Making your own holiday wreath involves four good things: a brisk walk; a gathering of invasive plants like privet, multiflora roses, and bittersweet; a conversation—if you are brave—with a neighbor you have never met (in my case recently, this involved a trade of holly branches for me and a bottle of homemade elderberry cordial for them); and, finally, about two hours of focused attention on crafting and creativity. It is occupational therapy at its finest. Plus (five good things!) a really attractive wreath that will last for a month or more. Oh, and (six): Making your own wreath costs next to nothing.
Here are some of the plants you can use, and the minimal equipment you will need to make your own wreath at home.
Above: Our finished wreath on a wall.
1. Gather your materials.
The most effective wreath features plants that stay fresh-looking for weeks. Combining evergreens with winter berries and fruits guarantees long-lasting decoration. The plants can be foraged, if they are invasive, trimmed from your own garden, begged from your friendly neighbors, and bought from local tree vendors. You can also use trimming from your Christmas tree.
For color in a winter wreath, nothing beats rosehips. I take this opportunity to gather as many sprays of very invasive Rosa multiflora hips as I can find. Privet fruit is at its peak in early winter, and can be collected with a clear conscience, too. Holly, juniper, cedar, pine, fir and spruce are all good options for greenery.
In addition, you will need secateurs for cutting branches, gloves for sharp thorns, and, at home, florists’ wire for easy attachment. (A 22-gauge floral wire is easy to use and very strong.)
Above left: Multiflora hips. Above right: Gloves are helpful when you work with holly, the prettiest and prickliest. Above: The stems of mugwort make a very good wreath frame.
Mugwort flowers amplify and balance the sweet flavors of winter squash, carrots, parsnips, and onion. If you roast fall fruit as a side dish for a savory entrée, add some mugwort to pears, apples, figs, and grapes. In simmered and soupy dishes, mugwort pairs very well with dry beans and lentils.
Above: A medley of potatoes with a flurry of dried mugwort flowers for seasoning. Above: The potatoes are tossed in a bowl with avocado oil, salt and mugwort. Above: The mugwort potatoes roast on a sheetpan for 40 minutes at 400°F. Above: A 9-minute egg tops crunchy mugwort roast potatoes.
Roast Potatoes with Mugwort Flowers
Above: Potatoes roasted with a mugwort flowers.
Serves 4 as a side (2 as an entrée)
A classic side dish, roast potatoes can also be standalone and very respectable meal (serve them with a crunchy salad of greens or radicchio and apple). I usually use avocado oil for its higher smoke point, but if you are not vegetarian and have some duck fat lurking, that combination is spectacular.
1 1/2 lbs potatoes, cut into wedges or quarters (halve if small)
1/4 cup avocado oil
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 Tablespoons dried mugwort flowers and leaves
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Line a sheet pan with baking parchment.
In a bowl combine the potatoes with the oil, salt and mugwort flowers. Toss until combined. Spread the potatoes out on the baking sheet and roast for 40 minutes, or until they are turning dark golden (shake the pan halfway though to turn some of the potatoes).
When the evenings begin to nip and the light becomes clearer than it has been for months, you know it’s pawpaw time. The fruit of Asimina triloba begins to ripen in early autumn. My pawpaw streusel cake is a fall treat that uses aromatic pawpaw pulp, freed of its glossy seeds, and spiced with native spicebush—a forest companion of pawpaw trees—whose warm orange inflections seem created for this pawpaw pairing.
Read on for this pawpaw cake recipe, a source for the spicebush, and where to buy pawpaws in (and out) of season.
Above: Pawpaw streusel cake is a coffee cake with a native-flavored twist. Above: Pawpaws heading towards ripeness, in Brooklyn, NY. Above: The color of ripe pawpaws can vary from the palest of yellows to rich apricot.
A quick recap in case of confusion: What pawpaw are we talking about? Our pawpaw is cold-hardy and native to Eastern North America. The tree is in the genus Asimina, and most commonly seen species is A. triloba. It is related to soursop and custard apples, and shares their distinctively big, glossy seeds. But pawpaw is also the name in some (previously or currently Commonwealth) countries for papaya—subtropical and tropical Papaya carica—filled with myriad tiny, peppery seeds.
Above: Tiny pawpaws gathered on Staten Island, NY.
When I first began developing a recipe for pawpaw streusel cake, I relied on the very good pawpaw purée as well as fresh fruit shipped by Integration Acres, a diversified farm and foraging outfit in Southeast Ohio (and also the founders of the annual Ohio Pawpaw Festival). These pioneering pawpaw advocates also sell dried spicebush berries (they’re actually drupes, botanically—the fruit of Lindera benzoin; picture allspice, but more oval than round). Now, I have a more local network of trees, wild and tame, to provide fruit when I am vigilant with the timing and lucky with weather.
Above: Garden-grown pawpaws from Park Slope, Brooklyn.
Pawpaws need to be within a few of days of ripeness when harvested. Left in a bag, like avocados, they will ripen. But too green, and they’ll just sit there, untransformed, all their months of maturing wasted. A light touch or gentle shaking of a branch should dislodge the ready fruit.
Pawpaw Purée
This is an effective way to preserve pawpaw pulp—its flavor stays magically intact after freezing and thawing. Use it for this cake, as well as for life-changing ice cream.
Slice ripe, soft pawpaws in half, remove the fat seeds, and scrape the pulp into a bowl. Transfer the pulp to a food processor and spin until smooth (or press it through a strainer). Make sure not to include any seeds by accident. Like other fruit seeds, they are toxic, and in this case, highly laxative. Freeze the pulp in small containers, or use straight away.
Above: The pulp of three varieties of pawpaw scooped from the skins and separated from the seeds.
In the waning days of fall, a weed that happens to be a wild herb is still growing with enough vigor to defy the season. Mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris) is a perennial that is usually leggy and seed-covered in autumn, but because this invasive (in the US) plant is often mown or weed-wacked in a futile attempt to subdue it, it responds with a resurgence of fresh green foliage as the days grow shorter. These tender leaves are a treat, especially for anyone tuned to seasonal, local eating and who is beginning to dread the looming, un-green months ahead. One of the easiest and most deliciously surprising ways to enjoy mugwort leaves is as a crisp chip. Here’s how to make mugwort chips and what to do with this feral delicacy.
Above: Shatteringly crisp mugwort chips with smooth hummus. Above: Austerely good, seasoned heirloom tomatoes with umami-crisp mugwort.
Mugwort chips are irresistible. They snap and crackle, and their flavor is intact. If you have never tasted the herb before before, it carries implications of sage, a suggestion of rosemary, a whisper of something herbally and attractively bitter (it is a species of wormwood, after all), but mostly…mugwort.
Above: Mugwort chips can be eaten on their own, or as crunchy garnishes. Above: The leaves are lid flat on an oiled baking sheet.
To make mugwort chips, the dry leaves are laid flat on an oiled baking sheet and baked for just 10 minutes. At that point I like to salt them before returning them to the oven for another 3 minutes.
Above: The chips stay crisp for about three days, as long as the weather is dry.
Crunchy, satisfyingly sage-like and flavorful, mugwort chips are an umami-rich and shatteringly crisp foil for anything smooth, soft, slithery, or creamy. Think hummus, eggs (boiled, steamed, scrambled, omelette), tomatoes, avocado, plump ravioli, and thin pasta. Top a noodle bowl with chips at the last minute, or crush them across a bread salad. Or just eat them straight up.
Above: A platter of warm, quartered eggs with mugwort chips. Above: More eggs, this time with hummus and a spicy, fresh cilantro sauce.
There are many reasons to visit Cape Town at South Africa’s southern tip in spring. It’s a so-called shoulder season, so there is no crush of summer visitors. Flights are less expensive. And flowers: One of the most awe-inspiring floral displays in the world unfolds along and adjacent to the South African region of the West Coast in the Western Cape and Northern Cape provinces, from late winter through September. For a forager, there is one more incentive to travel: Veldkool (pr. FELT-khoowill). This native vegetable is the flower bud of several species of Trachyandra, a strappy-leafed geophyte that grows in sandy soil along beaches, in the veld, along roadside verges, and in a few enterprising urban gardens.
Join me on a culinary foray along the edges of a Capetonian spring.
Above: Veldkool buds (this is Trachyandra ciliata, sometimes known as slaaikool).
Veldkool’s unopened buds are reminiscent of asparagus and are sometimes called wild asparagus, which is no more accurate botanically than the more common Afrikaans name, which translates as field or meadow cabbage. The buds’ tender season spans several weeks, as different species of Trachyandra bloom. These unobtrusive, resilient plants have every potential to become a cultivated seasonal crop in South Africa’s winter rainfall regions, even as their natural populations succumb to development.
Above: Veldkool beside False Bay, in Cape Town.
On a recent visit to Cape Town, my first glimpse of veldkool was within spray-splash of the sea on a walkway that connects the communities of Muizenberg and Kalk Bay along the False Bay coast. Squeezed between railway tracks and the kelp-fringed blue water, remnants of coastal vegetation persist in the rocky and sandy shoreline, beside a path that skirts tidal pools and rock pools brimming with sea urchins and anemones, benches where people sit looking out to sea, and rocks where red-beaked African oyster catchers patrol exposed mussel banks for dinner. It is scenic. Among blankets of semi-succulent dune spinach (Tetragonia decumbens), the slender buds of Trachyandra ciliata, historically called slaaikool (salad cabbage) had just begun to bloom. Dark-bodied Cape honeybees buzzed the scented flowers.
Above: Trachyandra ciliata above Kalk Bay, post-burn.
Two weeks later and a few hundred feet higher, this veldkool species was blooming profusely above the bay, in sooty sand. Above its lush leaves stood the charred skeletons of burned pincushion proteas. Two fires swept these slopes last January and February. Now, after the wettest winter on record, green life is surging. While the fires can be devastating to humans, the fynbos biome—like California’s chaparral—evolved to burn, and its vegetation depends and thrives on it.
Above: A few plants can produce dozens of flowers. Above: The edible stems and tightly closed buds of T. divaricata emerging from the sand.
The other useful veldkool growing locally is T. divaricata. I think of it as smooth veldkool, because its stout stems are glossy, but it is known as sandkool—apt because it thrives in the deep sand of dunes, although it can also emerge improbably from rocky recesses where just enough grit has accumulated to sustain the plants.
While spring and summer offer a bounty of wild food treasures, there is a cornucopia of good things to forage in fall. Fruits like native aronia and pawpaw, and imported and notoriously stinky ginkgo, ripen on trees and shrubs. Hen of the woods, one of the most delicious and easiest of mushrooms to identify, begins to appear at the base of hardwoods. Even as winter arrives and days contract with cold, wood ear mushrooms remain in season when the weather is damp. For anyone newly curious about wild food to forage or to grow (in the case of the fruit), here are six fall forages that make the season exciting. They are sustainable to gather, and easy to identify.
Above: Aronia melanocarpa is also known as chokeberry.
Like apples, the fruits of aronia are known botanically as pomes. Like apples they are ready to harvest in early fall. Darkly tannic when underripe, aronia has a long season, and begins to turn black and juicy in late August. The fruit persists well after frost and is also sweeter after a cold snap’s bletting. It can be gathered earlier, but wait until entire clusters are a midnight purple; any hint of red means they are unpalatably acerbic, giving the shrub that chokeberry common name. (Scarlet-hued fruit are a different species, Aronia arbutifolia, and can be used in the same way, but yield less juice.)
Above: Ripe and juicy aronia.
Around mid-September (where I live), the first forage of aronia is plump and mouth-puckering, but ideal for juicing through a foodmill. Freeze the juice in ice trays and store in bags or a container. The frozen cubes of aronia juice can be used like red wine in cooking, adding depth and complexity to slow-cooked stews and braises. An ounce of juice shaken into a cocktail gives it an antioxidant-rich backbone (aronia in supplement form is big business). A staple is my kitchen is slow-fermented aronia, dried, and used in baking and cooking like raisins. To ferment the fruit I cover it in sugar in a jar, let it sit for weeks to months—the lid on loosely—before straining it off and bottling the syrup (you can use this elderberry syrup method for the aronia syrup). The delectable, leftover fruit is air-dried slowly on trays and it keeps indefinitely.
Above: A foodmill is very handy for processing aronia for juice (to freeze and use later).
Above: Dried, fermented aronia in holiday marzipan loaves.
Above: Friend, or foe? Ginkgo fruit is notoriously stinky.
Roasted ginkgo “nuts” might be the ultimate bar snack.
New York City’s streets and parks are richly planted with Ginkgo biloba. The trees’ tolerance of pollution and their vivid fall color make them a beloved ornamental. Female ginkgo trees bear heavy crops of fruit, which drops to the grass or sidewalk beneath when ripe. This is one of the smelliest times of the urban year. Aside from knowledgable East Asian connoisseurs who gather the fallen fruit to process in late fall (and city-dwelling raccoons and possums who love the reeking pulp), few urbanites love ginkgo for these odiferous weeks. But hidden inside that fruit is a nut-like shell. And inside that shell is a delectable treat: a pistachio-green kernel that tastes something like a roast chestnut crossed with tofu.
We’ve been following Midwesterner by birth, Californian in spirit Louesa Roebuck for more than a decade, describing her as a “fearless forager” in one story, “renegade florist” in another, and “rebel against convention” in a third. During that time, the floral iconoclast relocated from the Bay Area to Ojai, CA, and wrote two books—Foraged Flora and Punk Ikebana—that make the case for floral designs that are more art than arrangement, and more feral than formal. She is currently at work on a third book.
If you’re not familiar with Louesa, this is great place to get acquainted with her eccentric perspective and strong opinions (of which, she concedes, many are unpopular).
Photography by Ian Hughes for Punk Ikebana, courtesy of Louesa Roebuck, unless otherwise noted.
Above: Before she became a floral designer, Louesa worked in the food world (Chez Panisse) and fashion industry (with Erica Tanov), both of which fed her love for California living. Photograph by Sean Jerd.
Your first garden memory:
My most vivid childhood garden memories are of a Victorian gothic yet sweet, very small garden plot behind my ancestral home in Medina, Ohio. My mother’s people built the Victorian house in 1856 or 18765, depending on who’s telling the tale. White wood with dark, almost black, green shutters and trim. There was a generous gray-floored porch that wrapped around three sides, meant for living and even sleeping in muggy Ohio summers. My grandmother ( my momma’s momma); my great grandmother, Lena; and my mother, Maggie, all spent time together in the very old-fashioned English garden behind the house. My family was old-school: NO color in front of house—that was considered very tacky and low-brow. Color and culinary were reserved for the lesser-seen, more hidden bites of the “yard.” Every year, my momma’s momma battled the birds eating her blueberries. Even as a child, it felt too combative and high maintenance to me—I was rooting for those birds to snatch the berries and escape the evil netting.
She grew Monarda, a fabulous pollinator botanical, black-eyed Susans, herbs for the kitchen, and more. The memories have a fairytale quality, complete with dappled summer sunlight, dragonflies, clover in the grass. I would often get lost in the realms of clover. And then, being my gothic family, there was a lot of shadow.
Garden-related book you return to time and again:
Above: Hieronymous Bosch, published by Taschen, collects all of the 15th century painter’s fantastical works into one volume; $200.
Humans behind critters. Or…semi feral verdant. Or…human hands secondary. Or…chill on pruning. Or…herbs herbs herbs.
Plant that makes you swoon:
Above: Heirloom roses from friend Cindy Daniels’ garden and Queen Anne’s lace in a kenzan sitting in vintage ceramic ikebana trays.
It changes with every micro season and with every place. Scented geraniums, jasmine, magnolias, heirloom roses, any herb gone to seed, passion vine and fruit, persimmon (especially in late autumn on the branch), Datura, Solandra, Cobaea, nasturtiums, stone fruit blossoms, wild trillium, Usnea lichen, Queen Anne’s lace, begonia, wisteria, fennel, fennel, fennel!
Plant that makes you want to run the other way:
Anything from the flower mart, covered in poisons, transported, grown under monoculture agribusiness conditions, wrapped in plastic, cut the same length, uniform, painful, and full of toxins. Tropicals flown in and waxed really get me grossed out and worked up.
The first time I saw a chicken of the woods, the massive mushroom was frilling the base of a dying oak tree. It was a hot summer day in Cape Town. I had never seen one and was nervous about diving in. I emailed pictures to a foraging friend in the United States. She called her friend Sam Thayer, the wild foods author. Identity confirmed. Back we went and collected some orange-and-white fans. That night, as my husband, my father, and I feasted, my mother abstained, with a look on her face that said plainly: Somebody has to drive you to hospital.
Chicken of the woods is a hugely rewarding mushroom to find and eat. Here’s how to identify this easy mushroom for beginners and what to make with it once you have carried your treasure home.
Above: Almost four feet tall, the very mature chicken of the woods that started it all, in Cape Town, in 2011.
Thirteen years and many “chickens” later, the anxiety I felt then seems silly. What else could it have been? Chicken of the woods has no toxic lookalikes. This electric-hued mushroom is unmistakeable. But a self-preserving seam of fear runs through all of us when faced with a possible (last?) supper of wild mushrooms.
Above: A September 2021 chicken of the woods on Long Island’s North Shore.
Chickens are ubiquitous across North America and other temperate parts of the world. Saprobic and parasitic tree pathogens, they fruit from mycelium in dying or dead hardwoods. They are polypores, with tiny, sponge-like pores beneath their caps, not gills.
The Laetiporus genus to which chickens belong is still being parsed at a genetic level by researchers, which has resulted in name changes, reclassifications, and the differentiation of subspecies. Collectively, they are edible.
Above: A young (and tender) June chicken near Chamonix, in 2019.
Laetiporus sulphureus has vivid yellow pores underneath its cap, so it is commonly known as sulfur shelf (although I think of it as yellow chicken). The mushroom’s fan-like layers grow on upright or fallen tree trunks or large branches, but not on the ground. They cause heart rot in a tree.
Above: Laetiporous cincinnatus, with cream-to-white pores, in August 2018, in Brooklyn.
L. cincinnatus (white chicken) has white pores, and causes butt or root rot on oaks. Unlike its shelving yellow cousin, it can seem to grow on the ground away from a tree, but is actually fruiting from the roots.
Above: Chicken of the woods has pores beneath its caps, not gills.
While they are often associated with late summer and early fall, chickens also fruit in late spring and early summer, in a warm spell after rain.
Above: Very young chickens on an oak in Maine, in May 2024. This is an ideally tender stage for collection.
Do you know where the wild lettuce grows? Ask a bunny. In Beatrix Potter’s eponymous tale, the Flopsy Bunnies eat too many lettuces and fall asleep in an ill-advised spot, where Mr. MacGregor finds them. These were “overgrown lettuces, which had shot into flower” to be thrown on a rubbish heap; mature lettuces produce a lot of milky sap (hence their genus name Lactuca), and this sap has been used in folk medicines for millennia to calm and to soothe (dried, it is known as lettuce opium). And then there are Edward Lear’s Old Guinea Pigs, who caution: “Have a care that you eat your Lettuces, should you find any, not greedily but calmly.” The little guinea pigs did not follow their advice.
These favorite childhood stories and an abundance of wild lettuce locally (in flower, as I write) are how my recipe for a chilled wild lettuce soup was born. The emerald soup is restorative, and can be made with tame lettuces, too, or other leafy greens.
Above: This smorgasboard of early summer weeds includes wild lettuce (rear), daylilies, and burdock.
Lettuces may in fact be soporific; exploratory studies are beginning to (tentatively) substantiate traditional medicine’s deployment of lettuce powders and oils as a sleep aid and analgesic. In a culinary context, you’d have to eat as many as those greedy rabbits did to feel any effects. But the antioxidants and high fiber in lettuce, plus the drowsy-bunny appeal, are reason enough to eat more wild lettuce. It is an under-appreciated vegetable whose versatile nature should encourage culinary attention.
Above: As ornamental as Swiss chard? The midribs of Lactuca canadensis in late spring.
Wild lettuces as a group are not too hard to identify. Beginners might mistake them for dandelions, sow thistle (Sonchus oleraceus), or thistle species—not a serious error, since all are edible. It’s helpful to know that some lettuce species look very similar and are hard to tell apart until they bloom. This is also not serious, since there is no toxic species, but it will vex your inner plant geek.
Where I live, the two most common lookalike wild lettuces are Lactuca canadensis and L. biennis (also known as tall blue lettuce). The stalks of both may be either a deep maroon or green. The leaves of both are highly variable. Both are tall, their hollow stems stretching up to human height.
Above: Lactuca biennis, tall blue lettuce.
Above: A closer view of L. biennis, with faint hairs on the stem and leaves that do not clasp.
L. biennis has very faintly hairy stems, while L. canadensis has fine hairs only on the leaves’ midribs. A useful distinction is that L. canadensis bleeds a slightly brown latex when cut. And a final “c” distinction is to remember that “canadensis clasps,” because its leaves clasp the stem.
Above: Lactuca canadensis.
Wild lettuces have potential to be sown and grown as bona fide vegetables. While we have bred the stems out of domesticated lettuce, consider celtuce, which is all stem (and challenging to cultivate). A tender wild lettuce stem is a true delicacy, and the plant is easier to grow. Harvest lettuce seeds this late summer and fall and offer them a spot in your vegetable plot. L. biennis will prefer some shade if you have it to spare.
Makes 12 muffin-sized pies; 12 3¾-inch hand pies; or 1 large 9-inch pie (baked in a springform pan)
Summer is picnic-friendly, and having a serviceberry pie all to yourself feels special. So I’ll bake these little pies in muffin trays, to pack and carry. You’ll need a muffin tray with 12 slots, and two cookie cutters: 3¾-inch for the bases, and 2½ -inch for the lids. The recipe doubles very well, if you are baking for a crowd.
If you choose to bake a single, large pie, increase the quantity of fruit to 6 cups, with 3 teaspoons of cornstarch. Sugar says the same: ½ cup.
For the filling: In a bowl combine the serviceberries or other berries, the sugar, and the cornstarch. Toss together well.
For the pastry: Lightly butter the slots in your muffin tray.
In a mixing bowl, beat together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the egg. Beat again with a dusting of flour. Gradually beat in the rest of the flour, the baking powder, and salt. When the pastry is cohesive, divide it into two discs: one that contains 2/3’s of the pastry, one that is 1/3.
Dust flour onto your work surface and roll out your larger pastry disc thinly. Press out 12 pie bases using the 3 ¾-inch cutter. Loosen and lift each base with a dinner knife or a long spatula, and gently press it into the buttered muffin tray. Patch any tears with a pinch of extra pastry. Transfer the tray to the fridge while you roll out the second disc. Press out your lids using the smaller disc.
To assemble: Remove the tray from the fridge and spoon the fruit filling into each pie base – about 2 tablespoonfuls each. Place the pie lids on top of the filling and press down lightly (no need to crimp) and return to the fridge for 10 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Remove the chilled pies from the fridge. Pierce a steam vent in the top of each with the tip of a sharp knife. Brush each pie with a little milk or cream. Bake for 20 minutes, until the pastry is turning golden and the pies are oozing red juices. Remove the tray to a cooling rack and allow to cool for 5 minutes (they become less fragile as they cool) before loosening each serviceberry pie in its slot by running a knife around the edges, gently. Carefully lift each pie from its slot, and transfer to a second cooling rack.
Above: The blind-baked pastry shell is filled with custard and ramp leaves.
Ramp Leaf Quiche
Makes 1 x 9-inch quiche (springform pan)
Equal parts luxury and restraint, the savory and creamy custard for this ramp leaf quiche is so good that I like to use a springform pan that holds a far-larger-than-traditional quiche. The blind baking step is essential for that crisp-bottomed crunch. If you don’t do cream and milk, canned coconut milk is a good substitute.
For a spring party, this recipe also makes 22 tartlets, if you use all the pastry-scraps, a 3¾-inch cookie-cutter, and bake in a 12-slot muffin tray (still using beans for baking blind). The quichelets take about 20 minutes to bake once filled with custard.
Pastry
6 oz flour
3 oz cold butter
½ teaspoon salt
1 large egg, whisked
2 Tablespoons cold water
Extra butter for the pan
Ramp Leaf Filling
1½ cups whipping cream
4 large egg yolks
1 large whole egg
¼ teaspoon salt
3 mature ramp leaves, rolled into tubes and sliced very thinly
Pastry: Grate the cold butter into the flour in a large bowl (if you don’t have a grater, cut the butter thinly). Rub the butter and flour between your fingers until the mixture resembles even crumbs (some larger pieces of butter are fine). Add salt and toss with your fingers. Make a well and add the egg with the cold water. Using a fork to whisk the egg with the water together in the well, then slowly incorporate the surrounding flour mixture. When larger clumps form you can bring them together with your hands. Knead a few times to blend, then pat into a fat disc (about 1½ inches fat), wrap, and chill for two hours.
To bake the pastry: Pre-heat the oven to 350°F.
Butter a 9-inch springform pan. Line the bottom with a round of baking parchment. Roll the pastry out thinly. Wrap the pastry sheet around your roller and lower it gently into the pan. The pastry will hang over the sides. Transfer to the fridge to chill for 15 minutes. After it has chilled, trim the overhanging edges carefully, leaving some overlap, with a very sharp knife or pair of scissors. (You can save the scraps and bake them into crunchy canapés seasoned with herb salt or cheese.)
Line the inside of the pastry with a large piece of baking parchment that comes up well over the sides. Add 3 cups of dry beans (or rice), mounding the beans towards the sides. This helps to keep the pastry edges in place as they bake. Transfer to the oven and bake for 15 minutes.
After 15 minutes remove the pan from the oven. Carefully lift out the lining with the beans, taking care not to damage the sides of the pastry shell. Return the springform pan to the oven for another 10 – 15 minutes. It is done when the base and edges are golden and crisp. Remove from oven and place on a wire cooling rack. When it is cool, loosen the pan sides and peel off the parchment lining under the pastry-base. Return the pastry shell to the springform pan.
Filling: In a bowl, use a fork to beat together the cream, milk, and eggs (I find that an actual whisk makes too many bubbles). Add the salt, and beat again. Add the slivers of ramp leaves and stir.
Pour the filling gently into the pastry case (still in its pan) and transfer to the oven. Bake for 35 – 40 minutes, until the center of the custard custard does not jiggle when given a slight shove (an inserted skewer should come out clean). Remove from the oven.
Loosen the sides of the springform and gently remove it from the ramp leaf quiche. Either cool it on a wire rack, or serve hot: Use a long spatula to slide the quiche from the base of the baking pan onto a serving plate.
For months, from early spring to the edges of summer, ground ivy’s tubular blue flowers announce its (often resented) presence in sunny lawns or in the high shade of garden or woodland trees. Its leaves are tiny and toothed; when nights are still cold and crisp, they are more burgundy than green, and its earliest flowers are periwinkle-blue. In lawns that are mown regularly the plants form compact, woven mats. Left to grow, they become slender and tall, festooned with flowers that turn gradually paler as the weather warms.
Crush a stem, and sniff its leaves: minty, with an oregano undertow. Collect a handful to scatter across a salad, to muddle into a drink, or to brew into a strawberry and rhubarb cordial (find that recipe below).
Above: A lawn blooms blue with ground ivy in early spring.
Ground ivy’s strong flavor and refreshing scent make it an appealing, low maintenance, and cold-hardy culinary herb. Botanically, it is Glechoma hederaceae, a potent perennial member of the mint family. Although it is credited with many other common names in English, the two that are most familiar are creeping Charlie and gill-over-the-ground. The latter name’s etymology give us a clue to one of its uses: “gil” is derived from guiller—to ferment, in French; ground ivy was used in beer making (Peterson, 2011). It is native to Europe and and has long been used as a medicinal, culinary, and brewing herb.
Above: Ground ivy is impervious to mowing, and forms dense, steppable carpets.
While its spread can be aggressive where it is not native, its threat seems to be mainly to lawns. In the context of the persistent mania for a weed-free lawn monoculture (whose success often depends on herbicide use and a lot of synthetic fertilizer), I find this lawn weed hard to dislike.
Above: In early spring ground ivy’s leaves are tinged with burgundy, especially if it grows in full sun.
Above: Left unmown, ground ivy can grow tall before its stems flop to the ground, where they take root. Above: A bowl of ground ivy on a rainy spring day. Above: Cucumber, salted rhubarb slices, and sheep feta with pomegranate molasses and ground ivy.
I like to scatter its pretty flowers across salads where their piercing freshness is offset by juicy or salty elements.
Above: Ground ivy has become one of my favorite herbs to pair with strawberries.
In this Ramp Pesto Recipe, wild leeks (ramps), garlic, toasted pine nuts and parmesan cheese blended with olive oil and lemon juice for a creamy delicious condiment. Recipe yields about 2 cups or 16 (2 tablespoon) servings.
If you find yourself blessed with ramps, make pesto!
Over Mother’s Day weekend, Pat and I took Finn with us to the family’s cabin for our annual morel hunt. All in all we found 10 good size morels and pat dug up a few bunches of ramps. On our last night Pat grilled up steaks while I sautéed ramps and morels in butter to serve over top. I took home a small bunch just to make pesto.
If you love garlic and green onions, you’re gonna love the flavors in this pesto.
To Make Ramp Pesto You Will Need:
ramps – Learn all you need to find, harvest and clean ramps here.
pine nuts (toasted) – You could also use walnuts or almonds.
parmesan cheese – Or use pecorino romano cheese. Freshly grated is always best.
garlic – This is optional as ramps tend to be garlicky on their own.
kosher salt – Enhances the flavors of the pesto.
extra virgin olive oil – Lends flavor and richness.
lemon juice – Brightens the flavors of the pest.
WHAT ARE RAMPS?
Ramps are essentially wild leeks. They are part of the allium family (allium tricoccum) – related to green onions, shallots and the leeks you see in the grocery store. They are native to North America and are found and foraged in the woods under the shady canopy of trees in the spring.
The entire plant is edible from the bulb to the leaves (excluding the roots😉). Although pungent, they are extremely versatile and taste like the combination of garlic and onion. There are lots of ways to enjoy ramps; raw, roasted, grilled, sautéed, grilled and you can also pickle the stem and bulb too.
However today we are making pesto. Obviously.
Click Here For More Information on where you can find ramps, how to harvest, clean and store ramps!
In the bowl of your food processor, fitted with the blade attachment, add the roughly chopped ramp leaves, chopped ramp stems and bulbs, 1/4 cup toasted pine nuts, 1/4 cup freshly grated parmesan or pecorino Romano cheese and a pinch of of salt.
Since ramps (wild leeks) do have a garlicky onion flavor, you can totally omit the garlic if you wish. However, if you love garlic like I love garlic, add 1 smashed and peeled clove to the food processor as well.
Squeeze in the juice of 1/2 a large lemon.
Lastly, pour in 1/2 to 3/4 cup of olive oil. This will depend on the consistency you prefer. Add less for a thicker spreadable pesto, or add more for a thinner consistency. Totally up to you.
Secure the lid and pulse a few times. Stop, remove the lid and scrape the sides of your food processor.
Secure the lid once more and process until desired consistency.
That’s it my friends! If you’re lucky enough to find and forage ramps this year, make pesto!
How To Store Ramp Pesto:
Store the pesto in a jar or container with a tight fitting lid. If store properly, homemade pesto can last up to 5 to 6 days.
How To Freeze Ramp Pesto:
Fill an ice cube tray with 2 to 4 tablespoons of pesto, I like to drizzle a little olive oil over top before covering with a lid. Freeze up to 6 months or longer. This way you’ll have homemade ramp pesto at your fingertips to thaw and add to sauces or dressings.
How To Use Ramp Pesto?
Serve it with warm toasty bread.
As a spread in sandwiches or wraps.
Top grilled steak, chicken or seafood.
Toss it with cooked pasta, couscous or rice.
Add to soups, stews, salad dressing or marinades.
Enjoy! And if you give this Ramp Pesto Recipe recipe a try, let me know! Snap a photo and tag me on twitter or instagram!
Yield: 16servings
Ramp Pesto Recipe
In this Ramp Pesto Recipe, wild leeks (ramps), garlic, toasted pine nuts and parmesan cheese blended with olive oil and lemon juice for a creamy delicious condiment. Recipe yields about 2 cups or 16 (2 tablespoon) servings
Prep Time: 20 minutesmins
Cook Time: 5 minutesmins
Total Time: 25 minutesmins
24ramps, cleaned well – leaves, stems and bulbs roughly chopped.
1/4cuptoasted pine nuts
1/4cupparmesan cheese, or pecorino romano
1garlic clove, optional
kosher salt, to taste
1/2cupolive oil, up to 3/4 cup (depending on desired consistency)
1/2largelemon, juiced
To toast the pine nuts: add 1/4 cup to a dry skillet. Heat over medium to medium-low, tossing/stirring the pine nuts every so often until fragrant and golden brown.
In the bowl of your food processor, fitted with the blade attachment, add the roughly chopped ramp leaves, stems and bulbs, pine nuts, parmesan or pecorino Romano cheese and a pinch of of salt. Squeeze in the lemon juice and pour in olive oil.
Secure the lid and pulse a few times. Stop, remove the lid and scrape the sides of your food processor. Secure the lid once more and process until desired consistency.
See blog post for ways to use and store ramp pesto.
Nutrition Disclaimer:All information presented on this site is intended for informational purposes only. I am not a certified nutritionist and any nutritional information shared on SimplyScratch.com should only be used as a general guideline.
If there ever was a time to learn how to identify elm trees easily, it is in their brief, green samara season. Samara are winged seeds, and the wafer-like seed cases of elm trees are distinctive, as well as tenderly edible. They appear in mid-spring, with each seed wrapped neatly in a soft chartreuse package, which later dries and acts as a wing, to help carry the seed when it is mature and ready to be dispersed. Clusters of spring-green samara give elm branches a plush, ruffled appearance. When they are young, elm samara are a deliciously succulent treat, easy to collect, and often very abundant.
Like other fruit, nut, and winged seed trees (like maples), elms can have mast years, or a bumper crop, where branches appear to be bursting with samara. The seeds appear before the trees leaf out, so collecting a couple of handfuls is blissfully easy and does not impact developing foliage.
Above: Camperdown elms have a weeping form.
All elms produce edible samara. The trees I see most often in New York City are the long-time landscape favorites Siberian elm (Ulmus pumila) and Camperdown elm (the European native, U. glabra). While Siberian elms are widely planted in parks, they are also considered invasive in parts of North America. I’d say we’re doing wild areas a favor by collecting their seeds before they mature and are dispersed, but there is no forager capable of denuding a mighty, 80-foot tree. Native American elms (Ulmus americana) have slightly fuzzy winged seeds, and the trees are better-known for having been decimated by Dutch elm disease, a fungal infection spread by elm bark beetles. (For quick identification of four elm species by their samara, the linked iNaturalist post is very helpful.)
Above: Elm samara are juicy, sweetly nutty, and a little starchy.
Whether you have bagfuls or a handful (which you should nibble on the spot), elm samara can easily be included in a quick meal. At home, wrap or cover them before storing them in the fridge, where they will keep very well for at least a week. Wash them just before using them (or they spoil more quickly).
Above: A burrata island in a sea of samara—ust add balsamic vinegar, olive oil, pepper, and salt.
The samaras’ texture when raw is succulent, almost-but-not-quite-sweet, and delicately starchy (in a nut-like way). Use them in abundance as a pillowy filling for summer rolls, alongside crunchy vegetables and edible flowers in a salad, as a foil for a soft cheese, or scattered across gentle, spring-adjacent toast toppings.
Above: Atop chickpea and ramp leaf crackers with labneh and ramp leaf salt. Above: Ramp leaf oil, labneh, peas, ramp leaf salt and elm samara on seed bread toast.
Seen through the critical lens of weeds, dandelions are perhaps the most familiar nuisance plant of all. Seen through the appreciative lens of food, they are a welcome and fresh spring ingredient. You don’t have to be a forager to recognize the new, lion-toothed leaves (dent-de-lion is the French etymology) emerging from their overwintering crowns in spring. A few weeks later, dandelions’ bright flowers, rayed like miniature suns, set fields, lawns, and path edges ablaze. Soon, their silky parachute-seeds drift off—the threat (or promise) of more.
Instead of reaching for the Roundup, let’s rewind, rewild, and re-set our dandelion clocks to appreciate this useful plant.
Dandelions are one of the bitter herbs of Passover, and in Gaza today, dandelions, along with other hardy “weeds” like common mallow, feed the hungry. An edible plant valued at least since the Ancients ate them as a tonic, dandelions are associated with a solid repertoire of traditional recipes. Dive into cookbooks and websites from countries ranged around the Mediterranean and the Middle East, and you will find them on plates of wilted greens annointed with olive oil and caramelized onions, in yeasted pies and meaty stews, and in reassuringly simple salads.
Above: Early-blooming dandelions give bees a boost.
A bee-friendly PSA: While dandelions are good to eat if you are human, their flowers are also a boon to bees. Their bloom time varies according to regional seasonal differences, so consider not mowing your lawn (and lobby your local municipality or park not to mow either) when they bloom in your area.
Above: Dandelion crowns include the base of the plant, leaves, buds, and flowers.
Above: Early spring’s dandelion crowns wilting in a hot pan with oil.
Early spring’s dandelion crowns are the whole basal rosette of the plant, sliced just above the root. Harvested before the more uncompromising bitterness of the mature leaves has developed, the crowns are a crunchy and mild vegetable, and succulent treat.
While the crowns can be eaten raw in salads, they are also easy to wilt entire in a pan of warm oil. My favorite spring snack is a quick cicchetti-like bite of sautéed dandelions atop good bread, with some field garlic to add a pungent bite. They can also be added whole to familiar dishes from almost any culinary genre: East Asian noodle bowls, Southeast Asian-style curries, Italian-inspired spaghetti (with bottarga), Senegalese maafe, South African bredies. Willing, and wilted, the dandelions add an additional layer of flavor to any of these meals, along with a healthy dose of minerals and antioxidants.
Above: Wilted dandelion crowns tossed into pad thai. Above: Tender dandelion leaves.
Spring’s edible weeds are ready to eat. But what is a weed? It’s not a new question but it bears repeating. Is a weed a problem plant, a nuisance plant? A plant that is not valued where it is growing? Usually. But in some notable cases, our weed is someone else’s food—or even someone else’s crop. A weed might be native to the region where it is treated with contempt (or herbicide), or introduced from another continent. Here are some of the useful, edible weeds that a temperate spring brings. Let’s call them greens, and vegetables. Because that is what they are. You may even want to cultivate some. Several are sold at farmers’ markets already.
Above: An early spring plate of bittercress, henbit, and chickweed—opportunistic lawn weeds, or good for pollinators and people?
Broadly, our collective understanding of weeds is culturally biased, regardless of where we live. It is often shaped by corporate farming and agri-business, and the challenge of raising one crop where another plant is able to infiltrate, compete, and interfere. Enter herbicides and crop-seeds bred to be resistant to poison. And then, in some countries (and especially in the United States), there is the big, big business of lawns. Many lawn-keepers are offended by anything less than a 100 percent grass expanse. More herbicides. More runoff into overburdened waterways and into the ocean.
If we learn to appreciate a diversity of plants, some edible weeds shape-shift in our perceptions into desirable seasonal treats.
Above: Garlic mustard, field garlic, daylilies, ground elder, lesser celandine, magnolia (not-a-weed), Japanese knotweed, butterbur, and mugwort.
Not every edible weed is innocuous. Some very invasive plants (lesser celandine, mugwort, and Japanese knotweed, for example) can and do alter habitats, negatively affecting not only the native plant community but the system to which those plants belong, from mammals through to soil microorganisms. If you live where they have been introduced, and are not native, do not plant them. By all means, harvest them at their tastiest peak—that is what horticulturists and land stewards call mechanical control. For foragers and seasonal eaters, it’s called looking for dinner.
We’ll be brief in our list of 24: It’s a who, when, where, what, and how. With some links to more in-depth information about some of our favorite weeds.
Bittercress
Above: Bittercress blooms and its tender stems are peppery, like watercress.
Hairy bittercress is Cardamine hirsuta.
Very early spring.
Lawns, garden beds, fields.
Eat its tiny leaves, stems and flowers, raw or cooked. They taste peppery.
Above: Whole bittercress plants keep fresh in a bowl of water.
Butterbur
Above: Butterbur flowers appear before their leaves.
Butterburs are both native and introduced, in North America. The invasive species are Petasites japonica and P. hybridus.
Early spring
Damp places
Butterbur buds taste like chrysanthemum greens. Do not eat raw: Boil before eating.
Spring is sprung, the mugwort is riz (at least in Brooklyn, New York). I wonder where the mower is? Because the first, silvery tufts of spring mugwort have emerged after winter in a flocked carpet visible from a distance. Their arrival, while nights still hold a hard chill, is met with joy, indifference, or despair, depending on who you are, where you are, and, if you’re a professional horticulturist, who you work for. While Artemisia vulgaris (and some very similar species) is a botanical super-invader in North America, it is also a very useful herb. It is one of the first perennials to break ground, and feathery spring mugwort is a delicate and sustainable wild treat, inspiring that joy for cooks sensitive to the changing of the seasons. Collect a tender bagful, and make a meal to accompany a conversation about the situation.
Above: Spring mugwort is tiny, belying it’s substantial height by the end of summer.
Mugwort is a perennial plant that spreads via undergound stolons. It also germinates from seeds very easily, as I have learned after shaking out my late summer forage-basket on our terrace and seeing miniature mugworts pop up in my pots in the spring. The plant is hard to control and exceptionally difficult to remove where it has invaded wild, natural areas. It out-thugs even tenacious native plants like common milkweed. It is a useful and welcome fresh or dried herb, though.
Above: The first spring mugwort leaves are very tender.
Spring mugwort, if you spin the story just right, is a pretty edible treat. (The spin is to emphasize that foraging for mugwort does the environment where it is invasive no harm whatsoever.) Unlike its late summer iteration, which is chewy, potent, and pungent, these leaves of early mugwort are very tender and very mild in flavor.
Above: A pot of beans, loaded with aromatics and spring mugwort.
In the bean stew recipe that follows, spring mugwort is blanched in the cooking broth, before being added as a green, edible garnish to the beans. This stew can be eaten in three ways. Way One: As is, as a rustic, nourishing soup-stew. Way Two: The flavor is intensified exponentially when the beans are drained and the broth is reduced to a glaze. Eat beans in rich glazed broth. Way Three: Once the broth is reduced, the beans are turned into a creamy purée whose foundation is that umami-heavy glaze.
Above: Mugwort blanching in the reduced cooking broth. Above: Once blanched, the spring mugwort sprigs adorn the velvety beans. Above: The beans can also be puréed to make a portable vegan pâté (here garnished with garlic mustard).
“The Calanques, a real garden of stones on the edge of the sea.” This is how the famed French rock climber and mountain guide Gaston Rébuffat described the extraordinary dialogue between these dramatic limestone ridges and narrow azure coves of the Mediterranean near Cassis and Marseilles in the south of France. I walked there recently, […]
Fuki is the (transliterated) Japanese name for the perennial plant butterbur. In Japan, fuki no to, the aromatic buds of butterbur, are a delicacy and a herald of spring, which is still weeks away when they emerge from the cold ground. Butterburs belong to the genus Petasites, and North America is home to a cold-hardy native species as well as introduced butterburs, which are valued as ornamentals in gardens. Their parasol-wide leaves are awe-inspiring, as they broaden in summer. The midribs of fuki leaves are also eaten in Japan, and were a traditional food for Native Americans. All edible parts of the plant are specially treated before consumption. Fuki comes with caveats.
Celebrate winter’s demise with a bite of fuki tempura or miso, and learn more about this plant-of-many-names.
Fuki, butterbur, sweet coltsfoot, Arctic coltsfoot, Arctic butterbur, pestilence wort. These common names are used close to interchangeably, depending on the person, place, species, and variety of Petasites. Japanese butterbur is Petasites japonicus, and its chartreuse-shaded buds break ground many weeks before the vernal equinox in the Northeast, where it is mildly invasive. Its buds appear when cornelian cherry, hellebores, fragrant honeysuckle, and witch hazel bloom. It is native to East Asia and is hardy from USDA zones 5-9. While Japanese butterbur is known as a good plant for problem places, this has led unintentionally to some environmental issues: Petasites in general can be aggressive colonizers and have a high tolerance for moist spots. Butterburs spread via creeping rhizomes, and their wide, leafy canopies create a super-shade where other plants cannot grow.
[galley_caption]Above: Artist Justice Wolf of Little Creek Ink, standing beneath mature fuki leaves.[/galley_caption]
The densely budded but diminutive flower buds of Japanese butterbur give way to leaves that are otherworldly in scale, like a botanical throwback to dinosaur times. A mature plant can stand over six feet tall, with foliage that instantly shrinks the human standing beneath the statuesque stems.
Above: Petasites hybridus has burgundy buds.
A burgundy-flowered butterbur, Petasites hybridus, is native to Europe and parts of Asia. It enjoys a common name (among many others) that inadvertently captures two sides of a botanical argument: Pestilence wort. You could read that as referring to an environmental threat, or to its extensive use as a folk medicine. (It has been studied in the treatment of migraines.) Of these two species, Japanese butterbur is considered more problematic in terms of habitat-alteration.
In British Columbia, forager Matt McAllister collects the buds of Petasites frigidus for market.
This native North American butterbur comprises four different varieties, occurring from northern California through the Pacific Northwest, Canada and Alaska, into the Arctic, and across the continent, to the Atlantic coast. It, too, likes wet growing conditions (stream banks, ditches, low ground), and has a long history of use as food by Native Americans nations (Moerman, 1998), who collected buds, leaf petioles (stalks), and young leaves.
Above: A Hudson Valley collection of early, mostly invasive, spring edibles, including Japanese butterbur.
Above: Naans in cross section: cooked in 3 minutes.
Above: A trayful of hot field garlic naan, ready to be devoured.
Field Garlic Naan
Makes 6 to 8
A platter of field garlic naan could stand alone as a meal, but the breads are an exceptional partner for eggs, soups, beans stews, dhals, curries and curry riffs, like butter chicken. A cast iron skillet or plancha (griddle) is indispensable here, allowing for very high, evenly distributed heat, which creates those wonderful charred spots that make genuine naan—cooked in a fiery tandoor—instantly recognizable. The cast iron should be well seasoned, because we’re not adding oil to the skillet, for this baking method. The naan should be eaten right away, while still warm. If you must, you can make the naan ahead; just reheat for 3 minutes in a 400-degree oven before serving, and do the butter-drench after re-heating.
Bread
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons yeast
2 Tablespoons yogurt
1 Tablespoon milk
1 large egg
½ cup warm water
3 Tablespoons melted, unsalted butter
1 ¼ teaspoons salt
Field Garlic Butter
¼ cup melted butter
¼ cup snipped field garlic
For the naan: Combine the flour, yeast, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. In a smaller bowl whisk together the yogurt, milk, egg, water, and melted butter.
Make a well in the flour, and pour the wet mixture into it. Mix everything together until nothing is dry. Transfer the dough to a clean, lightly buttered bowl and cover with a damp kitchen towel. Leave it in a warm place (I use the microwave–just don’t turn it on accidentally!), for about 1 ½ hours, until it has doubled in size. (A buttered finger-poke should leave a dent; if the dent fills in, leave it to rise some more.)
Place the dough on a very lightly floured surface. Using a bench scraper or large knife, cut the into 6 – 8 equal pieces. Form each into a ball.
Place the balls on a lightly-floured tray, dust with a little flour, and cover loosely with a kitchen towel. Allow them to rise for about 20 to 25 minutes (it will take longer in a cold room) until risen by about 50 percent.
Before you shape, heat your cast iron skillet to smoking point. In a small pot melt your butter with half the field garlic over low heat. Keep in reserve.
To shape the naan: I like elongated naan. Put a ball of dough on your lightly-floured work surface, flatten with your palm, and dimple the surface outward with your fingers. Then stretch gently to elongate, to about 8 inches long. As soon as each naan is shaped, lay it in your smoking-hot griddle or pan. You should be able to cook two, maybe three, at one time. Cook on one side for no more than 1 to 1 ½ minutes. The top will develop bubbles, and the underside, when you flip it, should be charred in spots. Cook the other side for 1 minute or a few seconds more, if the sides seem undercooked. You may need to turn the heat down a touch if the charring is happening too fast. As each naan is cooked, transfer it to a plate, brush with the waiting field garlic butter and cover with a clean kitchen towel folded over them to keep warm. Repeat with the rest of the dough balls.
When all the breads are ready, pour any residual butter over the top and add a flurry of the remaining field garlic. Dig in!
