccoLeaf had a bad case of Kale Envy. 

What's so great about you?

But I was absolutely ready to cheer on Team BroccoLeaf. Broccoli has been my favorite non-potato vegetable ever since I was Li'l Savant. I was a perfect target for the anything-kale-can-do-I-can-do-better rhetoric.

I usually steam or saute kale, so I figured I'd try something similar with the BroocoLeaf. Kale omelet fans, Power Green smoothie enthusiasts: you know what to do.

The verdict: I'm a BroccoLeaf Believer! It really did taste better than kale - to me, anyway. But I'm the first to admit my limits as a predictor of The Next Big Produce Thing.

If BroccoLeaf takes off, will the garbage areas of the Union Square Greenmarket, with their haphazard piles of cruciferous leaves, be viewed as treasure chests?

And if broccoli leaves become established, thrill-of-the-new chefs will have to go a bit further afield to impress their jaded patrons.

BrussoLeaf, anyone?

Garden variety

"No, you're the one that doesn't understand!" The man walking near me at the Union Square Greenmarket was shouting into his phone. "I know I'm supposed to get an eggplant. But what kind? They have like 4 kinds! And 5 kinds of tomatoes! And 3 kinds of onions! What kind am I supposed to get?"

He had a point. This time of year even the bounty has bounty. And the variety within the items of produce is anything but garden-variety.

Cauliflower!

Beets!

Zucchini!

Cabbage!

Peppers!

Winter squash!

Potatoes!

Broccoli!

Carrots!

Radishes!

Tomatoes!

Beans!

Kohlrabi!

Eggplant!

Chard!

 

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.

What the heck is that? Romanesco

When I've seen romanesco, typically at farmers' markets, it's often been displayed next to the lovely purple and peach colored cauliflower, so I’ve assumed that this groovy-looking vegetable is just another cauliflower variation. But the truth is more complicated.

But before we look into romanesco's DNA, let’s first focus for a moment on its appearance. Romanesco looks like it should inspire a thousand architectural acid trips.

Its color is a lovely lime green. Its shape has been described as "spires and minarets" and "a natural approximation of a fractal." Fractals are shapes or patterns that look basically the same over a wide range of scales. Think of snowflakes. Or think of romanesco, whose little spiral buds join together to make up a kind of giant spiral bud. Romanesco is the the subject of this article by John Walker, called, “Fractal Food: Self-Similarity on the Supermarket Shelf,” which notes,

Nearly exact self-similar fractal forms occur do in nature, but I'd never seen such a beautiful and perfect example until, sometime after moving to Switzerland, I came across a chou Romanesco in a grocery store. This is so visually stunning an object that on first encounter it's hard to imagine you're looking at a garden vegetable rather than an alien artefact created with molecular nanotechnology. But of course, then you realise that vegetables are created with molecular nanotechnology, albeit the product of earthly evolution, not extraterrestrial engineering.

My informal survey about the romanesco's appearance elicited these comparisons and comments: coral reef; space ship; "definitely some kind of stone," "a vegetable pagoda," and "Did Gaudi eat this when he was designing some of his buildings?" 

Back to romanesco's DNA. As Walker notes, in some countries romanesco is called "chou," or cabbage; elsewhere it's romanesco broccoli or romanesco cauliflower. Broccoli, cauliflower and other members of the brassica oleracea family have cross-bred for centuries; cavolo broccolo romanesco (as it is known in Italy) apparently dates back to the time of Julius Caesar.

Which side of the family does romanesco favor? Botanical testing says cauliflower is its closest kin.

My own taste test agrees. Romanesco has its own flavor, reminiscent of cauliflower but sweeter. It keeps its shape well when steamed - you could break it up into florets later - and would make a fine addition to a crudite platter. Sauteing with garlic and red pepper flakes or a squeeze of lemon, as you might with broccoli rabe, is another good option. 

Here it is steamed and coupled simply with some sriracha sauce; other good options would be a garlicky dip or something zesty-Mediterranean, with capers and olives.  They'll play nicely off the romanesco's sweet vegetable flavor, but there's no real competition for its striking looks.