The Local Food Report: Macomber turnips

There is a plaque planted on the side of Main Road in Westport:

For those of you who aren't into squinting, the basic gist is this. A long time ago, back in 1876, two brothers from Westport went to Philadelphia for the Centennial Exposition. It was a huge fair—it went on from May 10th to November 10th and had almost 10 million visitors!—and it showcased everything from art to industry to innovations in farming. The brothers, Aiden and Elihu Macomber, got hung up on a turnip variety descended from Swedish and Russian rutabagas that was called Pure Bristol White. They brought the seeds home, the turnip variety flourished in Westport soil, and people have been crazy for Macomber turnips ever since.

I first tried one the other day, at the Falmouth Farmers' Market. Patricia Gadsby, the market organizer, introduced me to it, and said it's one of her favorite winter treats. She says it has the sweetness of a rutabaga, the crispness of a radish, and the pure white flesh of a turnip. She likes it cooked, mashed up and aerated with a stick blender into an almost mousse-like substance. Or roasted. Or sautéed and served alongside seafood. Or even raw! in a salad!

Patricia found the raw salad recipe the other day, over here in the New York Times. It called for raw turnips, peeled and shaved very, very thin, and tossed with arugula and prosciutto. Patricia recommended it, and I tried it, and I can tell you that it's a revelation. No more cooking-only for turnips. This salad is sweet, crisp, and fresh, everything that winter generally is not. It turns root vegetable rules on their heads, and for that I applaud it.

Have you tried the Macomber, anyone?

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.

In a clammy sort of way

I've been having sort of a clam moment recently. Clam pie, clam chowder, stuffed clams: I'm starting to feel sort of like Bubba Gump, but in a clammy way.

It started with this article I've been working on, for Cape Cod Life magazine. It's about iconic foods of the Cape and islands, and the more I've thought about it, the more I've ended up with clams. 

Plus, the fishmonger closed up shop recently, so we've been eating the leftover littlenecks and quahogs and cherrystones. I know some people might not agree, but I find clams sort of dreamy, in a swirly, salty kind of way. They're just so ruffly around the edges, and all pastel and pretty and pink.

I also found a great clam cookbook: The Cape Cod Fish & Seafood Cookbook: From Basic to Gourmet. The author, Gillian Drake, seems like a down-to-earth sort of lady. Her recipes are short, simple, and to the point. There's no fuss, and no fancy ingredients to necessitate a trip to the store. With good seafood, veggies, and herbs, you can cook just about anything in the book.

She has baked stuffed clams, clams casino, clam fritters—clams with red sauce, clam casserole, clam quiche. She even has spaghetti con vongole: clam spaghetti with white clam sauce, just in case you really need a fix. I tried out sort of a modified clam pie recipe today, and that really did the trick.

I'm not going to pretend it was easy. It did involve a fire in the oven (although I like to think of this as sort of a pre-requisite for any truly winning recipe) and a lot of hands on time, but it was very, very good. It was also nice and hearty, in a very January way.

So here's my take—it's not quite Gillian's—but it certainly involved hers along the way. I stole a few ideas from a beef pot pie I saw in the Williams Sonoma catalog, too, like the cheese in the crust and baking it bottomless in a shallow Le Creuset dish.

(In retrospect, this was not the best idea. When there's no bottom crust for the top crust to latch on to, the beautifully bunched edges simply slide down the side of the pan. I'm not sure how Williams Sonoma got theirs to work, but according to my smoke detector, that's one of those "Do not try this at home" pictures. That said, the crust that did not slide did turn out beautifully, so if you're up for an adventure, it might be worth a try. I'll count on you to decide accordingly.) 

But beyond the fire and a few lost pieces of crust, the pie came out very handsomely. Not to mention, delicious. 

CLAM PIE

adapted from the Cape Cod Fish & Seafood Cookbook: From Basic to Gourmet, by Gillian Drake

Serves 4 to 6

24 cherrystone clams

1 tablespoon olive oil

1/2 cup salt pork, diced

1 cup onion, diced

1/4 cup celery, finely chopped

1 smallish turnip, diced

1 tablespoon dried thyme, or leaves of 1 sprig if fresh

3 tablespoons butter

3 tablespoons flour

1/2 cup heavy cream

1 ounce brandy

salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

pastry for a 2 crust, 9-inch pie

2 to 3 ounces goat or blue cheese

Shuck or steam open the clams and chop coarsely, saving 1/2 cup of liquor. Heat up over medium heat an approximately 9-inch round, heavy bottomed pot, 3 to 4 inches deep (similar in size to a deep dish pie plate). Add salt pork to the pot and sauté for about a minutes, until the pork begins to render some fat. Then add the onions and celery, and once they're soft (about 5 minutes), the turnips, clams, and thyme too. After sautéing everything together for about 5 minutes, transfer the mixture to a bowl.

Put the pan back on the stove and put in the butter to melt. When it's hot, add the flour slowly, stirring with a whisk until it's absorbed. Add the clam liquor slowly, stirring until every addition is absorbed. Add the cream and brandy in the same manner. Now season the mixture with salt and pepper to taste, simmer for a minute or two, and add the clam mixture back in. Mix well, remove from heat, and set aside.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Roll out the pie crust into two very thin layers. On top of one, crumble the cheese in a circle in the center. Put the other layer over top, and roll out a bit more gently. Drape the crust over the pot the clam mixture is in, letting it cave to reach the clams. If you don't want to bake the pie in that pot, transfer the clams to a pie plate and drape crust to cover that. Crimp the edges—very carefully anchoring them on the side and angling them towards the inside of the pot/plate—otherwise they will detach, slide off, and burn. Brush the crust with milk and bake about 30 minutes, or until the filling is thick and the crust is golden. Serve hot.

Turkey carcass soup

It's bone chilling out there today. Even with the woodstove roaring, the wind is finding its way in under doors. It's skirting through window panes, howling around the eves, and blowing up leaves from the snow.

It's a soup day, in short. Last night's turkey carcass sits nearly devoured on the stove, all bones and skin and bits of untouched meat.

We had an early Christmas feast, to celebrate the arrival of a west coast friend. No matter that she didn't arrive, snowed in still in Seattle, skidding back and forth across the city in taxi after taxi to and from the airport. We missed her terribly, of course, but the turkey was already thawed, the invitations made, and a ten pound Hubbard squash peeled in her honor. There was little left to do but eat.

And my goodness, did we eat. We ate roast potatoes and cranberry sauce, white meat and dark, spinach salad, roasted beets, and goat cheese with bread. There was stuffing with pine nuts and apricots, braised short ribs in a noodle stew, wine and beer and sparkling pomegranate juice to boot. Even when we thought we were through, someone brought out ice cream and a pie, and a bag of cookies, chocolate chip.

Still, though we tried, we didn't quite finish the turkey. We were down in numbers and strength, having counted on the appetite of one more, starved from airport food and the bustle of travel. But it wasn't all bad; there was just enough left over to make my mother's turkey soup.

It isn't really my mother's, I should admit. It's Jane Brody's from her Good Food Book, Turkey Carcass Soup. But my mother's made it so many times, so adopted it as her own, that I've given it over to her in name. It's a hearty soup, perfect for weather like this, even, if need be, excellent warmed over the wood stove.

My mother doesn't quite follow Brody's directions; rather than waste vegetables in the stock, she simply adds the scraps—carrot tops and celery leaves, turnip clippings and onion ends—from what she will sauté later in the soup. She sprinkles it with Parmesan cheese, too, just at the end, for a fuller, richer cup. But overall, the idea's the same, so I'll give you a version that's nearly Brody's, that you can make changes of your own.

TURKEY CARCASS SOUP
adapted from Jane Brody's Good Food Book

Stock:

My mother recommends doing this on the woodstove, if you have it going already. The temperature is perfect, and you avoid using extra gas or electricity.

Combine in a large pot: 1 turkey carcass, broken into pieces; any left over fat or gravy; 12 cups water, or enough to cover carcass; leaves/tops/scraps from onion, celery, carrots, and turnip (my mother sometimes uses rutabaga, which she finds equally good) you will use for the soup, below; 1 clove garlic, minced; 1 teaspoon salt; 6 sprigs fresh parsley; 1 sprig fresh thyme; 1 bay leaf. Bring to a boil, and simmer partially covered, for 2 to 3 hours. Strain, and skim off the fat. Stock can be used immediately or frozen for use in a future soup.

Soup:

In a large saucepan, sauté 2 tablespoons minced onion and 1 clove minced garlic in 1 tablespoon olive oil until soft. Add 1/2 cup carrots, diced; 1/2 cup turnip or rutabaga, diced; and 1/2 cup celery, diced, and cook, stirring, until soft. Add 1 and 1/2 tablespoons flour, and cook while stirring for another minute. Add 6 to 7 cups turkey stock, 1 teaspoon marjoram, salt and pepper to taste, and 1/3 cup raw barley. Bring the soup to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for about 1 hour. Add 1 cup diced turkey meat, adjust seasonings to taste, and bring the soup back to a boil. Serve hot with a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese.

As promised

Here it is, as promised. The apple cider is the secret ingredient; it adds sweetness, depth, and complexity. The heavy cream is important, too, as such rich treats tend to be.

But my favorite thing about this soup is it's simplicity. It is a one pot, one hour soup, both easy and gourmet.

Many thanks to Jerome, and happy Sunday afternoon cooking to you.

JEROME'S TURNIP BISQUE

Makes 1 gallon

Place 4 turnips (about 3 lbs), quartered, washed, and with ends trimmed, into a large stock pot. Add 1 gallon apple cider and 1/2 stalk celery, bring to a boil, and turn heat down to medium. Continue at a heavy simmer, cooking for 30 minutes or until the turnips are soft when pierced with a fork. Puree in a blender until smooth, return to the pot, and bring to a boil.

Add 1 quart heavy cream slowly, stirring constantly. Bring the soup back to a boil (it will cool as the cream is added), then add salt and pepper to taste. Let the soup rest for at least 30 minutes and up to two days before serving; time will improve the both the profile and the complexity of the flavors. Serve warm and garnish with herb oil (see below).

HERB OIL

Bring several cups salted water to a boil, and throw in 1 bunch Italian parsley, stems removed, 1 bunch oregano, and 1 bunch chives. Blanch for 45 seconds, strain herbs from water, and place in an ice bath to cool. Remove herbs, pat dry of water, and puree in a blender with 1 teaspoon ice water from bath. When herb mixture is smooth, add oil slowly until all is incorporated. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Calico slaw

I've always liked the word calico. It echoes long forgotten kitchen aprons and oven mitts, warm mottled cats snuggled up by the wood stove. It's long since fallen out of fashion, but I can't help loving it still.

So when I found a recipe for Calico slaw, you can imagine I was charmed from the start. I dug it up online, on one of those endless recipe search sites, and copied it down immediately. The only trouble was, once I started paying attention, I didn't really like the creation.

I began shifting things around, hoping to keep the calico pattern of the slaw but change the ingredients a bit. I wanted a turnip slaw, not cabbage, and apples rather than green peppers. Carrots and onion I kept, and mixed up a bit of cilantro, oil, and cider vinegar in place of the ubiquitous "salad dressing" the recipe had in mind.

The resulting salad was very, very good, I have to say. It was tangy and salty, a bit sweet, and clean in the mouth when the cilantro rang in. The turnips were sweet and earthy, the apples perfectly crisp, and the carrots so fresh they practically jumped in my mouth.

I ate it for lunch yesterday, and again after breakfast today, and at this point, it's nearly gone. I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to eat half a turnip, 5 carrots, an onion, and an apple. I've certainly had my vegetables for the day.

CALICO SLAW

Serves 4

Mix together 4 cups grated Eastham turnip (about 1/2 medium turnip), 2 cups grated carrot (about 5 medium carrots), 1 cup grated white onion (about 1 medium onion), and 1 cup grated apple (about 1 and 1/2 pieces fruit). Toss with 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped fine, and a dressing of 1/2 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and sugar, salt, and pepper to taste. Serve chilled.

*P.S. : If you make this slaw in mid-winter (as my mother just did), do not, I repeat, DO NOT grate the vegetables. Being a bit less firm than they might have been in the fall, they will simply turn to mush. Instead, julienne them into long, thin strips. This will yield a much better texture come February.

The Local Food Report: turnip pie

I hope you've brought your sense of adventure. Because today we are headed into murky territory. To be exact, we're making turnip pie. Still here? Good.

It wasn't my idea, I swear, but the nice ladies from the Eastham library convinced me, and now here we are. Turnips aren't the first winter vegetable to come to mind for pie; even I know that. But according to Geoffry Antoine, it can be done.

He created the recipe for the Eastham Turnip Festival several years ago. They host a turnip cook-off each fall, the only guideline being that the dish must include a turnip. He rolled out a piecrust, began boiling up a pot of Eastham's finest, and mixed and mashed until he found himself with a filling.

The ingredients were simple: eggs, sugar, cinnamon—salt and cloves and nutmeg, with a bit of heavy cream and a pinch of ginger at the end. It cooked like any other pie, for nearly an hour in an oven at first very hot, and then turned down for the duration.

It was so good, in fact, that it won the prize—not just any prize, mind you—but the Grand Prize. The women at the library didn't make it sound easy. Upon their insistence, I made the leap of faith in my kitchen last night. I thought of Geoffrey as I mixed—wondering what sort of a man the creator of turnip pie must be.

It was several hours before I found out. Between the boiling and the mashing and the rolling and the baking, I was just about exhausted when I finally picked up the spoon. But the fuss my tongue made! It began dancing and whooping, all lit up with cinnamon and root, bowing at the knees of the turnip. I still can't quite wrap my head around it, but I can promise you, that for some strange reason, you are bound to love turnip pie.

TURNIP PIE*

Serves 8

Prepare one 9-inch pie crust. Combine 3 eggs, slightly beaten, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon cloves, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, and 1/4 teaspoon ginger. Add 1 cup heavy cream and beat well. Blend in 15 ounces Eastham turnip, cooked and mashed. Pour into pan lined with crust. Bake in oven heated to 450 degrees for 10 minutes, then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking for 40 to 45 minutes. The pie is done when knife inserted into center comes out clean.

*Geoffrey Antoine's recipe, Grand Prize Winner of the 2006 Turnip Festival, reprinted from First Encounter with a Turnip, a collection of recipes from the Friends of the Eastham Public Library.

A photo from the book Images of America: Eastham taken in 1928, when a special turnip harvest took place. George Nickerson, a longtime Eastham grower, was in the hospital during pulling time, so the whole town came to help. By the end of the day, they'd pulled 1,400 bushels for market. Not bad for a days work!

Ode to the Eastham turnip

The Eastham turnip is a gentle beast. Green feathered and violet tinged, it emerges from the earth to announce the fall.

It's autumn! it trumpets, hair flying and roots cast off. Unanchored, it sits in basement cellars and vegetable crispers, harkening the approach of winter.

When all is bare, I'll be here, it promises, blushing cheeks tinged lavender and smooth skin pale.

It's not quite time yet for the frosty spades, but I cannot help pulling a swift, risky turn off Route 6 and screeching to a farm stand stop. There are pounds upon pounds upon pounds of the root vegetable nestled beneath the cover of a dry blue blanket. Green tops peek out, and I reach beneath to pile my catch high on the scale. Four pounds, I discover, and throw $8 in the iron box.

There is no discussion when we arrive in the kitchen. I chop them boldly to pieces, they succumb to the murmur of onion and broth, and the silken soup is quickly done. I sit down with bowl and spoon, and let go to the prospect of falling leaves.

SILKEN TURNIP SOUP

(adapted from First Encounter with a Turnip, a collection of recipes from the Friends of the Eastham Public Library)

Serves 4-6

In a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot, melt 3 tablespoons butter. Add 2 shallots, thinly sliced, and cook over medium heat until translucent. Add 3 small to mid-sized turnips, peeled and sliced thinly, 3 small new potatoes, peeled and sliced thinly, and salt to taste. Cover, stirring occasionally, and let cook 20 minutes, or until tender. Add 4 cups chicken broth and simmer partially covered for 10 minutes. Add 1/4 cup heavy cream, and puree soup until silky. Serve hot, sprinkled with nutmeg and fresh basil to taste.

Chicken roast

The bones are all that's left of the bird we roasted Saturday evening. It was my first chicken; my first attempt at transforming the cold, clammy flesh into something worthy of a warming fall celebration.

Our guests were bringing vegetables and dessert, and I'd kicked my roast-hungry sous chef out from the walls of the tiny kitchen, determined at last to learn this bird.

I'd picked it up in Dartmouth that morning—at Paskamansett Farms—packed it gently into a large white cooler to rest alongside two sister birds.

With the freezer already well stocked—there was a pig from the same farm, smoked into bacon and packed into sausage, a good supply of grass fed beef from a Foxboro farm, and assorted bundles of lamb from a Barnstable shepherder already in—the chicken and her sisters would round out the winter.

Confronting her in the sink, I rinsed and washed her body cavity with cold water, checking for an organ here or there and finally laying her down. I chopped onion and apple, carrot and butter, and threw a handful of breadcrumbs and cranberries into a bowl. With a spoonful of poultry rub and a good bit of salt and pepper, her stuffing was made.

With a few cloves of sliced garlic and a few sprigs of thyme in hand, I turned back to the bird. Slowly, carefully, I felt my way beneath her skin and began to spread the seasonings against her fat. The garlic rested heavy on her thighs and breast, and I rubbed her well with salt and pepper.

The oven heated up, and I began to stuff. I packed her full until finally her skin just stretched to conceal the bread, fruit, and fat, and sewed her up. I felt the heat begin to rise from the oven, and worked quickly to give her one last gift. Chopping quickly, I filled her pan with turnip, onion, and brilliant orange butternut squash.

It made for a magnificent send off—this ferry of herbs and color—wending its way towards the oven barrow. On the plate, it was equally splendid. Meat and root fell together, fruit crunched tart, and a savory gravy of herbs and fat filled out the meal. She didn't last long.

But today, meat gone and bones light, she's back to the soup pot for the final journey.

ROAST CHICKEN

Make stuffing. Chop and combine in a bowl: 1 good sized carrot, 1 firm apple, and 1/2 large white onion. Add 1 and 1/2 cups torn bread, 1 stick butter, cut up, and 1 cup cranberries. Season with poultry rub and salt and pepper to taste; set aside. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Pick and have handy several sprigs thyme. In a finger bowl, mix together 2 tablespoons salt and 1 teaspoon pepper. Peel 1 head of garlic and cut each clove into thin slices. Rinse whole chicken inside and out in cold water; put in roasting pan or dutch oven with 4 tablespoons olive oil drizzled over bottom. Gently work fingers between bird's skin and flesh, and push in garlic and thyme, spreading evenly over thighs and breast. Pack bird with stuffing; stake or sew shut with twine.

Peel and chop 2 cups butternut squash, 2 cups turnip, 1/2 onion, and 1 apple. Throw around chicken in pan. Cover with tinfoil or put dutch oven lid on, and put in to bake for about 1 hour, or until skin is crisp and bird cooked through. Put stuffing and root vegetables into serving pans; baste bird with juices and let rest 15 minutes before serving. Save bones and meat scraps for soup.