What the heck is that? Concord grapes

On a recent visit to the Union Square Greenmarket, I noticed that farm stands with super-fragrant, thick-skinned and deeply purple Concord grapes attracted almost as many bees as the beekeeper who brought a huge honeycomb.

Bees aren't the only fans of the grapes. "Concord grapes make your taste buds sing!" my friend Jen says.

Concord grapes, distinguished by a complex, winy flavor and "slip skins" that separate easily from the grapes' flesh, get their name from Concord, Massachusetts. In the 19th century, Concord was home to intellectuals and free-thinkers, including Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, and their grape-growing neighbor Ephraim Wales Bull, who cultivated and cross-bred species of the native grape vitis labrusca into Concord grapes. Two interesting articles about Concord grapes, He Sowed, Others Reaped: Ephraim Bull's Concord Grapes and The Syrupy Tale of How Jews Invented Kedem and Modern America, note Thoreau's August 28, 1853 journal entry about the fragrant grape crop:

I detect my neighbor’s ripening grapes by the scent twenty rods off, though they are concealed behind his house. Every passer knows of them. Perhaps he takes me to his back door a week afterward and shows me with an air of mystery his clusters concealed under the leaves, which he thinks will be ripe in a day or two—as if it were a secret. He little thinks that I smelled them before he did.

Ephraim Bull's Concord grape became very popular but - unlike today's fruit breeders and propagators, who can patent an agricultural product - Bull made little or no money from the nurseries all over the country who grew and sold Concord grapes, nor from the "Dr. Welch's Unfermented Wine" that Thomas Welch, a dentist/ Methodist minister, sold as non-alcoholic communion wine. (Thomas Welch's son, Charles Welch, transformed this Concord grape juice into Welch's Grape Juice and marketed it to wild success at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair.)

Nowadays Concord grapes are best known for their presence in Welch's Grape Juice and the jelly in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But why aren't they also in lunchboxes?

"Americans hate seeds, regardless of how the fruit tastes," my fruit vendor buddy Osman, frequently observes. Concord grapes' thick skins are also considered a turnoff for mass marketing.  But we're lucky in New York - at least Concord grapes on our radar, especially this time of year. New York State's Finger Lakes region, about a 5 hour drive north of Manhattan, is a major producer of Concord grapes, mostly for wine production, and consequently, Concord grapes and New York City have a vivid history together that includes basement winemaking by both Italian immigrants in Williamsburg and Red Hook and Jews on the Lower East Side. (Not to mention backyards throughout the City, from my childhood next-door-neighbors' to my my sister's garden, that feature grapevines no one remembers planting.) 

And Concord grapes are not the only hardy, thick-skinned, super-fragrant grape game in town. The Greenmarket market had a variety of blue, magenta and white grapes, both seeded - Concord-style grapes have larger seeds than European varieties do - and "seedless" (i.e., containing tiny vestigial seeds).

Here's my score card:

Concord: the original and the baseline. How far can you spit the seeds?

Mars: What's not to love? Just like Concord - but seedless!

Jupiter: Seedless and more oval than Concord and Mars. Perhaps my favorite of the Concord-y family.

Caco. Red-magenta rather than purple-blue. Seeds. Good flavor.

Canadice. Basically looks like Caco only with slightly smaller grapes in slightly denser clusters. Seedless. Very tasty!

Delaware. Seedless and tasty. Could I really tell the difference between Canadice and Delaware? Yes, but only because I took careful notes! There's another seedless red variety, Vanessa, that looks just like Delaware and Canadice. I haven't seen it this year (yet).  And the green grapes: Niagra. They are indeed known as "White Concord" and are the most popular of the green Concord-type grapes. Some of the wine sellers, for example, sell Niagras.  They have thick skins and seeds but a lighter scent and taste than Concords. Marquis. Seedless, but eh. Underwhelming. Lakemont. Seedless. My favorite of the greenies! Himrod, another green variety, made a blink-and-you'll-miss-them appearance at the Greenmarket this year. To be honest I don't remember much about them other than that they were (1) green (2) seedless and (3) good. Our old buddy, the Cornell University agricultural program lists many other varieties. As you can see from the picture of the Marquis grapes, these grapes are not always picture perfect. The dense clusters sometimes promote mold and rot. There is considerable variety even within the vine, with some grapes sweeter and more flavorful than others. I think of Concord grapes as a Northeast greenmarket kind of produce, but that's naive. Everything is grown in California -- and almost every kind of produce ends up in Chinatown.  So I shouldn't have been surprised to find a package of "Concord-Niabell Grapes" for sale at a Chinatown vendor. Wilson Brand's packaging featured Chinese writing and enthusiastic health claims about Resveratrol and Polyphenols and antioxidants. But "Niabell"? What the heck is that? As it turns out, basically California's version of Concord grapes. So even this most seasonal - and to me, New York-centered - of grapes can be part of the Endless Summer.

Happy Halloween!

I think the best use of winter squash is eating it, but it would be churlish to ignore these other celebrations of pumpkin. 

Happy Halloween! 

What the heck is that? Wasong

It looked like something you'd fine growing in the jungle or possibly at the bottom of a fish tank. It was the strangest item of produce I had ever seen at the Union Square Greenmarket.

Was it even edible?

I couldn't help notice the resemblance the scary item had with a neighboring vendor's collection of succulents and cacti.

Fortunately, the strange stuff had a sign. It said, "Wasong (fimbriate orostachys) anticancer herbal." 

What the heck was that?

Their sign claimed the following: 

You will love this mild medicinal plant from the cactus family. Finely chop it and add it to any dish for added texture and health benefits. Great in omelets, hearty soups, quesadillas, etc.

Strong anti-cancer, anti-inflammatory, immune-enhancing activities and effective in the prevention of skin aging.

Remarkably effective to cancer patients! 

I found out that Orostachys is a class of succulents that are indigenous to China, Korea and several other Asian countries. The vendor, Lani's Farm, is owned by Koreans, and members of the oroistchys family have a long history in Korean folk medicine. 

Is orostachys remarkably effective? (If you didn't know how easy it is to make claims about health benefits, even in more formal settings - for example, the label on pills, here's John Oliver to inform you.) Some internet sleuthing yielded articles such as Anti-Ulcerogenic Effects of the Flavonoid-Rich Fraction from the Extract of Orostachys japonicus in Mice, an article written by four Korean university professors published in a publication called Medicinal Food, that concluded that their research provides "evidenced-based support" for the traditional use of orostachys japonicus, another member of the family, for gastric cancer, ulcers and lesions.

Wasong also makes an appearance in the School of Chinese Medicine's Medicinal Plants Images Database , where it is associated with "arresting bleeding, detoxifying and curing sore." Wasong is also one of the components of this "Shaolin Training Formula," designed to "quicken the blood," "rectify qi," and "strengthen the sinews and bones."

And what of the food side of "medicinal food"?

The wasong sign's instructions to "Finely chop it and add it to any dish for added texture and health benefits" made me wary - especially when a suggested food to which the wasong should be added was "hearty soups" - i.e., a strongly- flavored brew in which a weird "finely chopped" item could hide. Whatever happened to adding food that contributes good flavor (rather than "added texture") to the dish?

Nevertheless, I was intrigued - especially when another sign appeared.

This sign, which included what I assumed was the word "wasong" in Korean, also touted wasong's "strong anti-cancer, anti-inflammatory, immune-enhancing activities" and its effectiveness "in the prevention of skin aging." But its food applications were "salads and juices with yogurt," and its taste was likened to "purslane with sour and tart overtones."

Good news! I really like purslane. And salads are juices aren't the hiding spots that a "hearty soup" is. I was getting optimistic about my weirdo cactus! I tried three different kinds of the wasong.

Verdict: I know purslane. I've eaten purslane raw; I've eaten it sauteed; I've eaten it on its own; I've eaten it with other stuff, such as tomatoes or watermelon. And you, wasong, sir, are no purslane.

As a food item, wasong tastes like something you're eating medicinally. "Sour and tart overtones" is a euphemism for chalky, sour and weird. The wasong's texture was the only thing that reminded me of purslane.

Adding the wasong to a salad would probably just render the salad odd and unpleasant tasting, but I did want to finish up the wasong - on the off chance that the three stalks would stave off cancer, inflammation and aged skin.

Grapes to the rescue!

I ate as if I were a toddler being fed by a kind and determined parent: One bite of wasong, one bite of grape. One bite of wasong, one bite of grape. There, that wasn't so bad, was it sweetie?

Soon the wasong was all gone. I doubted that I would ever become a regular consumer of this herb anytime in the near future.

Good thing I still had another nutritional powerhouse right on hand - a wonderful source of the phytonutrient resveratrol and other health benefits. And there were still a few left on the stem.

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!

 

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.