Every gardener, whether of the minimalist pots and raised beds on the patio clan or of the full-blown frustrated farmer of the half-acre patch persuasion, knows that their labor produces distinctive rewards that satisfy, in terms of tastiness. That is amply buttressed by the self-satisfaction associated with an “I grew this” mindset.
Even if you don’t have the time—or perhaps space—for the pleasure such efforts provide, you don’t necessarily have to grow your own fruits and vegetables. In today’s world, grocery stores—with their laudable focus on local produce—make it possible to enjoy gifts from the gardening gods, and nature’s abundant bounty in the form of wild edibles should never be overlooked.
These gifts, and the word is a truly appropriate one, come in myriad forms and flavors. The recipes that follow are but a sampling, and in truth about the only limitations to enjoying the wonders of fresh foodstuffs are the breadth of your imagination or crops you are willing to grow.
For present purposes our focus is on the glories of spring, the time of year when our high country forebears most treasured fresh food. After months of relying on dried foods—the relatively few items with a long storage life—and canned goods, most of them high in starch and low in a couple of key vitamins, they prized new growth edibles that were fresh from the good earth.
Rhubarb Muffins
A distinguishing characteristic of many old-time mountain gardens was a row of rhubarb. Since it was a perennial crop that would last for decades with moderate care—requiring only the occasional application of composted manure and keeping it mulched and clear of weeds—more often than not rhubarb (and the same was true of asparagus) tended to be in a row at garden’s edge or in a place where it wouldn’t be endangered by plowing. In the family garden of my youth it nestled against a garage adjacent to the garden, while at my grandfather’s it grew alongside a path splitting the garden in half that led to the chicken house and onwards to the hog pen. As a boy, I loved gathering a mess once new growth had emerged to the point where there were plenty of stout, reddish-green stalks topped by big leaves (only the stalks are eaten).
Rhubarb is about as sour as anything imaginable, and requires use of some type of sweetening, or perhaps roasting with beets, which contain appreciable sugar, to be palatable. It has plenty of health benefits, being a first-rate antioxidant, offering lots of fiber, and containing high amounts of potassium, calcium, and vitamin C. Because of the need for sweeteners, rhubarb was most commonly used in pies or jams. It can also be roasted with a sprinkling of sugar to make a nice salad topping. But a personal favorite is muffins with a delightful sweet-sour taste.
- 1 cup diced rhubarb stalks
- 1¾ cups all-purpose flour
- ¼ teaspoon salt
- 2 teaspoons baking powder
- ½ cup (or slightly more) sugar
- ¾ cup milk
- 1 whisked egg
- ¼ cup cooking oil
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees and grease the wells of a 12-opening muffin pan or line them with paper liners. Toss the rhubarb cubes (they should be quite small) with a bit of flour and set aside. Combine dry ingredients with a whisk. Mix moist ingredients together in a separate bowl. Once all is ready form a well in the dry ingredients and fold in the wet ones, stirring just until fully blended. Fold the floured rhubarb into the batter and gently mix. Fill each muffin opening about two-thirds full. Bake for 20 minutes or until an inserted toothpick comes away clean. Remove and place tray atop a cooling rack. As the muffins cool you can, if desired, top with an orange glaze made of powdered sugar, orange juice, and a bit of grated orange zest. Another alternative is a streusel topping, although my personal preference is just a warm muffin with a pat of butter.
Asparagus Casserole
Much like the situation with rhubarb, asparagus is a perennial normally relegated to a location where it can be productive year after year with minimal care—occasional infusions of manure, weeding combined with mulching, to allow it to grow without competition, and due diligence to avoid disturbing the roots come plowing time. A properly maintained asparagus bed will remain productive for many years, and the tender shoots offer a springtime treat of sheer joy. Whether stewed with a bit of butter, steamed, grilled, coated in olive oil and prepared in the deep fryers which have of late become all the rage, or as the central ingredient in a casserole (the recipe offered here), asparagus is an upscale vegetable that does wonderfully well in high country gardens.
MAIN INGREDIENTS
- 30 spears of asparagus (or one large can)
- 3 hard-boiled eggs, sliced
- 1 cup grated sharp cheese
WHITE SAUCE
Blend 2 tablespoons of flour, 2 tablespoons of butter, ¼ teaspoon salt, ¼ teaspoon black pepper, and 1½ cups Carnation milk. Cook in a double boiler, stirring until thickened and smooth.
Alternate layers of asparagus, eggs, cheese and sauce. Bake in a 350-degree oven for 20 minutes.
Creamed Peas and New Potatoes
Both peas and potatoes have long been favorites in mountain gardens, and for many generations the latter, thanks to a combination of productivity (you can grow a lot of potatoes in a relatively small space) and keeping qualities, was a staple vegetable perhaps second only to corn in overall importance. Fortuitously, the two reach the edible stage about the same time in late spring, and combining them in a delicious dish was commonplace. In today’s world you can buy new potatoes at any time of the year and frozen English peas make the other part of the classic combo something that can be enjoyed through all seasons.
The “creamed” can be a bit misleading, since no cream, just milk, is involved in the dish. Keep in mind that this is a foodstuff, unlike so many, which tends to be lacking in salt. That’s because there’s no salt, other than the small amount present in salted butter, present in the ingredients. You can just salt and pepper to taste if the amount suggested leaves the dish tasting bland.
- 12 medium-sized new potatoes
- 1 cup fresh or frozen garden peas
- 1 tablespoon salted butter
- 2 tablespoons diced sweet onion
- 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
- 1 cup whole milk
- 1 teaspoon salt
- Ground black pepper
Scrub potatoes with a vegetable brush to remove skin or else wash carefully and leave skin intact. Cut in half unless some are quite small. Mixed sizes will be the case with those dug from the garden, while grocery store ones will have relative uniformity. Place in enough boiling water in a saucepan to cover and cook until barely tender (about 10-12 minutes—you can test with the point of a sharp knife), drain in a colander, and set aside. Cook peas in another saucepan of boiling water (required time will be less, perhaps 5 minutes) and drain and set aside as well.
Melt butter in a large skillet and add onion in medium heat until translucent. At that point add flour, stirring constantly with a whisk, and cook for a minute or so. Then slowly add milk, stirring all the while, until everything is well combined. At this point add peas, potatoes, salt, and black pepper. Reduce heat to a slow simmer and allow to thicken until the sauce is slightly creamy. Adjust salt and pepper, by taste testing, if needed. Pour into a serving dish or bowl and enjoy. This makes a hearty main dish for an all-vegetable meal or a grand side dish with fried or roasted chicken.
"Kilt" S
Among the cherished springtime garden favorites was fresh lettuce, among the earliest of the plantings to reach harvesting stage. Leaf types of lettuce such as black-seeded Simpson matured rapidly in the warming-up soil of spring and, perhaps with another early vegetable, radish, as a side, made mighty fine eating. A favorite way of enjoying the greens of spring (and wild ones such as dandelions, branch lettuce, sochan, and cress), was in what was known as a “kilt” salad or “kilt” lettuce. In essence this involved nothing more than an oil or oil-and-vinegar dressing poured atop fresh greens. The “kilt” (i. e., killed or more accurately, wilted) part came from the fact that the oil was hot, usually directly from a frying pan where it had been produced by cooking bacon or fatback. Pouring the piping hot grease over the greens, and then crumbling the crispy meat on top, made for delicious eating. It still does, and although it may not be the ideal choice of dressing when it comes to calories and cholesterol, it certainly provides a grand link to springtime foodways of yesteryear.