Showing posts sorted by relevance for query swedes. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query swedes. Sort by date Show all posts

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Celeriac Attack!


I emerge from a week of deadline-induced hysteria to bring you this brief attack of celeriac. With the recent drain on my brain, this image seemed appropriate. I have been operating under conditions of limited time and unlimited panic of late, and Weird Veg again presented itself as my most fruitful form of procrastination (I trust you will pardon the seemingly incongruous adjective, but I take recourse to the fact that fruits are actually subsets of vegetables, as established in the lemon cucumber post).


Hanging from the sure grip of my roommate Rachel is a celeriac, also known in less exciting terms as celery root. She brought home this strange thing one day, looking for all the world like an explorer bearing a shrunken head she had plucked from the misty regions of the great beyond, but it had, in fact, come from S.F. Ferry Plaza farmers' market.

She put the root to work in a recipe for Celeriac and Mascarpone Purée culled from her cookbook that I've recently become quite taken with, Cooking Outside the Box: Easy, Seasonal, Organic: the Abel & Cole Cookbook which sounds a little generic until you realize that the box is a winking reference to the boxes of organic produce delivered to the homes of happy Londonite vegetable eaters by Abel & Cole, one of Britain's best-known CSA companies. Keith Abel, the main brain behind this book, loves root vegetables, as evidenced by his numerous impassioned endorsements of not just celeriac, but also swedes (the Brit term for turnips, and sometimes rutabagas, remember?). One of his recipes is called "Swedeaphobia Cure," which involves mashing swedes/neeps/turnips with cream, honey, ginger and nutmeg. He calls celeriac "another one of those great British vegetables that people avoid because they don't know quite what to do with it." There are a lot of great vegetable ideas in this book, which is helpfully divided by season, and has some really gorgeous matte color photos of produce and finished dishes.

Here is the adapted recipe. I didn't get to try the final product, but Rachel reports that it was quite delicious, like potatoes but with a fresh dollop of celery taste.

Celeriac and Mascarpone Purée

1 celeriac, rough outer skin removed and diced into 1 in. cubes
2 garlic cloves, peeled
A knob of butter (yes a knob--part of this book's charm)
1/2 mug of mascarpone cheese
Salt and freshly ground pepper

Place diced celeriac and garlic cloves in a pot of salted water (to cover them) and simmer for about 15 minutes, until the celeriac is fork-tender. Drain, pop those guys back into the pot ("pop" is Abel, "those guys" is me) and move it around over low heat for a minute or so to remove some moisture. Then mash it all in the pot (or put it in a blender) to make a smoothish paste before folding through the butter and mascarpone. Season and serve.

Mm, this is making my brain hungry.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Oh my neep!

Could it really be? Is Weird Vegetables tapping into the frosty heart of this season's Geist? This just in from our Irish vegetable linguist, Conor Creaney (aka Cardoon O'Chicory): neep is the Oxford English Dictionary's word of the day for today, Sunday, January 25, 2009. Leave it to the OED to unearth yet another pseudonym for a member of clan turnip that I left unexamined in my turnip vs. rutabaga post (see the comments too). If you make it to the OED site today, 'tis here. If not, then I've diced up the entry and kept my favorite bite-sized pieces below. I am particularly taken with the turnip paraphernalia (turnip watches and neep lanterns) that round out the uses of turnips elaborated below. Ju Duoqui may want to take note for her next vegetable outfit.

neep, n.

Now regional (chiefly Sc.).
...

1. a. A turnip; (also, in later Sc. use) a swede. Also: a turnip plant or swede plant.
In Old English, perh. also applied to rape, Brassica napus.
The usual name in all Scottish dialects and current in Ulster and Northumberland, it is also recorded by Eng. Dial. Dict. (1903) in Cornwall, Suffolk, Hertfordshire, Herefordshire, north Wales, and Leinster.

...
1826 J. WILSON Noctes Ambrosianae in Wks. (1855) I. 207 Juicy neeps that melt in the mooth o' their ain accord.
...
1972 P. O'BRIAN Post Captain (1990) v. 123 She will bash the boat like a bowl of neeps as she sounds.
...
1997 Shetland Times 21 Nov. 27/1 An enjoyable meal of haggis, neeps and tatties was served by Lexie Mann.

b. Sc. and Irish English (south.). A parsnip. Cf. MYPE n.

...1791 MRS. FRAZER Pract. of Cookery (1800) 121 To stew Parsnips..when the cream is warm, put in the nips.

{dag}2. More fully wild neep. Any of several wild plants used medicinally; spec. white bryony, Bryonia dioica. Obs.

...

3. Sc. A watch; spec. a watch in a case, a turnip watch.
Sc. National Dict. (1965) records the sense in general Scottish use in 1963.

1866 W. GREGOR Dial. Banffshire (Philol. Soc.), Neep, a watch. 1895 J. TWEEDDALE Moff 210 ‘It maun be shortly sin if he dis,’ said Wullie Cuddy, consulting his ‘neep’. 1923 R. L. CASSIE Heart
or Heid
18 That great neep o' a watch o' yours wunna keep time.

COMPOUNDS

neep brose n. Sc. and Irish English (north.) brose made with the liquid in which turnips or swedes have been boiled.

1887 A. G. WILKEN Peter Laing 50 A great notion for *neep brose. 1959 C. GIBSON Folk-lore Tayside 33 Almost on a par with kale-brose were neep-brose, beef-brose{em}and just plain brose.

neep land n. Sc. (now Orkney and Shetland) ground prepared or used for growing turnips or swedes.

1861 in Sc. National Dict. (1965) s.v. Neep n.1, I was at Newmill yesterday and got the Dung and new grass Valued and plowing of *neep land is setteled. 1956 C. M. COSTIE Benjie's Bodle 9 Mither's washan and Ded's i' the neep lan'.

neep lantern n. Sc. = turnip-lantern n. at TURNIP n. Compounds 2.

1871 C. GIBBON For Lack of Gold xviii, The laddies paraded the village with *neep-lanterns. 1937 St. Andrews Citizen 1 May 3 They then got a turnip, hollowed it out in the usual manner when making a ‘neep lantern’, and gave the turnip the form of a skull.

neep-seed n. (a) the seed of the neep; (b) Sc. (north-east.), the time for sowing neeps.

1916 G. ABEL Wylins 66 The neepseed deen, me an' my chums an' pals Wid shim a bit, or dander to the walls.

neep-shaw n. Sc. and Eng. regional (Northumberland) a turnip top.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Turnip or Rutabaga?


Pop quiz, veggie heads. Rutabaga or turnip? Which is which in the above photo?

tick tock

tick tock

ding!

Decided? The bigger one is a rutabaga (right) and the smaller guys are turnips (left). If you correctly identified these specimens, then advance to Veggie Challenge #2: the radicchio vs. escarole blind taste test. According to Mark Bittman in his encyclopedic How to Cook Everything, an incredibly useful recipe resource that will save you hours of Internet filtering: "If you can tell the difference with your eyes closed between radicchio (seven dollars per pound) and escarole (fifty-nine cents a pound), you deserve a Julia Child award for Most Sophisticated Palate."

Incidentally, Bittman has a new book out called Food Matters: A Guide to Conscious Eating, which picks up the gauntlet that Michael Pollan threw down with The Omnivore's Dilemma (changed my life) and In Defense of Food (preaching to the choir for me at this point but still good) by combining the discussion of our bloated food system with practical guidelines and recipes for how to eat more sustainably and healthfully without fetishizing your food objects and spending your whole paycheck on two ears of corn and a lamb sausage. This book review by Laura Miller at Salon.com is worth reading not only for its use of the bizarrely intriguing term "snow jobs" (applied to diet books) but also for the way it aptly characterizes Bittman as a kind of everyman's foodie, the Joe Sixpack love child of Michael Pollan and Alice Waters, one might say.


Returning to the veggies at hand, if you failed the quiz, get yourself to your next farmers' market or produce-heavy grocery store and examine the rutabagas side-by-side with the turnips. They aren't too different, but these root vegetables do belong to slightly different species, Brassica rapus (turnip) and Brassica napus (rutabaga). Turnips come in both Japanese and French varieties, the former round, white, and cute, the latter, purple-tinged and with a more tapered end (the ones pictured here) and are available pretty much all year. Rutabagas, on the other hand, hit their stride in the winter months, becoming sweeter in colder weather, and are generally deep purple and yellowish with rougher skin and tougher "meat" than the more delicate turnip. I'd put my money on the rutabaga in a street brawl.

Provenance gets a little more colorful with the rutabaga, which is thought to be a cabbage-turnip love child——there's a possible analogous loop back to Bittman somewhere in there but I'm in no mood to dig for it at the moment——originating in 17th-century Bohemia. After that, this starchy staple gets associated with Sweden, nicknamed "swede" in Commonwealth nations, while "rutabaga" derives from the Swedish "rotabagge," meaning "root ram." Yes, root ram. It did just get better. Lest I overwhelm you with excitement, rutabagas/swedes/root rams are also known as "snaggers" in northeast England. How did I get so knowledgeable? By surfing here and here.

If you're wondering how to cook these earthy creatures, let the potato be your guide. I would roast them sliced up, maybe peeled, tossed with salt and olive oil, at 375°F for about 30-40 min. until browned around the edges and soft in the middle, or I would simmer them in a soup. Below, I made a gratin with one layer each of turnips, potatoes, and rutabagas. I had the rutabaga layer on top, but next time I would make it the bottom because it's tougher than the other two and so less inviting as the first bite into your mouth.

Turnip, Rutabaga, Potato Gratin (inspired by the recipe from Chez Panisse Vegetables)

Preheat oven to 375°F. Get together a handful each of turnips, rutabagas, and potatoes, enough to make one or two layers each in a 9-in. round or 9x12-in. baking dish. Wash and peel if you don't like skins or they're too scaly. Then slice turnips, rutabagas, and potatoes into thin, 1/4-in. rounds, and layer them in the dish as below. Season each layer with salt and pepper.
Pour a mixture of half cream (or milk) and half chicken stock (about 2 cups, but varies depending on the size of your dish) to just cover the rounds. Bake uncovered for 40 minutes. If you have some parmesan or gruyere lying around, grate some over the top to bake for the last 5-7 minutes.


I must confess that my final product in this instance came out a little funky, since I ran out of milk and got all MacGyvered out by using sour cream swirled with salted water. I also ran out of patience and energy while slicing the larger rutabaga, which ended up in savagely chopped, irregular blob shapes. I trust that yours will be much more pleasing.

Note: This post was inspired by a debate I had with an always friendly and gracious cashier at Bi-Rite over whether my purchase was a rutabaga or turnip (I was right; it was a rutabaga, though I was helped by the signage when I picked it out). Bi-Rite Market is a neighborhood grocery store in San Francisco's Mission district that specializes in organic and local products and that I usually denounce for its high prices, though its local produce is actually surprisingly affordable. Also, they're always super nice when I ask really specific and probably annoying questions about cuts of pork or call up and have them check on exactly what kind of beets are in stock and at what price.