Mint Is A Sprawling Tenant

This post can also be read on bonappetit.com

One year I made the mistake of planting mint in the garden. It took over; the lettuce didn't stand a chance. The mint grew so fast it towered over the rest of the herbs, blocking out the sun. The more I cut it back, the faster it spread, sending its roots out in all directions. I ripped it out and tilled it under and cursed a lot. Still, some came back the next summer, so I ripped it up again and transplanted it in the field, near a slow-running stream. Not surprisingly, it took well to its new home.

This year the mint came back with a vengeance. It would be a big problem if it were still in the garden, but in the field it can run amok without choking out other herbs and veggies. Still, it's a sprawling tenant and needs to be kept in check, if for no other reason than because I'm still a little mad at it. So I harvest armfuls and make fresh mint tea. I shovel it into tabbouleh salads. Of course, Mint Juleps are on constant rotation this summer, too.

Last weekend, during one of our recent heat waves, my friend Erin was inspired to make ice cream. Everyone agreed that it was a fine idea, save for the fact that there is no ice cream maker at the farm. Erin was undeterred. She mixed an ice cream base, placed it into a Ziploc bag, placed that bag inside another Ziploc filled with ice and salt, and walked around in the stifling humidity shaking it for half an hour. Occasionally someone else would offer to stand in, but Erin did the bulk of the labor. And it worked.



Her ice cream was smooth and creamy. We ate it with strawberries and pound cake for dessert.

This morning I walked down to the mint patch with a machete and hacked away once again. I spent half an hour shaking the minty custard into soft-serve, then placed it in the freezer. Fresh mint ice cream is by far the best way to go through a ton of mint.

If you've got an unruly mint plant, this is a delicious way to keep it in check.




Fresh Mint Ice Cream
Makes about 2 1/2 cups

1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup whole milk
1 cup packed fresh mint leaves
2/3 cup sugar
a pinch plus 1/4 cup salt, divided
4 egg yolks

Combine cream, milk, mint, sugar, and a pinch of salt in a blender and blend until smooth. Transfer to a medium skillet and whisk in egg yolks. Heat mixture over medium heat, stirring constantly, until it thickens and an instant-read thermometer registers 175 degrees. (If you don't have a thermometer, dip a spoon into the mixture; the custard is ready when it will coat the back of the spoon.) Place a fine-mesh sieve over a medium bowl. Strain custard through sieve, pressing on solids with a wooden spoon to extract all custard; discard solids in strainer. Transfer custard to a Ziploc bag and seal, pressing out all the air. Chill custard until it is cold.

Fill another Ziploc bag halfway with ice; add 1/4 cup salt. Seal the custard-filled Ziploc inside the ice-filled Ziploc. Wearing oven mitts (so the warmth of your hands won't melt the ice--another of Erin's tricks), gently shake and turn the bag until the custard resembles soft-serve ice cream, about 30 minutes. Remove the ice cream-filled Ziploc and place it in the freezer, turning and shaking it every 10 minutes until ice cream is frozen solid

Radishes Made Better By - GASP!! - Bacon...

The vegetable garden has been planted for almost three weeks now. There's been plenty of watering and weeding, from the arugula to the zucchini, and things look promising for a summer full of amazing food. It's just that most of the vegetables won't be ready to eat until at least July. And as I've said before in this blog, I'm not the most patient person in the world. So, as Tom Petty sings, "the waiting is the hardest part." Luckily for me, there's a teaser. The radishes that I planted from seed just a few weeks ago are ready to be pulled from the ground.

I didn't always love radishes. I thought of them as a pretty but vacuous addition to salads. Sure, they've got crunch and, if you're lucky, some bite, but they always seemed a little lackluster--as if something were missing. A few years ago, I found out what that missing ingredient was. Not surprisingly, it was pork fat.

I learned this fact one cool spring night as I sat in a cabin deep in Germany's Black Forest, where chefs from all around the world had gathered to devour a wild boar that had been hunted just for the dinner. The first course to hit the table was a plate of radishes and a bowl of whipped rendered pig fat that had been seasoned with shallots, caraway, and a little lemon.

It was a Bavarian riff on the classic French breakfast radishes served with softened butter and sea salt. The chefs grabbed handfuls of radishes and dragged them through the fat. Someone said "schmalz" and the rest of us just nodded and crunched away with pork fat filling our mouths.



As it happens, I don't always have rendered wild boar fat lying around, but I do usually have bacon. And for the next couple of weeks, I'll have enough radishes to eat some at every meal. First up is breakfast, where you'll find a plate of the spheroids and a bowl of what I've come to call bacon butter. I cook some bacon in a skillet, then let it cool to room temperature. Inspired by my meal in Germany, I whip it with some butter, caraway, shallot, and a little lemon. Then I drag the radishes through the spread and wonder why it took me so long to discover the perfect way to eat the garden's first gift of the season.



Radishes with Bacon Butter

8 servings

1/4 lb. bacon
1/2 teaspoon caraway seeds
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 teaspoon lemon juice
2 tablespoons finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 small shallot, finely chopped
4 bunches radishes (about 2 lb.), trimmed, leaving 1" of stem
Kosher salt and black pepper


Pulse raw bacon in a food processor until it is finely chopped, or finely chop by hand. Cook bacon in a 10" cast-iron skillet or other heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until it is browned, about 8 minutes. Stir in caraway seeds and cook, stirring, until caraway is fragrant. This will take another 30 seconds to 1 minute. Remove skillet from heat and let cool to room temperature.

Using an electric mixer , beat bacon, caraway, and any fat from the skillet with butter, lemon juice, 3/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper until bacon butter is light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Fold in parsley and shallot, then season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serve radishes with bacon butter.

Do Yourself a Favor: Eat Fewer Strawberries

Growing up, I spent a lot of time mowing lawns. At this time of year the grass on the farm needs to be cut about once a week, depending on the weather, and the chore almost always falls to the youth in the family. It takes about four hours to mow the whole thing, and in the summer heat it's a real drag.

Most of the time I've spent behind the drone of a push mower has been forgettable. I don't get a lot of thinking done while cutting grass, and there's no real glory in it. I hate the chore so much I've mostly blocked out any memories of doing it over the past decades.

But there are a few lawn-mowing moments that remain forever in my mind. Most of them have to do with how hungry or thirsty the job made me, and how good certain foods tasted after I'd been working for hours. One memory centers on a bologna sandwich. Another, on a bowl of peaches. And still another has to do with a strawberry. My grandfather grew his own, and on one particularly hot, sticky afternoon he picked a perfect berry and handed it to me as I finished mowing. His hands were stained red from the ripe fruits.

The strawberry was hot from the sun and it melted into sweet, tangy summer in my mouth. It was the best berry I'd ever eaten. I can still taste it--the bright red juice and the seeds that popped as I bit down.

Often, when I see strawberries for sale at the grocery store during the colder months, I'm tempted to buy them with the hope that they'll live up to that perfect summer strawberry. They never, ever do. But still, I try. I bought strawberries a few months ago from the produce aisle. They tasted like red cardboard. They were white on the inside. And I told myself, once more: Never again.

Now it's June and the perfect berries are back. I stopped recently at a roadside stand in Lancaster, PA, where a young Mennonite girl was selling quarts of crimson berries. They were so ripe that their juices had stained her hands bright red. When I asked if I could take her picture, her cheeks turned the same color. But it wasn't her cheeks that I was interested in, it was her bright red hands, stained from handling the juicy berries all day.



My part of the country is flecked with pick-your-own strawberry farms, and in the past week I've stopped at several. In the coming weeks, I'll stop at many more. And then I will stop eating strawberries until next June.

One of my absolute favorite early summer desserts, strawberry shortcake made with freshly baked cream biscuits, lets perfect strawberries shine. If you can get a couple of cups of them, treat yourself to this dish. Otherwise, wait until next year.



Strawberry Shortcake with Cream Biscuits
Serves 4

Biscuits:
1 1/2 cups cake flour plus more for surface
1 Tbsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
3/4 cup heavy cream plus more for brushing

Topping:
2 cups strawberries
1/4 cup sugar
2 Tbsp. orange liqueur (such as Cointreau)
1/2 cup chilled heavy cream

Biscuits: Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.

Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, and 1/2 tsp. kosher salt in a bowl. Add cream and stir just until dough forms. Gently knead the dough in the bowl until it is cohesive. Pat dough on a lightly floured work surface into a 1/2"-thick round. Cut 4 squares from the dough and transfer to a lightly buttered baking sheet. Gather the scraps and reroll, cutting out more squares (you can reserve extra biscuits for another use). Brush tops of biscuits with cream, then bake 15-20 minutes or until they are golden.

Let biscuits cool completely on a rack.

Topping: Hull strawberries and cut them in half. Toss strawberries with sugar and liqueur and let macerate at room temperature.

Just before serving, whip the cream until it holds soft peaks. Split biscuits in half; spoon over each biscuit bottom some of the strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream. Top shortcakes with biscuit tops and spoon the strawberry liquid over.

That Great Chicken House in the Sky

This post can also be found on bonappetit.com (where they actually pay me to write for them!)

The menacing-looking Elvis has nonetheless been trained not to kill my chickens

I have trained my dogs not to eat my chickens. So far, they're following orders. Elvis, a boxer-pit bull mix, stands in the barnyard and drools as he watches the birds peck around in the grass, but he hasn't tried to kill any of them as of yet.

But lots of visitors come to the farm in the mild seasons, and they're encouraged to bring their dogs. The visiting pooches have not necessarily had the blood thirst trained out of them. Last weekend one of them killed one of my chickens.

The unknowing chickens

I brought the dead bird inside and put on a pot of water to boil. I also cued up Johnny Cash's "Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog" on the stereo. The song is about a dog that eats eggs and kills chickens. It's full of clever rhymes. (If, somehow, you've never heard this song, do yourself a favor and buy it. It's a great piece of Americana.)

I plunged the bird into the boiling water to loosen the feathers and plucked them. I cleaned the chicken and removed the organs, including the liver.

Here's where I could give you a recipe for roasted month-old chicken, but last week's recipe was for roast chicken, and really, how many of you are likely to have a dead month-old chicken in your fridge? So instead, let's talk about chicken livers.

I keep a resealable plastic bag of chicken livers in my freezer. Every time I cook up a bird, I add the livers to the bag. When I have about half a pound I saute them with some shallots, butter, and whatever else looks good (this time of year, that means radishes). Then I serve them as a side dish for a larger meal or on toast for lunch. They are easy to cook, cheaper than cheap, and everyone always goes gaga for them. For all those reasons, sauteed chicken livers are one of my favorite ace-up-the-sleeve kitchen tricks.

As for the chicken-killing dog? He gets a pass--this time. He can come back to the farm this summer to play and frolic with my dogs, but he'd better not kill any more of my chickens, because...

...if he don't stop eatin' my eggs up [or my chickens, for that matter]
Though I'm not a real bad guy
I'm goin' to get my rifle and send him
To that great chicken house in the sky.

--Johnny Cash

Sauteed Chicken Liver Open-Face Sandwiches Photos by Ian Knauer

Sauteed Chicken Liver Open-Face Sandwiches
Serves 4 as a light lunch

1/2 baguette
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter plus more for toast
1 medium shallot, sliced
1/2 lb. chicken livers, rinsed, patted dry
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 Tbsp. red wine vinegar
2 tsp. honey
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
Parsley leaves
Radish slices

Cut baguette into 4 open-face slices, then toast.

Heat 2 Tbsp. butter in a medium heavy skillet over medium-high heat until hot. Add shallot and saute, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 4 minutes. Add chicken livers and 1/2 tsp. each kosher salt and pepper, then saute until livers are browned but still pink in the center, 4-6 minutes. Stir in vinegar, honey, mustard, and 2 Tbsp. water and simmer until liquid is reduced to a sauce, about 2 minutes.

Spread additional butter over toasts, then top with livers, sauce, parsley leaves, and radish slices.

Smells Like Spring...Garlic

This post can also be read on bonappetit.com

There is a moment each spring when I find myself standing in the garden, just staring at the garlic. It's a moment I dread because it means it's thinning time. Thinning requires decision making, and when I'm forced to make decisions--in the garden and in life--I often fear that I'll make the wrong one. So I just stand there for a while, feeling the cool spring air on the back of my neck, and stare at the too-thick rows of garlic. I know I'll have to pull some of it out of the ground so the rest will have enough space to grow. It's a sacrifice for the common good. It's just hard to be the druidic executioner, so to speak, and choose who will live and who won't.

I plant garlic every fall. It sprouts an inch or two before winter, then sits, waiting for early spring, when it skyrockets, sending forth foot-tall shoots and leaves. In another month it will send up flower stalks, or scapes, which I'll remove so the bulbs will have all the energy they need to plump up into heady garlic. But before that happens, I'll have to pull out some of the weaklings, giving the hardier stalks space to grow.

This practice isn't limited to small family farms like mine. Garlic farmers with plots much larger than mine also thin their plants. And for those of you who aren't faced with the heart-wrenching task of deciding which stalks to pull, that's good news. You can often find spring garlic at farmers' markets, and as you might imagine, it's pretty good stuff.

Spring garlic has the sharp flavor of aged garlic (the garlic you buy in the store has been hung and aged for some time, extending its shelf life and producing that papery skin on the outside), but it lacks the muskiness and bite that generally come with garlic that's not right out of the ground. Its cologne fills your head. And remembering that aroma makes the need to pull some of the stalks out easier for me. Much easier, in fact, because roast chicken with spring garlic and butter under the skin is a real treat that's around for only a couple of weeks each year.

Here's a recipe for that spring garlic-heavy roast chicken. I'd say it's worth sacrificing the lives of several of these little lilies.

Photos by Ian Knauer

Spring Garlic Roast Chicken
Serves 4

1 3 1/2-lb. whole chicken
2 stalks spring garlic
3 Tbsp. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 lemon, halved
1 3/4 tsp. kosher salt
1 1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

Position a rack in middle of oven and preheat to 450 degrees F.

Rinse the chicken and pat it dry. Beginning at the large cavity and being careful not to tear the skin, gently run your fingers between the skin and the meat to loosen the skin.

Remove any tough leaves from garlic, then finely chop the pale-green and white parts. Stir together garlic with butter, 1 tsp. salt, and 3/4 tsp. pepper.

Push garlic butter under chicken skin, including around the thighs and drumsticks; massage skin from the outside to spread butter evenly.

Season chicken inside and out with 3/4 tsp. each salt and pepper. Place lemon halves in the cavity and loosely tie the legs together with kitchen twine. Place chicken in a roasting pan on its side (one wing up; you may need to lean the chicken against the side of the pan) and roast 15 minutes. Turn chicken over to the other side and roast 15 minutes more. Turn the chicken onto its back and continue to roast until skin is golden and has begun to pull away from the base of the drumsticks. This will take about another 20-25 minutes. Transfer chicken to a cutting board and let rest 15 minutes before carving.

Looking For A Legacy? Here's An Easy One: Rhubarb

This post can also be read on bonappetit.com

It has finally happened. Spring, that is. Farmstands in my area of Pennsylvania are teeming with ramps and asparagus and chives, all of which I've been cooking daily. It feels so right to eat something other than root vegetables. (Nothing against turnips, but a little green is very welcome after the winter we had.)

I've been eating a lot of rhubarb, too. One of those practically care-free plants, it shoots up pretty pink stalks every spring and, like my watercress, just keeps on giving, year after year. In fact, given its ease of cultivation, it's a wonder that only one bunch of it is planted here on the farm.

Yesterday morning, as I spread rhubarb compote over freshly baked biscuits, I decided to change that. I took a ride to the local Agway and bought eight rhubarb crowns for $1.50 each. Twelve bucks is a small price to pay for a lifetime of rhubarb. And if these plants take, it's likely they'll outlast me. (The one plant that's growing here has outlasted the man who placed it in the ground, my grandfather.)



Rhubarb crowns aren't much to look at. They come in a little plastic bag and are packed in sawdust. Chances are they've been sitting around for a while, so the first thing I like to do is give them a good soak in water for several hours. Then I grab a shovel and pick a spot that will get lots of sun but be out of the way. You should put some thought into picking that spot. It will be your rhubarb patch from now on.

Some folks like to fertilize or add compost to their rhubarb, and it can't hurt. But it's not necessary. Rhubarb wants to live, and it will send its roots as far down into the soil as it needs to find food. To plant, loosen the soil about 10 inches down, place the crowns in the ground at a depth of two inches, and cover them up with soil. Then wait. Next year, you'll have rhubarb (though you should go easy on the first harvest). And your grandkids will have rhubarb, too. Even if you're not around to see it.

Photographs by Ian Knauer

Here's an easy way to make a quick rhubarb compote. I eat it for breakfast on biscuits and for dessert with vanilla ice cream.

Rhubarb Compote
Makes about 1 1/4 cups Be sure to trim the leaves from your rhubarb stalks (and don't eat the roots). They contain a high concentration of oxalic acid, which is poisonous.


1 lb. rhubarb stalks, cut into 1/2"pieces
3/4 cup sugar
Kosher salt
1 tsp. vanilla

Bring rhubarb, sugar, a pinch of salt, and 2 Tbsp. water to a boil in a small heavy saucepan. Lower heat and cook, stirring often, until rhubarb has broken down and sauce is thickened, 10-12 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla. Let cool to room temperature.

A Gift From My Great, Great, Great, Great Someone

This post can also be read on bonappetit.com

I spent the better part of yesterday tilling winter rye into the garden. It's fragrant stuff. Not in a great way, either, but in a wheatgrass-juice way. In fact, I find it to be a little nauseating.

As the rye decays into the cool spring soil, it adds nitrogen and other beneficial elements that will help this summer's vegetables thrive. One of the local farmers calls the practice of turning young rye grass into the earth adding "green manure." Given the way it smells, I can see why.

The process requires some foresight. I sowed the rye last October. Now that the garden has been tilled, the ground there is a stark and empty contrast to the rest of the farm, which has (finally) taken on the most brilliant shades of pale green. Aside from the garlic and onions I planted last fall (again, foresight required), the garden is barren.

Luckily, there's a source of edible greens that will fill in the salad gap until the garden is ready. This was the well-thought-out work of my ancestors.

Every year, sometime around early April, watercress starts to pop up in a little spring that feeds into the pond. It grows slowly at first, but then kicks into full gear by the beginning of May. This week, there's so much of it that I could eat watercress for every meal and still not make a dent in the patch. Someone, generations ago, planted it; since then it's been flourishing in the same spot. My father tells me stories of its bounty. My grandfather told the same stories, as his grandfather did. In fact, no one in the family knows exactly when it was planted. A long time ago, for sure.

And it requires zero care. No need to add green manure (or any other kind) to the plot. No need for weeding or tilling or cultivating in any way. It's a gift from well over a hundred years ago, and it's still just as wonderful. Now that is foresight.

Watercress is an exceptionally peppery and crisp green and, of course, it's terrific in salads. But now that there's a ton of it, I like to cook it and serve it alongside roast chicken.

Here's a recipe for Creamed Watercress that uses the starch from a cooked potato for thickener. I add a little mascarpone cheese to round out the richness, but even without the dairy, this is a great version of poor man's creamed spinach.

Photos by Ian Knauer

Creamed Watercress
Serves 4-6

1/2 medium waxy potato, peeled

1 Tbsp. plus 1/2 tsp. kosher salt, divided
1 1/2 lb. watercress
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1/4 cup mascarpone
Freshly ground black pepper

Cut potato into 1/2" pieces. Cover potato with water in a medium pot; add 1 Tbsp. salt. Bring water to a boil and cook until potato is very tender, 15-20 minutes. Remove potato with a slotted spoon and transfer to a food processor. Bring the water back to a boil and add the watercress. Blanch watercress until it's bright green, about 1 minute. Transfer watercress to a colander and press on it to remove as much liquid as possible, then add it and the butter, mascarpone, and 1/2 tsp. each of salt and pepper to the processor. Puree with the potato. Season to taste with salt and pepper.