The Local Food Report: turnip tops

Anna Henning is on a mission: she wants everyone to start eating turnip greens.

In case those gangly greens up there don't convince you, I'll lay out her reasons.

For starters, she calls turnip greens the Best of the Best when it comes to nutrition. We've all heard about beet greens, sure, and Swiss chard, but the fact is, when it comes to things like vitamins A and C and calcium, turnip greens blow those other greens right out of the water. (Kale is the exception to this rule; it has one and a half times the vitamin A and two and a half times the vitamin C. If you're interested, check it all out on nutrition data.com.)

Beyond the health benefits, though, turnip greens just taste good. They're crunchy, and sweet, and just a little bit spicy, and when you cook them down, they get wilty and smooth, perfect for wrapping around pasta or serving with mashed potatoes alongside a nice cut of meat. They're the kind of thing you might want to stir into a batch of Portuguese kale soup, or sauté in bacon fat for a bacon-egg-and-toast lumberjack side treat.

And last but not least, Anna says, pulling up a turnip and throwing its greens into the compost is a colossal waste.

Anna is a farmer—she grows with Bob Wells at Redberry Farm, off Schoolhouse Lane in Eastham—and when I talked to her, this was a three-person campaign. She was in, and Bob. and Heather Bailey, who makes those ridiculously good scones that I get every Saturday morning at the farmers' market in Orleans. And although I have to admit I was a little skeptical at first, after taking a bite, and then another, and then sauteing up a whole mess of turnip greens with sausage and garlic and cream, the campaign now counts another convert in me.

PENNE WITH SAUSAGE, GARLIC, AND TURNIP GREENS

I always like the combination of sausage, greens, and penne—there is something hearty and rustic about it that suits this season just right. Turnip greens are an excellent stand-in for the usual chard or kale, and if you like broccoli, the stems of the turnip greens make a nice addition along with the leaves. Slice them like you would celery—they have a sweet, spicy flavor, and add a nice crunch.

1 pound sausage links, cut into 1/2-inch rounds
2 tablespoons olive oil
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup white wine
3/4 pound turnip greens (with stems or without, depending on your taste), coarsely chopped
1 cup heavy cream
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 pound penne pasta, cooked

Brown the sausage over medium-high heat in a big, deep cast iron skillet. Set aside, leaving any remaining fat and browned bits in the pan.

In the same pan, heat up the olive oil and sauté the garlic until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Pour in the white wine to deglaze the pan; simmer until reduced by half. Stir in the turnip greens.

Cover the pan, turn the heat down to medium low, and let the greens wilt down a little bit.

After about five minutes, remove the cover, turn the heat back up to medium-high, and add the cream. Season with salt and pepper to taste and simmer for a minute or so to let the cream thicken up.

Add the pasta and the reserved sausage. Toss well and serve hot.

An extra large pot

I am a firm believer in the power of soup.

A good soup, I am thoroughly convinced, can fix a lot of things. And in the past few weeks, I've heard of quite a few people in need of help.

For starters, there's Alex. We spent yesterday in the emergency room at Cape Cod hospital. Everything is fine—he just got boarded at his Sunday morning hockey game is all—and they thought he might have broken his clavicle, or maybe a few ribs. But he didn't, and although it hurts when he breathes deeply and his arm is in a sling and he is acting just the slightest bit loopy from all the vicodin, in the big scheme of things, he is a-okay. Groovy, really, compared to what could have been.

There's also the issue of my father. Last week, he broke his nose playing basketball. (Clearly, we need to do something about these mens leagues!) My mother took him to the doctor, who told him he would have to wait a week for the swelling to go down, and then, once he was starting to feel a little better, they would have to break his nose all over again. They recommended he go under general anesthesia for all this, but he courageously declared that if women can endure childbirth, than surely he could do this. (Go PAPA!)

There have been other people we know, too, weathering more difficult things. There's my mother's friend who just had a (successful! curing!) double mastectomy, and Alex's aunt who just survived open-heart surgery. But of course, none of these really compare to the main event going on down in Haiti. Figuring out how to respond to a crisis like that is going to take a lot more than soup.

There is so much to do in Haiti that it's hard to know where to start. People injured in the earthquake need medical help, of course, and food and water most urgently. Children need to be reunited with their families and parents need help searching for aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and grandparents. Even more overwhelmingly, in the long term, a whole society needs to be rebuilt. This will take money and materials and laborers, and it will also take time. Internationally, everyone will contribute what they can, and eventually we will get the job done.

But in the meantime, it's hard to know what to do. Nothing heals overnight—not a country of survivors, or a broken nose, or an opened-up heart. I'm not much good at flowers, or get-well balloons, or even always cards, but I can always make soup. I made a batch this weekend—sautéed onions and carrots and mushrooms and sausage with a rich red wine and beef broth and thick blooms of kale and red kidney beans and farro hanging about. I brought some over to Alex's aunt, and I sent the recipe to my mom to make for my dad, and I heated Alex up a bowl when we got home from the hospital last night. If I could send an extra large pot down to Haiti, I would.

It isn't much, I know, but it's what I know how to do, and it comes with the best of hopeful thoughts in mind.

FARRO SOUP
with sausage, dinosaur kale, and kidney beans

The thing I like about this soup is that it is both delicious and truly good for you. There isn't an unhealthy bone in its build—unless you count the sausage, which I don't so long as it comes from a pastured, anti-biotics-free pig. The only unusual ingredient is the farro, an ancient variety of wheat also known as emmer. We discovered it through the grain CSA we joined this year (thanks to Andrea! more on that soon!), but it is also fairly readily available at health food stores. If you can't find it locally, barley would make a fine substitute. Also, we used ground pork sausage for the meat, because that was all we had, but I have a feeling if you had something more Italian sausage or kielbasa-like, it would make an excellent replacement. Oh! and one more thing: for the mushrooms, we used dried and then rehydrated shiitakes from Julie Winslow, but any other dried mushroom with the same depth of flavor and heft, like a porcini or an oyster, would be fine.

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 cup yellow storage onions, chopped
1/2 cup carrots, chopped
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon rosemary, fresh or dried
1/2 pound pork sausage
1/2 cup mushrooms, coarsely chopped
salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste
1 cup crushed tomatoes
1 cup red wine
3 cups beef broth, preferably homemade
6 ounces uncooked farro, rinsed and soaked overnight
1/2 pound kale, coarsely chopped
optional, but good: some sort of cheese for topping (grated Parmesan, feta, chevre, etc.)

Heat up the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot. Sauté the onions over medium-high heat for about five minutes on their own, then turn the heat down to medium and add the carrots, the garlic, and the rosemary. When the vegetables have taken up most of the oil and the onions are translucent, add the sausage. Wait a minute or so until it starts to brown, then add the mushrooms and salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste. Continue cooking, stirring frequently, for another three minutes or so, until the mushrooms soften and the sausage is cooked through.

Add the crushed tomatoes, the red wine, the beef broth, and the farro, cover the pot, and bring the soup to a boil. Turn the heat down to simmer and continue cooking, stirring and tasting occasionally, until the farro is almost tender, about 45 minutes. At this point, add the kale, and season the soup again with salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste. Simmer the soup, still covered, for another 15 minutes or so, or until the farro is soft and chewy. Serve the soup hot, and if you decide to go for the cheese, sprinkle it on top.

No turning back

A week ago, our garden looked like this:

That's the broccoli rabe, in full bloom. It sort of got away from us, the way I imagine your child's years in elementary school might, in that eerie way that makes you sit down and realize suddenly one day that poof! a whole experience is just gone. There's no turning back with the broccoli rabe: in March, it was a seed, and now suddenly, without warning, we've gone full circle, straight to the bolting stage. 

The worst part is, we missed most of the edibility part. 

Supposedly, the bulk of that happens before the flowering, during a green, tight-headed budding stage. I can't be positive, but I'm fairly sure that this came and went while I was 3,000 miles away in Seattle, because when I returned, we were already headed toward full-on blooming yellow. I kept hoping for a mix up, but when the seed pods emerged, there was really no use in pretending. I cut the last handful of tender florets from the base of the plants, and sent the rest to the compost heap.

Then I pulled out some sausage out of the freezer from the pig we bought at Paskamansett Farms last fall, a box of shells left in the cupboard from who knows when, and a head of garlic, and sent the rapini off in good old-fashioned Italian style. (The Italians think sausage and broccoli rabe are a match made in heaven, and they are absolutely right.)

This particular match came from a compendium of recipes put together by the editors of Cook's Illustrated called The Quick Recipe. Everything in it is fast and easy and carefully tested according to criteria like doesn't use too many pans and doesn't require too many fancy ingredients. And of course, since it's Cook's Illustrated, they accomplish all this in a long-winded, adventurous sort of way that ends in triumph without any sacrificing of flavor or good taste. 

I changed a few things—butter instead of oil, grated cheddar instead of Parmesan, a bit more chicken broth, and of course, the sausage from our pig—but for the most part, this is a test kitchen invention from Those Who Try Not To Dirty Pans. 

Of course, ahem, they borrowed a bit, too. I have a feeling if the Italians came over right now and saw us out on the porch, rabe and shells and ground sausage in hand, they just might understand.

BROCCOLI RABE & SAUSAGE, WITH SHELLS

This is a very good dish for the cool, gray nights we've been having. Like the weather, it strikes a sort of compromise between spring and summer—it's heavy and light all at once.

1/4 pound medium pasta shells, cooked, drained, and set aside

2 ounces ground pork sausage

2 small cloves garlic, minced

a pinch of red pepper flakes

a pinch of salt

1/4 pound broccoli rabe

1/2 cup chicken broth, preferably homemade

1/2 tablespoon butter

1 ounce cheddar cheese, grated

In a large sauté pan, cook the sausage over medium heat until it browns. Turn the heat down to low and add the garlic, the red pepper flakes, and just a pinch of salt. Stir constantly until you start to smell the garlic, about a minute. Turn the heat up to medium-high and quickly add the chicken broth and the broccoli rabe. Turn down the heat, cover the pan, and let the rabe steam for about two minutes, then take the cover off and continue cooking until the liquid evaporates. 

Remove the pan from the heat, and toss the broccoli rabe and sausage in a large bowl with the shells, the butter, and the cheese. Eat hot.

The Local Food Report: Red Russian Kale

Kale, you are one tough cookie. February, the coldest month, and you're still going strong. Even under a blanket of snow?

You have some serious hutspa, that's for sure. From what I've gathered, it's a build up of sugar that makes you so strong. You use the sugar to push water from inside your cells into the extracellular zone, where it can freeze without doing you any harm. Now who came up with that?

Whoever it was, I think we both owe them a tremendous thank-you. You survive the winter, and we have charming winter greens. Hurrah!

The funny thing is, the person I met you through planted you by mistake. She meant to plant Eastham turnips, but picked your seeds up instead. I'm guessing you knew that all along, but chose not to say anything. I understand.


But the long and the short of it is, you turned out to be a wonderful mistake. Not necessarily financially, as you require quite a bit more work, but for those of us who simply can't take another day of root vegetables. In that department, you've been a miracle worker. Especially for the shoppers at Orleans' Phoenix Fruits. You get dropped off there most weeks—when the snow has melted for a moment or two, allowing your planter to pick—in a big, red, bushy case. She thaws you out in a bowl of warm water, lets you regain your strength, pats you dry, and you're off. You're Red Russian kale, after all, not just some everyday face. You could run out any day, any storm now, but that's okay. You're doing everything you can to see us through.


I like you especially in soups. The other day your planter left you for me in a cooler by her field, and I conjured up a big, burly pot of Portuguese kale soup: sausage and Maine kidney beans, stored potatoes, onions, and garlic, a bit of beef broth, and crushed tomatoes I'd put up towards the end of summer. It is one of my very favorite soups. You cooked down to the perfect consistency—hardly limp and lifeless like spinach—but instead soldiering on, limber and proud.

I can't thank you enough.

PORTUGUESE KALE SOUP

adapted from a recipe that Mac's Seafood serves at their clam shack on the Wellfleet Town Pier

1/2 to 1 pound (depending on which of these you choose, and how "meaty" you want the soup to be) sausage, chorizo, or linguica, in bite-sized bits
1 medium-sized white onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups red kidney beans, soaked overnight, or until soft (simmer in water before adding to soup, if needed)
3 medium-sized potatoes, diced
1 quart crushed tomatoes
1 quart beef broth
1 large bunch kale (I used Red Russian, but whatever you can find locally will work)
salt and pepper to taste

Sauté whatever meat you choose in a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot over medium-high heat. When it has rendered a good amount of fat, add onions and garlic, and sauté until translucent. Next add potatoes, sauté for several minutes more, and then kidney beans. Keep stirring and season with salt and pepper to taste (but remember you will be adding beef broth, which adds salt).

Deglaze the pan with about a cup of the beef broth, let it reduce by about half, and add the rest along with the crushed tomatoes. Depending on how juicy your crushed tomatoes are, you may need to add a bit of water at this point. Bring soup to a boil and simmer, uncovered, for about 15 to 20 minutes. Throw in the kale and taste again for salt and pepper, adding seasoning as needed. Continue stirring from time to time, and cook until liquid has reduced by about 1/3 to 1/2 and has formed a nice, slightly thick broth.

Serve hot. This soup is especially good peasant style, with a chunk of hard white cheese and a hunk of county sourdough.

The Local Food Report: dry-cured sausage

The white stuff, I've been informed, is good. That's a good thing, because there's certainly a lot of it. I went down to see David Schneller's sausage hanging workshop—in a basement cellar behind Abbicci—before the restaurant closed.

(Word came November 21 that the doors had suddenly closed, apparently because of hard economic times.)

Nevertheless, I have happy memories of my trip underground. There were steep stairs, a sterile room, a hefty fan, and row upon row of penicillin covered meat. That's what the white stuff is—the good mold, white penicillin. It adds flavor, acidifies the meat, and helps ward off less friendly bacteria as well.

The curing season started back in the fall—when temperatures dropped into the 50s and 60s, and humidity began to hover around 75 percent. This is also when worries over flies desist, and when it becomes expensive to keep around a pig or cow, rather than slaughtering it for meat. The days of fresh pasture and outside living are over, and winter weather requires feed and a barn. As Schneller put it, it's the time when preserving the meat as sausage simply starts to make good economic sense.

His sausage recipe is more science than art. It has to be done in a refrigerator, with all the ingredients kept very cold. He relies not on measurements, but weights, and there are no pinches or sprinklings involved.

That's because making sausage can be scary. It's not the type of thing you want to experiment with if you don't have a plan. Preferably, it's best to have someone overseeing you who's done it before, and knows—so to speak—the lay of the land. This is because the meat starts out raw, and never really gets cooked. Instead it ferments, like sourdough bread or beer, and anyone who's experimented with either knows the process is a bit of a trick. It helps to have a teacher along the way.

(Luckily, most people who make sausage say it's easy to spot one gone wrong. It will lack mold, or have air pockets, or develop brown spots, all signs of botched meat.)

With all that in mind, I offer Schneller's recipe—or basic proportions I should say—and recommend that if you're interested in sausage, you find a mentor before you dig in. At the very least, it will save you wasting some expensive local meat.

BASIC SAUSAGE PROPORTIONS

10 lbs. pork butt

2 lbs. fat back

2 oz. curing salt

1/2 oz. sugar

1 oz. salt

To read an article on dry-cured sausage about history and safety from the New York Times, visit this link. 

For more on safety procautions when making sausage, check out this USDA sausage storage & safety chart.

For more info on where to by local meats, check out the "Shop like a local" list to your left.