From a December 1992 article in Agricultural Research:

It’s known as purslane – a plant that is a troublesome weed in many U.S. crops, especially vegetables. But recent research findings confirm that purslane is also a rich source of fatty acids, vitamin E, and other key nutrients – making it a prime candidate as a new vegetable crop. There are about 200 species of purslane, the common name for a group of plants known as Portulaca. Scientists have focused on one annual species, P. oleracea, found around the world and in all 50 states. It is known for its persistence – it grows even in poor-quality soils with little water and resists disease…
P. oleracea contains more of one omega-3 fatty acid – called alpha-linolenic acid – than any other green leafy vegetable yet studied.

I must admit I was purslane-illiterate until a few weeks ago, when, while roaming around our farmers’ market, a bunch of purslane attracted my attention. My friend Christine of Christine Cooks, with whom I was sharing the shopping adventure, invited me to taste a leaf: it was succulent, crunchy, with a slightly tart flavor. I was told I could use it in salads or cook it lightly, like spinach. I was convinced, and proceeded to place the bunch of purslane in my basket.

Had my memory functioned a bit better, I would have remembered reading about purslane salad with yogurt on Almost Turkish Recipe. Soon after my purchase, I made a hybrid soup/stew with hulled barley and decided, on the spur of the moment, to add to it the tender sprigs of the bunch of purslane during the last five minutes of cooking. Later on, I read that “Purslane’s high level of pectin thickens soups and stews,” a retroactive justification of my impulsive action. I loved the result and the flavor of purslane, so much so that I have been buying a bunch at every visit to the market. I have also sautéed, together with baby spinach and boiled Swiss chard, and again the result was delicious.

In summary, purslane makes a nice addition to salads, soups and sautés. This is called versatility. Add to the list of good qualities the fact that it is tasty, either raw or lightly cooked, and that it contains precious nutrients, and the result is a really nice resume for a vegetable that, until not long ago, was considered a weed (erbaccia).

The Latin word portulaca is conserved in the scientific name of the plant. According to my Italian dictionary, the word had the variant porcillaca, ancestor of porcellana. As noted at the beginning of the post, the same word in Italian indicates also porcelain, china (for example, un vaso di porcellana, a china vase): in this meaning, the word porcellana has a different etymology. Cowrie is also porcellana in Italian.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started over two years ago by Kalyn of Kalyn’s Kitchen and hosted this week by Gay, A Scientist in the Kitchen.

Here is the roundup of WHB #133. 

Click on the button to hear me pronounce the Italian words mentioned in the post: 

porcellana

or launch the  porcellana  audio file [mp3].

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Asparagus officinalis is a perennial plant, whose tender shoots (or spears), also called asparagus, are eaten as a vegetable and, as it is well known, much appreciated. Asparagus have actually been prized since ancient times. The aerial stems of asparagus arise from rhizomes, which, together with the roots, constitute the underground portion of the plant.

The Italian words are asparago (the plant; plural: asparagi),  turioni (the edible shoots; singular: turione), rizomi (rhizomes; singular: rizoma), radici (roots; singular: radice). I must admit that I have never heard the word turioni in everyday language: I have always used asparagi to refer to the vegetable. Punte d’asparago are the tips.

A final reference to words: asparagina (asparagine) is an amino acid found in many proteins that is present in large amounts in some plants, such as asparagus. “The first amino acid to be isolated from its natural source, asparagine was purified from asparagus juice in 1806.”

Besides the green variety, there are also white and purple asparagus. In my mind, asparagus are the harbinger of spring. When I was a child, we would eat asparagi about twice a year. Hence, to this day, having asparagus maintains an aura of excitement reserved for special occasions. Asparagi would be available at the fruttivendolo (fruit and vegetable store) for a brief period, then disappear, like a dream at dawn, until the following year. My mother boiled asparagus briefly and seasoned them, still warm, with lemon juice and olive oil. A few times in my life I have had frittata con gli asparagi selvatici (with wild asparagus, Asparagus acutifolius): my aunt Lucia sometimes received them as a gift from someone who had picked them on the hills around her village.

The abundance of asparagus in California is almost intoxicating, and whenever I cook them (oven-roasted asparagus sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds are a favorite dish of mine), I cannot stop eating them. Not long ago, however, I got to do something special with asparagus: I planted a bunch of them in the community garden in whose maintenance I have been involved for almost two years. My gardener friend told me to ask for asparagus roots at the nursery and I bought some of several varieties. When we planted them, I did the shoveling (which made me aware that I need to improve my shoveling skills), then placed each crown (rhizomes + roots) in its newly dug home and it was a bit of a challenge, as it was nothing like transplanting a seedling: the roots were quite long and the whole crown needed to be underground. I tend to be quite pessimistic about my gardening skills, so when, a few weeks later, I saw an asparagus shoot, I was ecstatic.

I read that it takes up to 3 years for crowns to develop enough to begin producing shoots. Once they do develop, however, they can produce for up to 20 years. So, at this point, I am focused on seeing signs of well-being of the plants. I want them to be happy in our garden. I love looking at the few asparagus that have produced shoots. Since we did not harvest them, some are now at the flowering stage, which I had never seen before. The spears have expanded into branched, modified stems, the cladophylls, which resemble and function as leaves (while the true leaves are scale-like structures at the tip of the spear and down the stem). There are also tiny flowers. Everything is delicate, almost ethereal about asparagus, which means that taking photos is a real challenge. In the image on the left, for example, the daffodils are predominant, but then you can see several asparagus, including one with flowers (background, right) and one that toppled over, due to its weight (background, left).

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started over two years ago by Kalyn of Kalyn’s Kitchen and hosted this week by Bee and Jai of Jugalbandi‘s fame. Here is the roundup of WHB #128.

Click on the button to hear me pronounce the Italian words mentioned in the post: 

asparago

or launch the  asparago  audio file [mp3].

[Depending on your set-up, the audio file will be played within the browser or by your mp3 player application. Please, contact me if you encounter any problems.]

(Brassica oleracea var. botrytis)

As a child I hated cooked cavolfiore no matter how it was prepared. I could smell cavolfiore bollito (boiled) and minestra di cavolfiore (soup) even before entering the house. Not that my reaction had any deterrent effect on my mother: she continued to cook those two dishes regardless of my opinion. I still have problems with the boiled version, but I love cauliflower roasted and as an ingredients of stews. 

As for raw cauliflower, that has never incurred my dislike. I even like the core: after I cut the florets, I reserve the torso, minus the tough end, and crunch on it while waiting for the rest to cook. I am particularly fond of the purple variety (cavolfiore viola) and like to mix it with the white one in a colorful combination. Taking a picture of the two varieties together was a bit of a challenge, because of the substantial difference of color.

My aunt Lucia made giardiniera a medley of pickled vegetables (verdure sottaceto, or sottaceti) and stored it in glass jars that she kept in a cupboard in the coolest part of her house. Of all the vegetables in the medley, cavolfiore was my favorite, because it was delicately crunchy and, in combination with vinegar, it was delicious. Unfortunately, I never asked my aunt to teach me how to make giardiniera, so now I can only use my memory to evoke a flavor that belongs forever to the past.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started by Kalyn’s Kitchen, hosted this week by the founder herself, just returned from the BlogHer conference in Chicago. Here’s the roundup of WHB #94.

Click on the button to hear me pronounce the Italian words mentioned in the post: 

cavolfiore

or launch the cavolfiore audio file [mp3].

[Depending on your set-up, the audio file will be played within the browser or by your mp3 player application. Please, contact me if you encounter any problems.]

(Solanum melongena)

One of my favorite vegetables ever. Its color (light or dark purple, or white), its texture, its versatility: what’s not to love about eggplant?

The only moment of tension that ever occurred between me and my friend melanzana was the day I decided to make baba ganoush and forgot to pierce the skin of the plump specimen I had selected for my experiment before putting it into the oven. After some time, I heard a soft plopping sound, which I almost dismissed. I opened the oven door and found what is probably the worst kitchen disaster that ever happened to me. Needless to say, I did not make baba ganoush that day: instead, I cleaned the oven. You have no idea how many seeds there are in an eggplant until you have to remove them from every nook and cranny of your oven.

The ancient Romans did not know about eggplants, so the word melanzana is not of Latin origin. It appears that the introduction of eggplants in the Mediterranean area is due to the Arabs, who got to know it in India. The word mela, meaning apple, and the Arab name of the plant, badingian led to melanzana. For centuries, melanzana had a bad reputation and it was even thought to cause madness. Its name was interpreted to mean mela insana, meaning both insane and not healthy. Such bad reputation comes from the fact that melanzana belongs to the Solanaceae family. It does not cause madness, but it contains the alkaloid solanin, and should not be eaten raw. Even undercooked, eggplant does not taste good. When it is thoroughly cooked, however, it is a pleasure to eat.

Probably the most famous Italian eggplant dish is melanzane alla parmigiana (also known as parmigiana di melanzane). Thanks to its spongy texture, eggplant absorbs oil easily. One way of lightening up the parmigiana is by grilling or baking the eggplant slices instead of frying them. Another famous eggplant dish is caponata di melanzane, a Sicilian sweet and sour delicacy of an intense flavor. Eggplants are a feature of Sicilian cuisine, so much so that last year in Palermo the Olympic Games of the melanzana were held, with participants from ten Mediterranean countries. My favorite dish marries melanzane and zucchine in a stew seasoned with basil and marjoram to which a couple of beaten eggs are added the last couple of minutes, so that they cook only partially and form a creamy sauce.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started by Kalyn’s Kitchen, hosted this week by Anna from Anna’s Cool Finds. Here’s the roundup of WHB #93.

Click on the button to hear me pronounce the Italian words mentioned in the post: 

melanzana

or launch the melanzana audio file [mp3].

[Depending on your set-up, the audio file will be played within the browser or by your mp3 player application. Please, contact me if you encounter any problems.]

Brassica oleracea var. gemmifera, also called cavoletto di Bruxelles.
The plural form, which is almost always used, is cavolini and cavoletti, respectively.

I was 22 years old and living in Milan the first time I ate cavolini di Bruxelles alla parmigiana at a friend's house, steamed and lightly seasoned with butter and parmigiano. I liked them then and still do. I am aware that in this country they get mixed reviews. I believe the trick is to offset their soft nature (when steamed) with something crunchy, like toasted hazelnuts or almonds, or to enhance their flavor with cheese (like, for example in cavolini gratinati, gratin).

Cavolino means small cavolo and there are many kinds of cavoli, which I will describe in future posts. Recently I learned that, besides the well-known green variety, there is also a purple variety: I don't know yet what these cavolini taste like, but the plant is lovely, as you can see here and here (two photos from our community garden).

The English expression 'mind your own business' has a literal translation in the Italian fatti gli affari tuoi. However, going down the path of increasing rudeness, the next stop is fatti i cavoletti tuoi. This is an expression I used a lot as a child when quarreling with my brother. It is actually a euphemism for a much ruder expression, which belongs to the category of definite no-nos.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started by Kalyn's Kitchen, hosted this week by Mele Cotte, a lovely Italian name which I am including in my audio snippet. Here's the roundup of WHB #90.

Click on the button to hear me pronounce the Italian words mentioned in the post: 

cavolino di Bruxelles

or launch the cavolino di Bruxelles audio file [mp3].

[Depending on your set-up, the audio file will be played within the browser or by your mp3 player application. Please, contact me if you encounter any problems.]