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Tag: fruits

  • Lessons Learned: Growing, Killing, and Reviving a Meyer Lemon Tree – Gardenista

    Beyond the double-glazed sash windows of our apartment, it is frigid February, but the air indoors smells like a citrus orchard in springtime. After my previous Meyer lemon tree succumbed to a fungal pathogen, brought on by overwatering,  I was sure I would never grow this particular citrus again.  I loved that tree, most of all when it was in sumptuous bloom, its scent a constant presence. But its slow and relentless decline due to root rot, and my decision to hasten its demise with several swift chops of a pair of Felcos, left me feeling ashamed. I had failed the tree, even as others—bergamot, yuzu, Thai limes—thrived.

    A couple of years passed. As they do. Then, in September 2024, my citrus-growing friend Rachel Prince mentioned that she had a Meyer lemon up for adoption. It was a beautiful tree with a quirky swoop to its trunk.

    How could I say no?

    Above: Meyer lemon blossom in late afternoon sun in February.

    The adopted Meyer lemon spends late spring through fall on our Brooklyn terrace along with the rest of the citrus trees, before coming indoors for winter.  In December I picked its beautiful lemons and wrote about making limoncello.

    Then, with the lemons harvested, I was very careful not to overwater the tree, which no longer needed to nourish all those fat fruit. It had been at this, post-harvest point that I had managed to swamp the previous Meyer lemon, watering it (thoughtlessly) as much as I had when it was heavy-laden. Citrus trees hate soggy roots.

    Shortly after harvest, still in December, the tree looked a little different. I was worried that I had done it again. The leaves either hung limp, or curled. Not curled downwards, but inwards, which typically means they are drought-stressed. But the moisture meter I use read damp, even wet. So I ignored what I know, and trusted the meter.

    After a week of this I decided to look at the roots, certain I would find a fungus at work, the telltale threads of roots exposed as the root sheaths slough off, fatally. On butcher paper on the bedroom floor I pulled out the tree and its rootball from the pot and discovered…not damp but drought. The potting medium was bone dry. Some roots had turned to dust. After worrying about overwatering, which is the most common cause of citrus decline, I had underwatered the lemon tree.

    I also found very compact areas in the potting medium, and this might be what caused the moisture meter to be off; the meters measure electrical conductivity and the soil mix can affect that. This single experience has made me reassess my reliance on a meter when in doubt.

    You make mistakes. You learn. Repeat.

    Above: Meyer lemons are very light-hungry. Give them a sunny window.

    To repot the tree, I mixed orchid bark, potting soil, and a cactus potting mix that is very gritty. This is a blend that drains well, and quickly—my recipe keeps evolving. The tree was tucked back into its pot and given a good drink (three quarts, if you are curious; a quart more than usual). To remove the excess water that runs into the saucer, I use the usual, designated turkey baster.

    No one said that citrus trees are low-maintenance. At least, no one should.

    Soon, I noticed the first pinpricks of flower buds. And here we are, eight weeks later.

    Above: Inhale. Exhale.

    The tree is in peak bloom. Flowers have been opening for 14 days (you begin to count, because each days seems like a miracle). Mature petals are dropping, and sometimes whole flowers  fall off, intact; that’s okay, in moderation—the tree could never support hundreds of fruit. But I am being very vigilant.

    Sometimes, in the morning or evening, I lie in bed (our bedroom is where the sun lives) and look at the branches, festooned with blossoms. I look, and breathe, in, and out. And think about nothing—try to think about nothing—but what I am seeing. Petals, rich green leaves, on a tree within reach.

    Above: Peak bloom for the Meyer lemon.

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  • Recipe: Mulled Apple Cider, With a Secret Ingredient – Gardenista

    Cold nights need warm drinks; the kind you can linger over. Olivia Rae James has been warming up her nights with a boozy, citrusy take on mulled cider. Spiked with red wine, this mulled cider gets a combination of sweet and spice from the addition of grapefruit, apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. We’re planning to keep a big pot on the stove this winter. And don’t be surprised if you see us taking an evening walk, thermos in hand. To warm the heart cockles, we say.

    Photography by Olivia Rae James.

    Above: Apples and grapefruit inspection courtesy of Olivia’s pup, Frankie.
    Above: Whole and ground spices.
    Above: Grapefruit and apple halves.
    Above: The ingredients combined and ready for heating.
    Above: Mulled cider, served and ready to be enjoyed.
    Above: Cider for two.

    Mulled Apple Cider

    Serves 6

    Ingredients:

    • 3 cups fresh-squeezed apple juice
    • 2 cups dry red wine
    • 1 grapefruit, thinly sliced (can be substituted for your citrus of choice)
    • 1 apple, thinly sliced
    • Cinnamon (whole and ground)
    • Nutmeg (whole and ground)
    • Cloves (whole and ground)

    Instructions:

    Combine apple juice and red wine in a pot over low to medium heat. Add sliced grapefruit, apple, and a handful of cinnamon sticks, cloves and nutmeg, according to taste. Let simmer for at least ten minutes. Add ground cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves (if necessary, to taste). Serve warm.

    For more cocktails ideas, see:

    N.B.: This post has been updated; it was first published November 2013.

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  • A Stunning Garden in North Haven, NY, by DeMauro + DeMauro

    Strike one: a house in need of a major renovation. Strike two: a garden in need of love. Strike three: a remodel that left the surrounding landscape decimated. Such were the conditions that Emilia and Anna DeMauro, the sisters behind DeMauro + DeMauro Landscape Design & Gardens, encoutered when they first met with their client in North Haven, a hamlet north of Sag Harbor, New York. “When we came on the property, it was essentially a construction site,” remembers Emilia. “It really was just exposed earth—just dirt. And further back it was so overgrown in some areas it was difficult to even walk.”

    With a main house, a barn, a pool and a pool house, the two-acre property was not quite a blank canvas. There were also mature oaks dotted across the property, which abuts both woodland and wetland. In addition to repopulating the landscape with native plants, the client, an avid cook and gardener, hoped to add vegetable and cut flower beds (she also wanted to keep the peach trees planted by the previous owner). Last, the client wanted to highlight several sculptures by her late husband.

    To tackle the large project, the DeMauro sisters created distinct gardens within the property, including two pollinator gravel gardens close to the house, a wildflower meadow near the wetland, grassy meadows on either side of the driveway, three cut flower beds, and fourteen vegetable beds—plus, on-site composting and even a chicken run.

    Take a tour of the revived and diverse bayside landscape:

    Photography by Doug Young, courtesy of DeMauro + DeMauro.

    Before

    Above: Before the landscape redesign, the land surrounding the house was nothing but compacted, post-construction dirt. Anna saw the sunny spots between the two house wings as the perfect opportunity to create a dry gravel garden inspired by Beth Chatto’s celebrated garden in Essex.

    After

    Two years after DeMauro + DeMauro’s installation, the pollinator gravel gardens are coming into their own.
    Above: Two years after DeMauro + DeMauro’s installation, the pollinator gravel gardens are coming into their own.

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  • Bare-Root Fruit Trees: Why and How to Plant Them

    We’ve entered the season when our gardens are starting to gradually slow down in preparation for a restful winter. We gardeners, however, can’t help but keep on pruning, planting, and planning. One project to add to your list of late-fall chores to do in the garden: plant a fruit tree.

    And if you do, consider going with a dormant bare-root fruit tree. Planting bare-root trees saves not only money (it’s always cheaper to buy bare-root over container-grown), but also your back from having to lug around heavy nursery pots.

    Here are my tips for planting bare-root fruit trees:

    1. Take stock of the stock.

    Above: Photograph via Hopes Grove Nurseries.

    When choosing which bare-root fruit tree to buy, look for ones that are shorter and with thicker trunks. Taller trees with thinner trunks might not be as hardy and stable in the ground. After planting, your tree’s canopy should be pruned anyway to even out the weight so that your tree’s top (canopy)  is in proportion to its smaller bottom (roots).

    2. Don’t procrastinate about planting.

    Bare-root fruit trees are—surprise, surprise—bare, so that means no soil protects the delicate roots. What this also means is that the exposed roots can dry out quickly. The solution? Plant your tree as soon as you get it home. The other option is to “heel it in” which means that you bury the roots in some sort of moist material for a short time until you can plant it. Some bare-root plants come in plastic packaging with moist sawdust already around the roots, which can help protect the roots and give you a little more time before planting.

    3. Soak and soak some more.

    Fuyu persimmons are the best-selling fruit tree at Dave Wilson Nursery, which sells it in bare-root form.
    Above: Fuyu persimmons are the best-selling fruit tree at Dave Wilson Nursery, which sells it in bare-root form.

    Before planting your bare-root tree, carefully untangle any roots and soak in water for at least two hours to rehydrate it. Once that is complete, mix organic compost into to your native soil for in-ground planting. No fertilizer is needed upon planting. For containers, look for organic potting soil without fertilizers because harsh chemicals could harm young trees.

    4. Measure the roots.

    Many gardeners wonder how to plant a tree that has only dangly roots and no defined root ball. Well, start by digging a hole two to three times as wide as the roots and only as deep as the longest root. Too deep of a hole and the soil and tree will settle too much. Mound up a bit of soil in the hole and spread out the roots then back fill and gently press down the soil to remove any air pockets. Pro tip: Make sure the graft union (if present) stays above the final soil level.

    5. Mulch generously.

    After planting and watering deeply, apply a thick layer of mulch around your tree. Mulch will help maintain even moisture and help prevent weeds. But don’t crowd the trunk with mulch (mulch volcanos lead to excess moisture on the bark, which can lead to rot).

    6. Practice patience.

    Above: Photograph by Britt Willoughby Dyer, from Gardening 101: Pear Trees.

    It’s normal to want to immediately reap the fruits of your labor, but recognize that bare-root fruit trees can be slower to produce at first as the roots get established. Be patient and you will be rewarded: some even say bare-root trees end up growing larger than their container counterparts. Expect at least a year or two before getting a harvest. Then enjoy!

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  • Pawpaw Streusel Cake: A Recipe for the Native American Fruit

    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.

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  • Tiny Gardens: 66 Square Feet for Alpine Strawberries in NYC – Gardenista

    This week, we’re revisiting some of our all-time favorite stories about gardening in New York City. Cultivating plants in the Big Apple comes with challenges—yards tend to be small and shady, and privacy is rare—but if you have the patience, these urban gardens can produce some big-time magic. Behold…

    October…strawberries? That would have surprised me, too, before I grew them myself on a tiny terrace in New York City.

    Several years ago I bought two strawberry plants at GRDN, a pretty garden shop in Brooklyn. The cultivar name was Fern, and, said the label, these were “everbearing” strawberries. That sounded good. Standard strawberries will bear fruit in early summer only. But as a gardener with space issues, I ask a lot from a single plant. More is more.

    I had never grown strawberries before and it sounded hard. Talk of mounding, and rows, and straw, and runners, and renovating…? All I had was some small pots, a lot of sun, a small terrace, and the desire to grow my own. Turns out that’s all you need to enjoy fresh berries till hard frost.

    I put the plants in full sun on my terrace edge, and a month later I was eating the first ripe fruit. Soon, the plants made new flowers, and about four weeks later, more strawberries. And so it went, till the pots froze and snow fell. And they returned in the spring, with no extra protection. They weren’t kidding about the everbearing.

    Soon I was picking handfuls. And in high summer the plants sent out runners—long, tender feelers with a tuft of leaves at the tip, searching for new land to occupy. Wherever they touched down they set down roots. I dug them up and potted these offspring in even smaller 6-inch pots.

    Within a year I had a small strawberry farm, blooming into November. Eventually the reproduction by runners got so out of hand that I was sending the extras to friends, by mail. The parent plants do get tired after a few years, but by then their offspring have risen to the challenge. Life lesson?

    Read on for step-by-step instructions to make a strawberry shrub cocktail called the Ingrid Bergman:

    Photography by Marie Viljoen for Gardenista.

    Above: Is there a more appealing summer arrangement?
    Above: My 66-square-foot terrace.
    Above: Because of space constraints, I housed the strawberries in terra-cotta pots no more than 8 inches in diameter.
    Above: Sweet harvest.
    Above: The Fern strawberry plants bloomed into November.
    Above: When we moved from a sunny top floor in Brooklyn to a shadier parlor-level Harlem with just four hours of direct sun, Fern languished. I sent the sulking survivors to sunnier gardens. But the surprise performer was the other strawberry I had been growing all this time, an Alpine cultivar called Ruegen.

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  • Kumquat Tree: How to Grow the Petite Citrus Tree

    I have a Meyer lemon tree and a lime tree on my property. Where I live, in Marin County, CA, it feels like everyone has a citrus tree of some sort—or at least knows someone with an over-productive citrus you can mooch off of. All of which is to say, I didn’t think I needed another citrus tree in my life. But that was before I met the kumquat tree.

    The other day at my gardening client’s house, I passed by her kumquat tree, did a double-take on the dangling tiny oranges, and found myself scheming to bring one home for my own garden. I’d always thought I wouldn’t like the fruit. I guess I thought it would be too tart, too seedy, too something of what I had no interest in. But as soon as I popped one, then two into my mouth, I changed my mind. The next day I set out to the nursery to buy my own kumquat tree.

    Please keep reading to learn if this is your next citrus tree, too:

    Above: A potted kumquat tree can be top-dressed with mulch or gravel. Just remember that potted citrus, like most plants grown in a container, will require more frequent drinks of water than they would if planted directly in the ground. Photograph from Urban Oasis Landscape Design’s Vibrant Mediterranean Front Yard.

    Kumquat trees are evergreens that produce small, oval or round fruits that are about one to two inches wide. Depending on the variety, the citrus will generally bloom in late spring and into summer, followed by fruit that ripens mid-winter, with fruit holding on well into spring. Native to southern Japan and China, kumquats were introduced to Europe by Robert Fortune, a collector from the London Horticultural Society. Soon, this tasty citrus traveled to North America and in 1915, their classification changed from Citrus japonica to Fortunella.

    Above: You can bring a cut branch or two indoors for a simple but stunning arrangement. Photograph by Laure Joliet for Remodelista, from All Eras Welcome: A Spanish Colonial Update in LA.

    What is especially lovely about the tree is that most of them bear a heavy crop even at a young age. And the vibrantly orange fruit has a sweet peel that is delicious in its own right. Inside, you will find slightly tart flesh and a few seeds. I eat the peel and the pulpy insides separately, but many people pop the whole thing in their mouth for a burst of beauty that is simultaneously sweet and tart.

    Cheat Sheet

    A favorite:
    Above: A favorite: ‘Nagami’ is a medium-sized evergreen tree/shrub growing to about 8 feet tall and 6 feet wide, with a low canopy that produces fruit in mid-spring to late summer. Photograph via Fast Growing Trees.
    • Where cold temperatures persist, consider growing your kumquat indoors in a container. Just make sure to situate your container close to a warm east- or west-facing window.
    • Even if you’re in a warm climate, you may want to consider growing it in a container; the sweet citrus fragrance coming from the white blossoms should be appreciated up close.
    • Bees love, love, love the blossoms.
    • Also great for adding to a vegetable garden among other edibles.
    • High in vitamin C, this citrus can be eaten fresh or cooked for a jam or jelly. You might even try baking them in a chicken dish.
    • While not severely toxic, the fruit’s sugars and acidity could cause digestive upset to pets if an excess is eaten.

    Keep It Alive

    The trees tend to bear abundant fruit. Photograph by Lesley B. via Flickr.
    Above: The trees tend to bear abundant fruit. Photograph by Lesley B. via Flickr.
    • Plant your kumquat in the spring to avoid any risk of damaging frost.
    • Water regularly during the hottest months and feed often in the spring and summer. An organic fertilizer formulated for citrus is perfect.
    • Select a sunny location with at least six to eight hours of direct sunlight a day for best fruit production.
    • Prefers loamy soil that is slightly acidic (pH 5.5-6.5) and well-draining. If planting it in the ground, avoid heavy clay soil.
    • If growing in a container, use the largest one you have, ensuring it has drainage holes to prevent root rot. Also, consider filling your container with soil formulated for palm/citrus trees.
    • Prune to control the growth and shape. The plant should be bushy and have sturdy branches to support the fruit.
    • Be on the alert when you have a grafted kumquat. Unwanted shoots can develop below the graft union on the root stock. Remove these immediately or they will take over the plant and your cute kumquat will barely grow.
    • Kumquats are hardy to USDA Zone 8 and 9.

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  • Eating to Downregulate a Gene for Metastatic Cancer  | NutritionFacts.org

    Women with breast cancer should include the “liberal culinary use of cruciferous vegetables.”

    Both the Women’s Intervention Nutrition Study and the Women’s Health Initiative study showed that women randomized to a lower-fat diet enjoyed improved breast cancer survival. However, in the Women’s Healthy Eating and Living Study, women with breast cancer were also randomized to drop their fat intake down to 15 to 20 percent of calories, yet there was no difference in breast cancer relapse or death after seven years.

    Any time there’s an unexpected result, you must question whether the participants actually followed through with study instructions. For instance, if you randomized people to stop smoking and they ended up with the same lung cancer rates as those in the group who weren’t instructed to quit, one likely explanation is that the group told to stop smoking didn’t actually stop. In the Women’s Healthy Eating and Living Study, both the dietary intervention group and the control group started out at about 30 percent of calories from fat. Then, the diet group was told to lower their fat intake to 15 to 20 percent of calories. By the end of the study, they had in fact gone from 28.5 percent fat to 28.9 percent fat, as you can see below and at 1:16 in my video The Food That Can Downregulate a Metastatic Cancer Gene. They didn’t even reduce their fat intake. No wonder they didn’t experience any breast cancer benefit. 

    When you put together all the trials on the effect of lower-fat diets on breast cancer survival, even including that flawed study, you see a reduced risk of breast cancer relapse and a reduced risk of death. In conclusion, going on a low-fat diet after a breast cancer diagnosis “can improve breast cancer survival by reducing the risk of recurrence.” We may now know why: by targeting metastasis-initiating cancer cells through the fat receptor CD36.

    We know that the cancer-spreading receptor is upregulated by saturated fat. Is there anything in our diet that can downregulate it? Broccoli.

    Broccoli appears to decrease CD36 expression by as much as 35 percent (in mice). Of all fruits and vegetables, cruciferous vegetables like broccoli were the only ones associated with significantly less total risk of cancer and not just getting cancer in the first place, as you can see here and at 2:19 in my video.

    Those with bladder cancer who eat broccoli also appear to live longer than those who don’t, and those with lung cancer who eat more cruciferous veggies appear to survive longer, too.

    For example, as you can see below and at 2:45 in my video, one year out, about 75 percent of lung cancer patients eating more than one serving of cruciferous vegetables a day were still alive (the top line in red), whereas, by then, most who had been getting less than half a serving a day had already died from their cancer (the bottom line in green).

    Ovarian cancer, too. Intake of cruciferous vegetables “significantly favored survival,” whereas “a survival disadvantage was shown for meats.” Milk also appeared to double the risk of dying. Below and at 3:21 in my video are the survival graphs. Eight years out, about 40 percent of ovarian cancer patients who averaged meat or milk every day were deceased (the boldest line, on the bottom), compared to only about 20 percent who had meat or milk only a few times a week at most (the faintest line, on the top). 

    Now, it could be that the fat and cholesterol in meat increased circulating estrogen levels, or it could be because of meat’s growth hormones or all its carcinogens. And galactose, the sugar naturally found in milk, may be directly toxic to the ovary. Dairy has all its hormones, too. However, the lowering of risk with broccoli and the increasing of risk with meat and dairy are also consistent with the CD36 mechanism of cancer spread.

    Researchers put it to the test in patients with advanced pancreatic cancer who were given pulverized broccoli sprouts or a placebo. The average death rate was lower in the broccoli sprout group compared to the placebo group. After a month, 18 percent of the placebo group had died, but none in the broccoli group. By three months, another 25 percent of the placebo group had died, but still not a single death in the broccoli group. And by six months, 43 percent of the remaining patients in the placebo group were deceased, along with the first 25 percent of the broccoli group. Unfortunately, even though the capsules for both groups looked the same, “true blinding was not possible,” and the patients knew which group they were in “because the pulverized broccoli sprouts could be easily distinguished from the methylcellulose [placebo] through their characteristic smell and taste.” So, we can’t discount the placebo effect. What’s more, the study participants weren’t properly randomized “because many of the patients refused to participate unless they were placed into the [active] treatment group.” That’s understandable, but it makes for a less rigorous result. A little broccoli can’t hurt, though, and it may help. It’s the lack of downsides of broccoli consumption that leads to “Advising Women Undergoing Treatment for Breast Cancer” to include the “liberal culinary use of cruciferous vegetables,” for example.

    It’s the same for reducing saturated fat. The title of an editorial in a journal of the National Cancer Institute asked: “Is It Time to Give Breast Cancer Patients a Prescription for a Low-Fat Diet?” “Although counseling women to consume a healthy diet after breast cancer diagnosis is certainly warranted for general health, the existing data still fall a bit short of proving this will help reduce the risk of breast cancer recurrence and mortality.” But what do we have to lose? After all, it’s still certainly warranted for general health.

    Michael Greger M.D. FACLM

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  • Tepache: An Easy Recipe for the Popular Pineapple-Based Mexican Drink

    Tepache: An Easy Recipe for the Popular Pineapple-Based Mexican Drink

    Above: Blood orange peel adds layers of seasonal flavor.

    My own variations have used sweet pineapples from the corner store, different sources of sugar (granulated, piloncillo, and palm jaggery— each affects the color and influences the flavor), and tap water. I have also included other seasonal fruit, like mango, blood orange, and quince, as well as chile to add the heat that makes one De la Calle flavor (Mango/Chili) the most popular.

    If you read more about fermentation you may find various authors suggesting that if you wash fruit you wash away the sacred yeasts that are necessary to start a ferment. I disagree. We are surrounded by wild yeasts: They are on everything. And for many of us, those pineapples have traveled a long way and been stored and handled in ways we can’t control. I definitely wash them. There has never been a problem with a spontaneous ferment beginning.

    Above: Flavors—chile and fragrant quince.

    Tepache

    Different sugars create different-hued tepaches. The lighter the sugar the blonder the beverage. While you could ferment the tepache for longer than four to five days, more time means more alcohol. Taste to see what you prefer. To serve, I pour a glass half-full with tepache and top with sparkling water. If you don’t have a large jar you can use a bowl (keep it covered with a cloth and stir once day). In a cold room fermentation will slower.

    Equipment: 1 large, clean 6-cup mason jar.

    • 1 cup chopped piloncillo, palm sugar, or organic granulated sugar
    • Rinds and core (and some fruit, for extra flavor) of 1 medium pineapple

    Optional Extras

    • 1 jalapeño or cayenne pepper
    • 1 mango, flesh only
    • Zest of 1 clementine, orange, or lemon
    • Peels and flesh of 1 quince (apple also works)

    If using the hard sugars like piloncillo or jaggery, chop them into small pieces (I use a screwdriver on a damp-dish-cloth-wrapped cutting board to soften them thumps and prevent slippage. You could also grate these sugars, or soften them in the microwave.

    Place the pineapple core and rinds (and citrus zest, mangos, or quinces, if using) in the jar. Add the sugar. Pour in enough water to reach just below the neck of the jar. Screw on the lid tightly and shake the jar gentle to dissolve the sugar. Loosen the lid.

    Allow the mixture sit at room temperature in a spot out of direct sunlight, for 2 to 4 days. Once a day, tighten the lid and shake the jar gently (or you could stir it with a long-handled spoon). After a couple of days you should notice small bubbles rising spontaneously in the liquid. And when you shake the jar, then loosen the lid, there will be an audible ffffft! of released pressure. That’s fermentation, happening. Use a clean spoon to taste daily (this will teach your tongue how the flavor evolves).

    If you are adding chile, do this on Day 3.

    On around Day 4 or 5, strain the liquid through a fine mesh sieve, and again though a cloth-lined sieve. Siphon into a clean bottle, add a lid, and transfer to the fridge*. It is good to drink at once but develops more complexity with time.

    * If you keep any active ferment sealed and at room temperature, you are encouraging an explosive event: The carbon dioxide naturally released will cause pressure to build in the bottle, and it could detonate. The cold of the fridge keeps things safe, and also slows down fermentation.

    To serve, fill a glass with half tepache and half sparking water (or tonic water). Add a strip of citrus zest, if you like.

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  • Fall Foraging: 6 Easiest Fruits and Mushrooms to Forage in the Autumn

    Fall Foraging: 6 Easiest Fruits and Mushrooms to Forage in the Autumn

    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.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Aronia

    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.

    Ginkgo

    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.

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  • Best Viburnum Shrubs: Our List of 10 Flowering Bushes

    Best Viburnum Shrubs: Our List of 10 Flowering Bushes

    If you want to start a horticultural fight, opine loudly at your next plant party about the best viburnums to grow. These flowering shrubs provoke strong opinions among the botanically inclined, and things could get ugly, fast. Dessert might be thrown. But consider our disciplined list of ten and hear us out. And bear in mind that there are almost 200 species to choose from, let alone cultivars and hybrids. Whether you want fruit, flowers, fall foliage (or all three), there is probably a viburnum for your gardening personality: extrovert, shy, down-to-earth, elegant, rambunctious, shape-shifting, or fragrantly alluring?

    Here they are.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Above: Viburnum plicatum var. tomentosum ‘Summer Snowflake’.

    But first: Why plant viburnums at all?

    • A range of sizes means that viburnums can stand in for trees in small spaces.
    • Multiple seasons of interest, from spring flowers to fall foliage and fruit (except in sterile species).
    • Flowering times that range from late winter to early summer, so you can build a collection.
    • The shrubs have interesting foliage with texture that rewards the detail-oriented gardener.
    • Viburnums that bear fruit offer ornamental interest in fall and winter, as well as food for the birds (and humans).
    • Kaleidoscopic fall colors, depending on the species you choose, and how much sun it receives.
    • Persistent winter fruits that feed birds when there is little else available.

    1. Viburnum × bodnantense ‘Dawn’

    Above: Viburnum × bodnantense ‘Dawn’ blooming as winter lingers.

    At the end of winter, the exceptional fragrance of this tree-like hybrid viburnum is sweetly uplifting. It is a cross between V. farreri and V. grandiflorum, whose clusters of flowers start as deep rose-colored buds before paling in full bloom. The tubular flowers make you look twice, wondering whether a lilac has gone mad and erupted while there is snow on the ground. Flowering on bare branches, this earliest of viburnums is elegantly dramatic and more tolerant of frost than its grandiflorum parent. Usually sterile, few or no fruit will form, helping to ensure that this non-native viburnum does not spread. Viburnum × bodnantense is hardy from USDA zones 4 – 8.

    2. Korean spice viburnum, Viburnum carlesii

    Above: V. carlesii buds are pink, before opening into full-white bloom.

    Above: The perfumed pom-poms of V. carlesii.

    If scent is your thing, a must-have viburnum is the intensely fragrant Koreanspice. In mid spring its deep pink buds open into pale pink flowers that shift gradually into pure white. The flowers can be turned into an equally fragrant syrup, fermented wild soda, or perfumed honey (simply substitute the flowers in our Lilac Honey Recipe). Koreanspice is a slow-growing shrub that responds well to clipping (like a boxwood) and makes a showy ball of flowers when spring rolls round. Be sure to prune and shape it right after blooming, since all viburnums bloom on new wood (so, if you prune in fall, you will miss the next spring’s flowers). Extremely cold-hardy Viburnum carlesii is hardy from zones 2 – 8.

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  • Serviceberry pie celebrates the start of summer berry season

    Serviceberry pie celebrates the start of summer berry season

    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.

    Filling:

    • 3 cups (about 12 oz) ripe serviceberries (or mixed berries), stems removed
    • ½ cup granulated sugar
    • 2 teaspoons corn starch

    Molly Bolt’s Pie Pastry:

    • 1 Tablespoon butter for the tray
    • 6 oz butter, at room temperature
    • 2.5 oz sugar
    • 1 large egg, beaten
    • 10.5 oz flour
    • 2 teaspoons baking powder
    • ¼ teaspoon salt

    To finish:

    • ¼ cup cream or whole milk

    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.

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  • Olive Trees: Everything You Need to Know About Growing Them

    Olive Trees: Everything You Need to Know About Growing Them

    5. Olives are not tasty off the tree.

    Above: Photograph by Sarah Lonsdale, from DIY: Home Cured Olives.

    Ever tasted a fresh olive? If you have, then I’m so sorry. Fresh, raw olives are surprisingly very bitter and need to be fermented, cured in a vinegar or salt water brine, or dry-cured with oil in order to be delicious.

    6. Olive trees are slow-growing.

    An olive tree stars in a Texas pebble garden. Photograph by Matthew Williams for Gardenista, from Genius Garden Ideas: 10 Landscapes with Olive Trees.
    Above: An olive tree stars in a Texas pebble garden. Photograph by Matthew Williams for Gardenista, from Genius Garden Ideas: 10 Landscapes with Olive Trees.

    When a tree, like an olive, is slow-growing then it pays to buy the largest one you can afford to avoid frustration and disappointment. I usually recommend nothing smaller than a 15-gallon tree.

    7. …and slow to fruit, too.

    On average, an olive may take four to five years before it fruits. This production is also dependent on whether the growing conditions are warm and sunny enough. If these requirements aren’t met, then fruiting might not occur at all.

    8. Olive trees need proper pruning.

    Above: Photograph courtesy of Art Luna Garden, from A Mediterranean Idyll on the Pacific Palisades.

    Italians say that you should prune the olive tree in such a way that a bird can fly through the middle of it. Pruning is needed to reduce the density of the foliage and allow sunlight to infiltrate every part of the tree. Also, olive trees produce fruit on the previous year’s branches, so in order to have fruit every year you must make sure that adequate growth occurs every year. In general, prune fruiting olives after harvest. If you are growing a non-fruiting olive, proper pruning is still strongly encourage to avoid a gangly or lopsided tree; plus it’s always a good idea to remove dead, diseased, or damaged limbs. This can be done in the spring or early summer. Pro tip: watch out for snacking deer who also like to “prune” young olive trees. You may need to net the lower branches or spray a deer repellent on newly planted trees.

    9. Olive trees can be a houseplant.

    Olea europaea
    Above: Olea europaea ‘Arbequina’ is a Spanish olive tree that makes a great indoor specimen. Photograph via Terrain.

    Looking to add a little Mediterranean style to your home decor? A potted olive tree might be the addition you need—for a little while at least. Long-term these trees are best grown outside. But a potted olive can thrive for a year or so indoors as long as you make sure it gets lots of light—a south-facing window or under a skylight works. Maintenance-wise, water your indoor olive when the top inch of soil is dry to the touch. If you see leaves yellowing and dropping, then either it is receiving not enough or too much water. Use cacti/palm soil for good drainage, as soggy soil can be detrimental. Pest-wise, be on the lookout for scale invading leaves and stems. Pro tip: An early scale invasion can be handled by simply picking off the critters.

    10. Olive trees are considered sacred.

    Photograph by Chelsea Fuss, from Olive Branches: Rethinking an Underappreciated Symbol of Peace. 
    Above: Photograph by Chelsea Fuss, from Olive Branches: Rethinking an Underappreciated Symbol of Peace. 

    Amazingly, almost all parts of an olive tree have significance. The trees themselves symbolize wisdom, peace, power, fertility, and purity. The branches symbolize peace and abundance and were once ritualistically offered to deities and powerful people as signs of purification and blessings. And olive oil has long been considered sacred and is  still used today in many religious ceremonies.

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  • What are these, fruits and vegetables for ants?!?! (35 Photos)

    What are these, fruits and vegetables for ants?!?! (35 Photos)

    Camry

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  • ‘I just know my stuff’: 8-year -old Kendall Rae Johnson talks urban farming, community and fresh food

    ‘I just know my stuff’: 8-year -old Kendall Rae Johnson talks urban farming, community and fresh food

    At just eight years old, Atlanta native Kendall Rae Johnson is the youngest certified farmer in the nation. Photos by Kerri Phox/The Atlanta Voice

    Q&A: The youngest certified farm in the nation, Kendall Rae Johnson, chats about practicing sustainability beyond Earth Month. 

    At just eight years old, Atlanta native Kendall Rae Johnson is the youngest certified farmer in the nation. With a title she earned at six, Kendall and her parents, Ursula and Quentin Johnson, have continued cultivating a community that thrives on sharing and teaching through their urban farm aGROWKulture.

    Every April, Earth Month and Earth Day remind us of the importance of using sustainable practices to protect our environment. I got to chat with Kendall about how every day is essentially Earth Day and how people can practice eco-consciousness beyond April. I also got to tour the farm, teeming with various fresh fruits, vegetables, flowers, and herbs.

    Laura Nwogu

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  • Quinces: Recipes for Baked Quinces and a Quince Sambal

    Quinces: Recipes for Baked Quinces and a Quince Sambal


    Unloved and perhaps perceived as unlovely, quinces are a curiosity for many cooks who did not grow up with the fragrant fruit. Like apples, they ripen in fall, and come to market at the same time. Unlike apples, they remain an enigma. Chefs might pounce on them, and anyone with quince-eating cultural roots will scoop them up with delight. Owls and pussy cats like them (eaten with a “runcible” spoon). But often, quinces sold in the US languish. Pick up a fruit, and breathe it in. It is intoxicatingly aromatic, and its floral scent translates into flavor when it is cooked. Raw, quinces can be eaten as a lightly spiced sambal.

    You’ll find the recipes below.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Above: Pale yellow or light green, quinces resemble bumpy apples, and are sometimes covered in soft fuzz.

    Uncooked, quinces are dense and difficult to slice, and their flavor is astringent. Salting the raw, grated fruit tames its tannins, while cooking makes quinces versatile enough to be eaten as a dessert, a preserve, a jelly (like membrillo), or as a savory addition to North African tagines and other meaty dishes. Cooked quinces’ flavor is gently apple-like, and their scent somehow conveyed in each bite.

    Above: Local quinces are sold from fall through late winter.

    Originating somewhere around Western Asia and the Caucasus, quinces have been cultivated for millennia around the Mediterranean and in the Middle East. Turkey produces the most quinces for export. The fruit I encounter at greenmarkets in New York City are grown in the Hudson Valley, in USDA hardiness zone 6a. Quince trees are hardy down to Zone 5 and have significant cold-tolerance. While the fruit requires summer rainfall, the humid, tropical summers of the Northeast are not ideal. Humidity encourages fungal infections, and cold winters might also see damage to the tree’s early, beautiful blossoms. Cedar apple rust, hosted by Juniperus virginiania (eastern red cedar), and blight are potential issues on this coast. The quince’s happiest place is anywhere with long, hot, dry summers.

    Above: A raw quince sambal.

    My own quince background belongs to South Africa, where the fruit is associated with the dusty roads of farms in the Karoo and Overberg regions, and where they hang like fat, pale moons on branches bent low by their weight in late summer.

    The way quinces are prepared in South Africa is influenced by Cape Malay traditions, centered around Cape Town. This cooking-style is a blend of Dutch colonial cooking and Afro-Asian influences brought to the Dutch colony by enslaved people and political exiles from the East Indies (present-day Indonesia), Southeast Asia, and Madagascar in the 17th and 18th centuries. Quinces in South Africa are typically eaten as a fruit leather, a sweet preserve served in its pink syrup, in a savory bredie (a slow-cooked mutton stew featuring a single, seasonal vegetable), or a sambal (a refreshingly spicy fruit or vegetable condiment).

    Above: Quinces at the Union Square Greenmarket in Manhattan in January.

    When I find quinces (usually grown by Locust Grove Farms, New York), from fall though winter at greenmarkets, I do two things: Bake them for dessert, with fresh, home-grown bay leaves and foraged juniper, or with fir sugar; and grate up a spicy sambal, whose recipe comes from a cookbook that is also a piece of Africana: Hilda Gerber’s Traditional Cookery of the Cape Malays. It is essentially a transcribed, invaluable oral history, published posthumously from a manuscript Gerber completed in 1949, which was found in her belongings after she died in 1954.

    Above: New York quinces atop South African food traditions.





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  • Calamansi: Everything You Need to Know About Calamondin Citrus Fruit

    Calamansi: Everything You Need to Know About Calamondin Citrus Fruit


    Watch out, yuzu: Calamansi is coming for you. In the ever-fickle focus of the trend-obsessed digital culinary world, fragrant yuzu remains, for now, the darling of internet searches (according to my quick query on Google Trends). But curiosity about calamansi, a small, sour, sweet-skinned citrus, is piquing. If not peaking (sorry). Possibly native to China, but ubiquitous in the Philippines and Indonesia, this petite citrus is widely cultivated in Southeast Asia. There, it is often harvested when mature but still green, with an interior that is already bright orange. It is far less common Stateside, where the fruit is also known as calamondin. Here, ripe yellow-skinned calamansi is available seasonally from a handful of specialty growers, and the trees are available to buy from some growers. They can be grown in pots, or planted in-ground. They bear fruit around year four.

    Here’s what to expect from calamansi, and how to use this aromatic and tart fruit.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Above: Ripe calamansi. These fruit are about an inch in diameter.

    Calamansi-slash-calamondin has many other common names, including must lime and Philippine lime. Botanically, it is Citrus x microcarpa, and is thought to be a natural hybrid: Its tart interior speaks kumquat; its aromatic skin, mandarin.

    Above: The seeds of calamansi are large and numerous.

    Calamansi has a thin skin and minimal pith, like a Meyer lemon. Despite its tiny size, it is intensely juicy. Its copious seeds are reminiscent of yuzu (and, like yuzu’s, they are used in folk remedies as well as commercial skincare products).

    Above: My calamansi tree overwintering indoors, with its myoga ginger neighbor.

    Calamansi trees seem to be one of the less demanding citrus* to grow in cold climates. While the tropical tree must be overwintered indoors in climates colder than USDA growing zone 10, it seems happier with less than the usual prescribed full sun (which means a minimum of six hours, uninterrupted, a hard condition to meet indoors). My own tree was inherited last year from a friend who left Brooklyn to travel the world, and in her apartment it spent its green, lush life facing a very bright exterior wall, with no direct sun at all. It did not bloom or fruit. But leaf out, it did. On my summer terrace it flowered minimally, but made no fruit. I think more sun outdoors this year will produce better results. (Other city growers have the opposite problem.)

    * More demanding indoor citrus? Meyer lemons, hands down. (Another citrus that requires less sunlight, since it is also a forest tree, is Thai lime, or makrut—Citrus hystrix.)

    Above: In our south-facing bedroom lives the citrus flock. Calamansi guarding the door.

    Like all potted citrus, calamansi grown in a container needs exceptional drainage. I use a 50:50 mix of potting soil and cedar shavings (shredded cedar mulch also works). Plant the tree in a pot only an inch or so wider than the grow-pot it arrived in. If the pot is too big the soil tends to stay moist too long, and too much moisture is death to most indoor plants. Water deeply, meaning: until the water runs from the drainage holes. Never allow the pot to sit in a pool of water. And water again when it is almost dry. This may take a week or more. A moisture meter is very helpful. The ideal spot for a citrus tree is in the sunniest window you have. Failing that, bright natural light will ensure healthy green leaves, but possibly not flowers and fruit.

    For an in-depth primer on citrus in pots, see: 14 Things Nobody Tells You about Indoor Citrus Trees

    Above: Calamansi grown in temperate climates develop a yellow-orange skin when ripe.





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  • Tejocote: All About the fruit of a Mexican Species of Hawthorn

    Tejocote: All About the fruit of a Mexican Species of Hawthorn

    Tejocote. You know it well, or you have never heard of it. There seems to be no middle “I-think-I-know-what-that-is” ground for these plump, yellow crabapple lookalikes with burnished orange cheeks. Tejocote is the fruit of hawthorn trees native to the highlands of Mexico and Central America. Until 2015 it was illegal to import them into the United States, but because the fruit is an integral part of Mexican festivals and holidays in early winter, tejocotes were smuggled into the country to feed communities nostalgic for their essential presence on the Day of the Dead, at Christmas, and at New Year. Because of their unfamiliarity in the US, many cooks are unaware of their heritage and uses. Their sunny appearance in winter should activate some culinary games in the kitchen.

    Here are some ideas to get started, and my recipe for tejocote preserves in syrup.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Above: Ripe tejocote ranges from yellow to warm orange and red.

    Why the import-ban? Like other fruits once forbidden and now permitted Stateside (yuzu and mangosteen spring to mind), tejocote was associated with agricultural pests that could spread disease to domestic crops. It became the most-smuggled fruit into the US. When a farm in California’s Pauma Valley began growing tejocotes to supply local demand, the smuggling stopped. And in 2015, after a six-year review process, the USDA lifted the ban on imported tejocotes because “the application of one or more designated phytosanitary measures” would mitigate any potential risk to local crops.

    Above: Raw, the flesh is mild, and very slightly tart.

    All hawthorns belong to the Crataegus genus. In Mexico, the name tejocote (derived from the Nahuatl tetl-xocotl, meaning stone fruit, because of its big seeds) refers to all species native to the region (numbering over a dozen). The best known is Crataegus mexicana, for which C. pubescens is a defunct synonym.

    While they resemble their crabapple cousins closely (like apples and pears, both are pomes), in flavor tejocotes are significantly less astringent. They taste very mild, with undertones of apple. Their dense, dry flesh is reminiscent of quince, but also of fresh jujube—but less granular than the former, and not as sweet as the latter. Each fruit contains three or more elongated seeds.

    Above: Serrato Family Farms began growing tejocote in California in the early 2000s.

    In Mexico tejocotes are essential to edible and decorative gifts proffered on the Day of the Dead at the end of October, as well as during the Feast of Guadalupe on December 12th, Christmas, and New Year. Ponche (a hot punch) is synonymous with tejocote, and is made with guava and spices and the slowly cooked tejocote whose aroma and sky-high pectin content (rather than strong flavor, which is non-existent) give the drink a unique texture and scent. Cooked low and slow, sweet tejocote preserves are unctuous—dense, and velvety. Garlands of the fresh fruit are a vivid ornament.

    Above: Tejocotes simmering with citrus peel and fresh juniper in my kitchen.
    Above: After several slow hours of cooking, the tejocotes are close to candied.

    My first tejocote games were conservative. I cooked the fruit slowly in water with sugar, with varying aromatics. The melting but concentrated texture of the cooked fruit was unlike anything I had eaten; reminiscent of quince but smooth, and almost mildly vegetal, like a thick yam, as well as a little slippery (the pectin). The flavor came purely from the seasonings. I make versions of this annually, adding citrus peel for extra aroma, and sometimes even a pinch of salt.

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  • Cranberry Hand Pies: A Recipe for Making the Most of Fresh Cranberries

    Cranberry Hand Pies: A Recipe for Making the Most of Fresh Cranberries

    Cranberry Hand Pies

    Makes 14 x 3-inch round pies (or 16 x 4-inch, half-moon pies)

    Butter and half-and-half make the pastry meltingly tender—embrace them. Chilling is essential for a crips texture. For the filling’s seasonal flavorings, pair the orange zest with juniper or fir. Spicebush works beautifully instead of the zest.

    The pies freeze well. For a decadent solitary breakfast, defrost in a microwave, then crisp up in hot oven or toaster oven.

    Pastry

    • 10 oz (2½  sticks) unsalted butter, very cold (I like Land O’ Lakes)
    • 1 Tablespoon sugar
    • 1 teaspoon fine sea salt salt
    • 2 cups/8.8 oz all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting the rolling surface
    • 6 Tablespoons half-and-half

    Filling

    • 10 oz fresh or frozen cranberries
    • ½ cup + 2 Tablespoons sugar
    • 1 teaspoon packed, microplaned orange zest/2 teaspoons ground spicebush
    • 1½ teaspoons cornstarch

    • 8 juniper berries, ground finely (optional)
    • 1 teaspoon ground fir needles (optional)
    • 1 large egg
    • 2 Tablespoons sugar for dusting

    For the pastry: Combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Using the coarse side of a box grater, grate the cold butter into the flour (no grater? Cut it into small cubes). Work the butter and flour between your fingertips until the mixture resembles evenly coarse crumbs (with a few larger pieces allowed). Yes, you can also toss it all into a food processor and spin.

    Pour in the Half and Half and work with a wooden spoon a few times. Bring the pastry together into a fat disc with your hands, taking care to use as few motions as possible (the more you work it the less tender will become when baking).

    Wrap and chill the pastry until solid—at least 2 hours, and as long as 24 (or freeze for later use). You can do this ahead.

    For the filling: Place the cranberries with the sugar and 2 tablespoons of water in a pot over medium-high heat. Stir, and cover. You’ll hear some popping noises as some of the cranberries split in the heat. Gradually their juices will be drawn out. When their liquid is boiling, lower the heat to a simmer. Cook until the fruit is soft and saucy, about 6 minutes. Stir in the orange zest (or spicebush), and the juniper or fir, if using.

    In a cup stir the cornstarch into 2 more tablespoons of water. When it is smooth, pour this slurry into the hot cranberry mixture and stir until it is thick—about 30 seconds. Remove from heat. Spoon the filling into a bowl, and transfer to the fridge to chill.

    To make: Preheat the oven to 400’F. Cover a large baking sheet in parchment paper.

    Roll out the Pastry: Remove the pastry from the fridge about 15 minutes before you roll it out. Dust a clean surface with flour and roll out to approximately 1/8 inch. Press out as many 3-inch shapes as you can. Gather up remaining pastry fragments, press together, and chill for 10 minutes. Press out extra shapes for a total of 28 (for 14 hand pies). Lay all the pressed-out circles on the baking sheet and chill in the fridge for 10 minutes.

    Beat the egg in a small bowl.

    To assemble: Remove the baking sheet from the fridge. Using a pastry brush, swipe a border of egg wash around the edges of half the rounds. Place a heaped tablespoonful of filling into the center. Carefully cover with a free pastry round, pressing down firmly on the edges to make them stick. When all have been covered and pressed, crimp the edges with the tines of fork.

    (For making half-moon hand pies, fill just one side of the pastry circle and fold the empty half over the filling, pressing down as above.)

    Return to the fridge and chill for 10 minutes.

    Just before baking, brush the pies with egg wash. Cut a slit in each, and dust with sugar.

    Bake for 20 – 25 minutes or until the pastry is dark golden and the pies are lightly puffed. Remove from the oven and transfer to a cooling rack.

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  • Virgin Hot Toddy: A Non-Alcoholic Holiday Cocktail

    Virgin Hot Toddy: A Non-Alcoholic Holiday Cocktail

    A surprise hit on the botanical walks I lead, where a picnic rewards the exercise, is the hot toddy that I pour in late fall and winter. When “toddy” is mentioned, eyebrows are raised—some in hope and anticipation, some in trepidation. Because it means alcohol, doesn’t it? It can, but not necessarily. Some eyebrows sink in disappointment when they learn that this is a virgin version. But the surprise, for the eyebrows’ owners, is that their first, steaming sip is a happy one, because this warming toddy tastes satisfyingly grown up. It is portable for picnics, scaleable for big holiday parties, and comforting sipped during a gift-opening pause on Christmas Day.

    Photography by Marie Viljoen.

    Above: A hot toddy (and soup) are portable winter picnic fare.

    Above: Cold creek, hot toddy (in a heat-proof Picardie glass).

    I call my forager’s version of a hot toddy a Forest Toddy. It is spiced with local, seasonal aromatics, featuring the edible herbs and spices of maritime forests and land-locked woodlands.

    Above: A frigid New Year’s Day picnic, with hot Forest Toddies.

    The flavors of a hot toddy that tastes of place can shift. They may include the gin-y bittersweetness of juniper (otherwise known as eastern red cedar, Juniperus virginiana), bayberry (Morella pensylvanica), citrus-like spicebush (Lindera benzoin), sumac species, and the perfumed resin of needled evergreens like fir, hemlock, pine, or spruce (Abies, Tsuga, Pinus and Picea, respectively). Variations I have made include pine cone jam, which you can make or buy; dried magnolia petals, for their gingery, cardamom-like bitterness; and fragrant sweetfern (Comptonia peregrina).

    Caveat: Does it go without saying that you should never use yew (Taxus), also a needled evergreen? Not only is yew not aromatic, but it is decidedly toxic.

    Above: Virgin Forest toddies with hardy orange and fir garnishes.

    The fun of this hot toddy recipe is that it is endlessly various and open to creativity. You can glean ingredients from your pantry, garden, farmer’s market, or grocery store. Its success depends on balance: between sweet and tart, tannic and aromatic. Layers of botanical flavor give it a sense of toddy gravitas and the complexity that is often associated with booze. I’m not saying you can’t add a dash of your favorite spirit (bourbon and rye spring to mind), but I can assure you that no one will miss it.

    Above: Blood orange and yuzu peel, crushed spicebush, fresh juniper, and bay leaf.

    In winter, the juniper in my recipe is fresh, since its season is from late fall through spring; the spicebush is the dried fruit from late summer (or purchased online), or the tree’s aromatic winter twigs, scraped. The fir, well, that is trimmed from my (unsprayed) holiday tree. While fir is the most aromatic of the needled trees, hemlock and spruce have plenty to offer, as do pine needles.

    Above: Farmer’s market apple cider.

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