Sour Cherry Pie with Lime | Summer Garden Issue

A recipe from the Summer, Plant & Prosper issue.

What I like about this pie is that it uses sour cherries (also known as pie cherries). Less sweet to begin with, they sweeten to just right with cooking, without getting too sickly sweet. There's a bit of nice tartness to them, complimented by the lime. I have a Sour Cherry tree myself. Montmorency cherries are known as the finest of sour cherries and are well worth seeking out or growing yourself! 

For the Crust 

2 sticks + 2 tablespoons cold unsalted 

butter 

3 cups all-purpose flour 

1 tablespoon sugar 

1/3 cup vegetable shortening 

6-8 tablespoons ice water 

For the filling 

All-purpose flour for surface 

1/2-3/4 cup granulated sugar, depending on how sweet you like your pies 

1 tablespoon finely grated lime zest 

3 tablespoons cornstarch 

Large pinch of kosher salt 

6 cups frozen sour cherries 

1 large egg, beaten to blend 

Demerara sugar or granulated sugar (for sprinkling) 

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To make the crust 

1. Whisk the flour, salt, and sugar in a large bowl. Place the diced butter in the bowl and use your hands to pinch it into the flour mixture until about half of the butter is in small, thin, flour-coated pieces and the rest is incorporated. 

2. One tablespoon at a time, add the ice water and mix with a wooden spoon or your hands until incorporated. Add more, a tablespoon at a time, until the dough begins to form a ball. 

3. Place the dough ball on a floured 

surface and roll it into a ball. Wrap in 

plastic and refrigerate for at least 30 

minutes. During this time, make the filling. 

To make the filling 

1. Preheat the oven to 425° Fahrenheit. Stir together the granulated sugar and lime zest in a large bowl. Use your fingers to rub the zest into the sugar, 

releasing its oils. 

2. Whisk in the cornstarch and salt. Add frozen 

cherries and toss to coat. 

3. Now take the dough out of the refrigerator and cut it in half. Roll out each half into a circle, using your pie pan as a reference for how large. 

4. Use your roller to gently wrap up the dough and place it in the pie pan, gently fitting it into the bottom and sides. Fill with cherry filling. 

5. Now roll out the second ball of dough for the top of the pie. Here you can choose how to decorate your pie. A traditional lattice crust punched out holes, or any other shape or pattern you desire. It does help hold in the filling to crimp the edges of the crusts together. 

6. Brush the crust with a whisked egg and sprinkle with demerara sugar. Place in the freezer for 20-30 minutes. 

7. Place the pie on a baking sheet lined with parchment (to catch drips), and bake until the crust is golden (about 30 minutes). Reduce the oven temperature to 350° Fahrenheit and continue baking. If the crust starts to brown too quickly, gently tent foil over it. The pie is done when the juices are bubbling and the crust is a deep, golden brown, 50-60 minutes longer. 

8. Place the pie on a wire rack and let cool a little while before slicing (you still want it to be hot, but not mouth-scorching hot). Pie can also be baked a day ahead. Serve warm with vanilla bean ice cream! 

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Summer | Plant & Prosper

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The Honey Issue, A Peak Inside

An ancient ingredient, honey is valued across cultures and continents. In Tanzania, honey gatherers risk their lives crawling up sky-high trees to reach buzzing hives. Beekeepers hold sacred their supplies, and grades of honey range in price from reasonable to expensive.

In The Honey Issue, we explore all aspects of the golden liquid, from recipes, to history, to tutorials on things like making mead.

This recipe for Goat Cheese and Blackberry Tartlets uses honey in one of its most enjoyable and classic applications, drizzled over top of a crunchy, sweet/savory bite-size treat. Others, such as “Bee-Stung Cake” and “Za’tar-Baked Cauliflower with Pine Nuts” teach sweet and savory uses.

Articles explore the variations in honey. From the layers of a hive, to different types of bees, to varieties of honey across the globe.

Commonly used as a sweetener to replace sugar, the thick viscosity of honey changes the dough/batter it is added to. In these cookies, the floral notes of honey are complemented and brought forward by the floral notes of the orange blossom.

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It’s an interesting ingredient with a long history and list of applications explored in the 100 pages that make up the issue. There is a deep well of exploration out there and we’ve just scratched the surface. But we hope, with these articles, tutorials and recipes, that your interest in the “nectar of the gods” is sparked, and your taste buds tantalized.

Pick up a copy of The Honey Issue here.

A Recipe for Lemony Whipped Feta from the Alliums Issue

You may not be familiar with the term “alliums,” but you certainly are with alliums themselves. Alliums are the family of plants containing onions, shallots, garlic, ramps, scapes, chives, scallions, and leeks. All have a bulb base with an umbel flower and both are edible. One allium or another forms the base of almost every dish worldwide, making it a perfect ingredient to dive deep into.

In the issue there are mentions of ancient Egypt, Greece, Sweet Onions in Maui, Growing, Curing and Drying your own, among many other things. Below is a recipe from the issue for a Lemony-Whipped Feta Dip with Charred Scallions. It’s a modern take on the Calçotada, an annual event in Valls, Catalonia, Spain. A calçot is a milder onion more suited to roasting and charring. In this tradition celebrating the calçot harvest, the onions are grilled, wrapped in newspaper and served on terra cotta tiles where they are peeled and eaten with your hands. Romesco sauce is used for dipping and accompanied by plenty of red wine and bread. Following the calçots, a feast of roasted lamb and sausage with white beans and dessert of oranges with cava conclude the event. This version uses common scallions found at any market, charring them under the broiler to dip in a bright, lemony buttermilk and black-pepper dip. Read on for the recipe.

Charred scallions, tart lemon, and salty feta go together swimmingly. Alliums grow mellower as they cook. The chemical irritant known as syn-propanethial-S-oxide stimulates the eyes’ lachrymal glands so they release tears and breaks down the pungency of the onion. Broiling or blackening takes an allium to the most extreme opposite, meeting a mellow, oniony flavor with a charred one.

Lemony-Whipped Feta with Charred Scallions

black pepper, lemon, olive oil

1 1/2 lemons

1 bunch scallions

1/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons olive oil, divided

14 ounces feta cheese, broken into large pieces

2 ounces cream cheese

1/2 teaspoon freshly cracked black 

pepper, plus more for garnish

1 tablespoon hot water

1. Heat a broiler. Line a sheet pan with foil. Juice 1 lemon and set aside. Cut the remaining 1/2 lemon into 3 or 4 thin slices. 

2. In a medium bowl combine the lemon slices, scallions and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Place on a sheet pan with the scallions and broil until blackened, about 7-9 minutes for the scallions and an additional 5 minutes for the lemon slices. Transfer to a cutting board and let cool slightly. 

3. In a food processor, add the feta, cream cheese, remaining olive oil, reserved lemon juice, pepper, and hot water. Puree until very smooth. 

4. Chop the scallions into 1/4-1/2 inch pieces. Stir into the whipped feta. Transfer to a bowl. 

5. Chop the charred lemon slices in half. Garnish the whipped feta with the lemon slices and a crack of black pepper.

The Making of The Tea Issue

I’m starting something new here, a peak behind the making of each magazine. Each issue is unique in its construction and content, and I hope these posts shed some light on the pulling together of things into one, cohesive whole. Since it’s just me over here, I can say I rely heavily on the archives. Many books and records have now been scanned into huge online databases of illustrations, notes and photographs. Naturalists drawings and discoveries. Vintage advertisements, black and white photos documenting certain eras or industries. Scans of seaweed and botanists plates, latin names for animals and many, many texts are aplenty, and I incorporate them where I feel appropriate. Sometimes a whole series will form the backbone of an issue, such as the latin illustrations of hunting animals in The Hunt issue. Sometimes the plain documentation proves immensely beautiful, such as the scans of seaweed plates in The Cast issue.

Vintage advertisement for Horniman’s Tea. Horiman’s advertisements and style shift to keep up with the trends of the time.

An article on The Tea Horse Road, a road carved into the mountains for the trading of tea.

In this issue, there was a deep and far-reaching history, tea being one of the oldest of drinks. This lead to much reading on the dynasties, trades and records kept to learn how tea traveled throughout time and the and cultural traditions that formed and shifted.

All “true” tea comes from the same plant.

Having known a little about the plant prior to beginning the issue (and having my own little potted tea plant), the fact that all true tea comes from one plant meant learning about the processes and techniques used to create the different teas.

Each issue includes a Menu focused on the theme fo the issue, in this case, tea.

I already had many recipes in my mind for the issue. They begin forming months, if not years, prior to the start of the issue. A few of the recipes (Black Tea Cinnamon Rolls, Lapsang Souchong Crème Caramel), had been brewing in my mind for a few years. Sometimes it’s a part of a recipe, such as a Demi-Glace, tucked away in the archives of my brain that flushes out into a full recipe with the development of the issue.

For the essay in this issue, I wrote of the Bloedel Reserve. The reserve is located on the island I grew up on, and was a place I visited a few times while I lived there. It’s a very unique spot. With the teahouse as the center of the property and a flowing connection to nature, it proved in line with the contemplations of Chinese philosophers who relied heavily on tea drunk in natural environments to clear the mind.

From perusing through old cookbooks, to scribbling recipe ideas on pieces of paper, to testing those recipes in the kitchen, to scanning vintage advertisements and walking the grounds of the Bloedel Reserve, this issue was made. In the beginning there are mood boards and drawings and the contents of the issue laid out, with the hope that I can create the content to fill the vision. It never quite comes out that way, but takes on a nature of its own that, often, leads to a better or more unexpected place, such as was the case with this issue. Originally I intended for more alluring mystery, more dark and starry imagery and graphics of the art deco era. Yet, as I learned about Tea, I was reminded of its worldwide presence and the variations it takes on. So, in the end, I hope to have represented a fair account of a number of different places, teas and traditions. Soon to come I’ll be sharing recipes and articles from the issue here, so check back soon or sign up for the newsletter below for more.

Cheers,

Shannon

Alpine Strawberry Ice Cream

One of the greatest gifts of living in the Pacific Northwest is the abundance of wild berries. Blueberries. Huckleberries. Salmonberries. Wild Raspberries. Thimbleberries. Mountain Huckleberries. Mountain Cranberries. Native Blackberries- you start to sound like Bubba and his shrimp. The point is, the list goes on. Stumbling across a patch, soaked with sun, the cumulating sugars scent the air with a jammy smell. 

Trailing along the dirt, dropping delicate buds with soft white petals and sunshine yellow centers as they swell up and turn rosy, strawberries grow almost anywhere. I have yet to meet a person who isn't attracted to the tight, shiny morsels. I like alpine varieties and, since I live in a sub-alpine environment, they grow well in my garden, as well as on the trails I run and climb on. Any strawberry will do here (raspberries make an excellent substitution). This ice cream, a recipe taken from the "Grow: Seeds & Weeds" issue, takes the cake as both the easiest thing I make and the most universally loved. Classic. Cold. Sweet. 

Your strawberries can come from your garden, the market, or plucked from a wild plant (you'll may be surprised the number of places they're found). As always, it's important to leave plenty (35-40%),  behind for the plant to regenerate and survive. Strawberries love sun and you're likely to find some creeping into a busy parking lot or at the edges of a popular trail. Tempting as it may be, leave these behind. These are prime areas of contamination- better left to sniffing dogs and wild animals. 

Alpine Strawberry Ice Cream

 

Ingredients: 

1 cup sugar

1 1/2 cups strawberries (alpine, woodland or other variety)

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 cup heavy cream

1 cup whole milk

Ice & Rock Salt (if your Ice Cream Maker calls for it)

Special Equipment: 

Ice Cream Maker 

Directions: 

1. Mash (or purée in a blender or food processor), the strawberries. Strain (if desired), and place in a large bowl. 

2. Add the sugar and lemon juice to the mashed fruit and stir to combine. Stir in the cream and milk. 

3. Follow your Ice Cream Manufacturer's instructions. Churn for 20-40 minutes (refer to instructions), until a thick, creamy consistency is reached. Perfect enjoyed soft and scooped into a waffle cone on the back porch or a blanket spread by the lake. 

*Ice cream keeps frozen in an air-tight container for up to 2 weeks. 

Pea Flower Tartine

Sneaking up coy vines, they appear suddenly and en masse, full of softness and intrigue. Common garden info doesn't acknowledge the edible qualities of peas beyond their pods. Shoots, tendrils, flowers, and leaves are delicious enjoyed in salads, omelets, soups, scattered over a savory roast and tucked beneath a roasted chicken or grilled fish. A muted pea-taste is found in the leaves and tendrils, while the flowers carry little taste at all and serve as a beautifying element. I love to make a salad of the leaves and curling vines as I pinch and cut back my plants to further their growth. Raw or lightly sautéed, a bland omelet is elevated by tendrils. Rich in color, the flowers soften a heavy roast when scattered over top and juxtapose the dark, caramely-sear of a burger hot off the grill. Leaves are excellent with fish and in a spring soup paired with light notes of sorrel and asparagus.

No doubt my favorite way to enjoy them is in a tartine (open-faced sandwich). A slice of bread serves as the foundation beneath a smothering of soft spread and various toppings. A perfect snack for one, slices of baguette can be used instead when serving as an appetizer. It's an easy recipe to accomplish, the tendrils and flowers doing the work for you- with an appearance sure to impress.

"Cooking Intuitively," as I like to call it, means to remove the crutch of following a recipe and tapping into your senses and ingredients to guide your flavors. Recipes are wonderful things- I own hundreds of them- and when I cook from a beautiful cookbook, such as Marcella Hazan's or Yvette Van Bowen's, I can feel the author through their food- their stories, taste memories, lives. I learn so much from cooking this way, more than anything a broader understanding of what makes a person's story. But these excellent cooks would never have become the elemental influences they were without stepping away from the following of others and venturing forth on their own. It's something I encourage you to do and something that guides the workshops I teach.

Below you'll find a recipe for a pea flower tartine. You could substitute the bread for a dark, rustic loaf and pair with an equally hearty cheese (such as Gouda), topped with tart crunchy apples in the fall season. Or you could swap the farmer's cheese for ricotta or labneh. Honey could be drizzled over top in place of olive oil.

There are many ways to go and the decision is yours. Begin in the garden, tasting the plant and noting it's crunch, sweetness, and texture. What flavors does it carry? What would compliment those flavors? What would be too gentle to have an effect? Too strong and overpowering? The knowledge you acquire builds an understanding of your ingredients and that is where cooking begins. 

Pea Flower Tartine

Ingredients: 

1 Slice of bread from a rustic country loaf

3 tablespoons fresh farmer's cheese (or ricotta or labneh)

a handful of fresh pea tendrils

a handful of fresh pea flowers

a good olive oil

Flaky sea salt (such as Maldon)

Freshly cracked pepper

Directions: 

1. Simply spread the cheese over one side of the bread. Follow with a scattering of the pea tendrils and pea flowers. Drizzle olive oil, and top with a pinch of flaky salt and grind of fresh cracked pepper. 

Chive Blossom Phyllo Tart

I must admit, I went into this shoot with no intention of creating a recipe. I simply wanted to play and try to make something beautiful for the pure pleasure of it. I suppose, after years of cooking, I can't help but to baste the edges with butter and scatter salt. Recklessly tossing whole blossoms over top, peeling back the occasional bud, I was elated when, upon tasting, the crunchy dough nestled mild, roasted onion and garlic delight. Along with a smattering of herbs, it turned out to be well worth sharing. 

Chive Blossoms are a fun ingredient. The flower of the chive plant, globe-shaped buds first arrive at the market in spring. Having a short growing season, harvest can be extended when grown at home. Purple star-shaped petals have a light garlic scent and mild floral undertone. Distinctly tasting of garlic, they're subtle, oniony and garlicky at the same time. They're also easy to apply. Simply scatter into eggs (any kind), sprinkle atop deviled eggs (a favorite), or whizz into a dressing. Pairing perfectly with potatoes, they can be used where garlic is called for. For those looking for more options, they do well as a pizza topping and make a wonderful chive blossom vinegar. 

Chive Blossom Phyllo Tart with Garden Herbs

Phyllo dough is a wonderful thing. You can pick up a package in the freezer section of your local grocery store- usually near the desserts- and whip up a dinner- or dessert- in mere minutes (I know people say that, but in this case it's true). You may recognize it from Spanakopita or Baklava, which both utilize the layering effect. Anything you place over top will sink down into the dough, while parts left free will fluff and expand up- like a croissant. I used to make a "long leek tart" from Yvette Van Boven's first book by simply slicing leeks in half and laying across the dough, leaving an edge, and topping with feta. This recipe has a similar effect. The chive blossoms will settle- roasting in place- between buttery layers packed with air.  

Ingredients: 

1 roll Phyllo Dough (found in the freezer section of your grocery store)

2 tablespoons melted, salted Butter (Kerrygold brand recommended)

A bundle of chive blossoms

A small handful of sweet woodruff (a foraged herb light in flavor found in wet, shady areas. Also grown as a ground cover in gardens)

A small handful of chervil (Originating in Russia, a common herb for French Cooking)

*Parsley can be subbed in place of woodruff and chervil*

Sea Salt Flakes (such as Maldon)

Freshly cracked pepper

Directions: 

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Unwrap the phyllo dough and gently lay flat on a baking sheet covered in parchment paper. Brush the dough with the melted butter and place the whole chive blossoms over top (I like to do this freely and see what shapes form in the oven). 

2. Scatter small pieces of the woodruff and chervil (or parsley) and follow with a few pinches of sea salt and cracks of pepper. Place in the oven and cook for 20-30 minutes, until light brown. Remove from oven, let cool slightly and enjoy the roasted, oniony garlic flavor of the chive blossoms. 

Hedge Nettle Flatbread with Garlic Scapes

In the grove where our creek meets the river grows an abundance of Hedge Nettles. Tall and erect with saw-toothed leaves, long, slender flowers foster nectar for bees, caterpillars, and hummingbirds, and make a fine addition to our own tables.

One of many members of the nettle family, Hedge Nettles lack the voracious sting of their sister plant, the stinging nettle. Bristly hairs cover alternating leaves up to thin, tube-shaped flowers. Standing up to 5 feet tall, flower color ranges from white to purple. Wet, nutrient-rich soils along streams, riverbanks, thickets, open forests, disturbed areas and hedges foster populations.

Also known as “Hedge Dead Nettle,” “Marsh Hedge Nettle,” and mistakenly referred to as “Woundwort,”  documented accounts show medicinal and culinary use across the globe.

One such account refers to the plant as “Husbandman’s Woundwort" for its ability to heal a countryman's severe cut in seven days. Another speaks of  “a deep and grievous wound in the breast with a dagger, and two others in the abdomen" healing in 21 days when mixed with hog’s grease.

Early settlers of the United States chose Hedge Nettle to remedy hysteria and nausea. Native peoples utilized the plant to treat colic. Locally, the Green River and Puyallup peoples cured boils, while the Quileute applied for rheumatism. Fishermen of the Nuu-chah-nulth even wiped their hands with leaves before handling gear.

Aside from medicinal use, nettles serve many practical purposes. Burial sites from the Bronze Age show woven nettle fiber in sailcloth, fishing nets, paper and clothing fabric. Traditional practices, still popular today, include nettle tea, juice, ale and use as a preservative for cheese.

Botanical Illustration of Hedge Nettle 1800s.

Though stinging nettles are famous for their rich and mildly earthy flavor, Hedge Nettles are rarely recognized, despite similar qualities. In countries where foraging is still practiced, (Bulgaria, Slovenia, Romania, Iran), green soups, omelets, and purées dot tables in spring. Though they release an unpleasant smell upon boiling, a quick drop in the pot softens and removes the (slightly) bothersome hairs. My two favorite ways to enjoy Hedge Nettles are folded into pasta- the green noodles coated in thick Alfredo topped with crispy prosciutto- creamy milkfat, grassy pasta, and crunchy pork fat- and scattered across a salty, buttery garlic-scented flatbread.  

Both are relatively easy, but the flatbread calls for little more than a few minutes and an appetite. No boil is required, since the greens crisp up in the oven, and, should you desire, you can skip the dough making altogether and pick up a ball of pizza dough on your way home. Making the dough by hand requires some planning to accommodate rising times. I find it well worth the effort to freeze a few balls that I can pull out and thaw for a Squash Blossom Pizza or grilled flatbread when the mood strikes. 

This is a recipe I make in the dog days of summer. When the light is long and hot and we’re deep in the thick of it. Other greens have bittered and dried up in the sun, and berries are about to burst. The cool river breeze gently tossing the tall plants and pretty purple flowers calls me down.

 

Hedge Nettle Flatbread with Garlic Scapes

Ingredients:

Dough

0.8 grams (scant 1/4 teaspoon) instant dried yeast 

700 grams (3 cups) water, 90-95 degrees F, divided 

1000 grams (7 3/4 cups) all-purpose flour

20 grams (1 tablespoon + 3/4 teaspoon) fine sea salt 

Topping

A couple handfuls of Hedge Nettles, washed and leaves and flowers plucked

4 garlic scapes (or 1 clove garlic)

Olive Oil

Salt

Pepper

A couple tablespoons of Salted Butter (Kerrygold brand recommended), melted

To make the dough: 

1. Combine the yeast and 3 tablespoons of the water in a small bowl and set aside. Combine the remaining water with the flour in a large bowl and mix by hand until incorporated. Cover with plastic wrap and let rest in a warm, draft-free area for 30 minutes. 

2. Sprinkle the salt over the top of the dough. Gently stir the yeast mixture with a clean finger then pour over the dough. Use a small piece of the dough to wipe the remaining yeast goop from its bowl and add back into the dough mixture. 

3. Wet your hands, reach underneath the dough, and grab about 1/4 of the dough mass. Gently stretch and pull the section over the rest of the dough, onto the opposite underside. Repeat 3 or more times with the remaining dough until the salt and yeast are incorporated. 

4. Use your fingers to pinch the ingredients into the dough, then fold it over onto itself, repeating the process to fully integrate the ingredients. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for 1 hour. 

5. Wet your hands, reach underneath, and grab about 1/4 of the dough, stretch and pull the section across the remaining dough and tuck underneath. Repeat. Lightly brush dough with olive oil. Cover again with plastic wrap and let rise about 12 hours (dough will be 2 to 3 times its original size). 

5. Place the dough on pastry board or floured surface, coat with flour and use a dough scraper to divide into 5 equal pieces. Repeat the folding process above with each ball of dough. Lightly brush with olive oil, cover and refrigerate 6 hours. Bring to room temperature before baking. 

To assemble: 

1. When the dough is ready and at room temperature, place a baking stone (if you have one), in your oven and heat to 450 degrees F. On a lightly floured piece of parchment set over a cookie sheet, roll the dough into a rectangle, about 1/4" thick. Using a cookie sheet here as opposed to a baking sheet is important if using a baking stone. The stone will be firey hot when the oven is heated and you'll need to be able to slide the dough onto it running into anything.

2. Meanwhile, prep the toppings. Chiffonade the nettle leaves by stacking on top of each other and tightly rolling like a cigar. Pinching the roll in one hand, thinly slice the roll into small ribbons. Mince the garlic scapes. 

3. When the oven is ready and the dough is rolled, brush the entire surface of the dough with olive oil. Sprinkle a couple pinches of salt over top and follow with a few cracks of fresh pepper. Evenly scatter the chiffonaded nettle leaves, flowers, and minced garlic scapes. Very carefully open the oven door and slide the dough onto the stone. Bake for 15-20 minutes, until golden brown. 

4. Remove from the oven and brush with the melted butter. Let cool about 5 minutes, slice into squares with a pizza cutter and serve. 

Plant Profile: Columbine

I never really noticed Columbine until we moved to the mountains. I didn't see it much on the island I grew up on, and it certainly wasn't in the city. Once settled into our alpine home, I began noticing the nodding flowers on trail runs, hikes and walks along our road. It's always been a dream of mine to have wildflowers in my yard. Both my husband and I agree that nothing is more pleasing or puts us more at ease. The birds, bees, and butterflies concur. 

Many varieties of Columbine abound. Barlow Columbine with it's upscaled petals can be a lot to take in. Petticoat Columbine holds layers of frilly, pleated petals, reminiscent of its name. Some are multi-colored, others Victorian pink. Rocky Mountain blue, sunset red, black velvet and every shade of purple. A few are all white. Understated by comparison, the muted clover leaves fade back into the surrounding vegetation, easily overlooked. 

Like many alpine flowers, their delicate beauty does not undermine their hardy growing habits. Self-supporting roots draw water through long periods of drought. Preferring shade, they will self-sow (new hybrids form as different varieties come into contact). With dwarf varieties beginning at 3 inches, larger types reach up to 3 feet. The blooming season stretches from early spring to mid-summer. 

Studied for its evolutionary adaptations and range in petal spur length, Columbine can be traced back to a single mother variety found in Eastern Europe and Asia. Research suggests the seed was carried across the Bering Strait ice bridge during the last ice age.

With a latin name of "Aquilegia," some believe it to be named after Aquila (meaning Eagle), for it's uncanny resemblance to an eagle talon. Other theories suggest "water collector" (Aquilegus), and a ring of doves (Columba being Latin for Dove). Containing more than 60 known species (including a variety named for Charles Darwin's granddaughter Nora Barlow), Columbine grows in meadows and woodlands and favors high altitudes in the Northern Hemisphere (USDA zones 3-8).   

Put to use by native tribes, infusions soothed conditions such as headaches, fever, heart and kidney issues, and served as a wash for poison ivy. Pulverized seeds made love charms, perfume and detected bewitchment.

I love Columbine for its long, slender stems that elegantly bend, supporting an intricate and wild collection of petals. I find it hard to pluck Columbine because to do so feels like disturbing a thing of beauty that belongs in nature. Sometimes though, once the leaves have fallen, I'll pluck a few stems. I find the bending and twisting to carry with it pleasing shapes. These I'll stick in an apothecary jar on the kitchen table to watch as they bend and twist with time, creating new shapes and stories. 

To Grow Columbine

An old-fashioned garden plant cultivated since the 1600s, growing Columbine is easy. Choose from a wealth of varieties suited to your environment and scatter the seeds in early Spring. Columbine prefers slightly acidic, sandy soil with decomposing organic matter. It will grow in clay soil if well-drained. Some suggest more care, such as fertilizing and watering by hand. I prefer to let the plant harden and adapt, allowing mother nature to take over for me. I like the native plants I grow to thrive independent of my care, as they would in the wild. Often this means getting extra seed and tossing freely to account for a loss in germination. Flowers will not produce the first year. When the tender stems crawl their way out the following spring, their elegance and untamed beauty will not go underappricated.   

Columbine is not intended for human or animal consumption.

Where to Order Columbine Seeds

Most Reliable for Germination:

Burpee Seeds

Largest selection of varieties:

Swallow Tail Garden Seeds

Best for mixes:

Johnny's Seeds

Spring Foraging in the PNW

We just rolled back into town after a (long overdue) vacation, including skiing and climbing throughout the North Cascades and the Methow. Having recently been discharged from physical therapy for a shoulder repair surgery with a strict recovery lasting 5 1/2 months, I was more than ready to move in the mountains again, and this trip centered around that (I'll be sharing more on the places we went and wildflowers we saw over on my Instagram if you're curious). 

The exceptionally warm winter this year coupled with the first signs of wildflowers reminded me that summer is coming on quick, and I wanted to share Spring's wild bounty with you before the season shifts and a host of new plants push their way to the surface.

Spring brings with it many of the most well-known plants to forage- tender greens, fiddlehead ferns, dandelions and the ever-popular stinging nettle. Many more varieties abound, and many of these plants have edible parts beyond common knowledge (including shoots, flowers, and roots). Recently I spoke with Hilary Dahl on the Seattle Urban Farm Company podcast Encyclopedia Botanica about cooking from your garden and Spring crops. I went into more detail on the many edible parts of these plants at their various stages, and the versatility and expanded harvest we can get from remembering this (listen here for the full episode). The same can be said of many wild varieties. Young shoots arrive prior to their fruit, expanding the length of harvest and, often offer a subtler version of their (sometimes intense) final product. Flowers can be found where birds are quick to grab berries, and experiencing a plant at its various stages builds an understanding of its life cycle. Various Native American tribes recognized this expanded life cycle and utilized it heavily.

Below I've pulled out a few of my favorites, along with notes on flavors and culinary uses. Click on the plant name to pull up expanded images and feel free to leave a comment with any questions. 

Salmon Berry Shoots & Flowers

Besides the sherbet-hued berry, both the shoots and flowers of the salmonberry plant are edible and quite pleasant to eat. Simply pinch the young shoots where they meet the vine (careful of baby thorns), making sure to leave no less than 40% behind to allow the plant to regenerate. Delicate magenta flowers can be eaten whole and are best pinched along with their leaves to preserve the fragile petals. I used both the shoots and the flowers in a salad recipe in my recent Copper River Salmon & Wild Watercress post, along with more photos of the plant. This is how I most commonly enjoy them, and, being so delicate, I don't really like to cook them myself, though a stir-fry wouldn't hurt, nor would whizzing them into a pesto. Mostly though, I find them beautiful, and I love for the food I eat to resemble itself, so tossing into a pile of spring greens, dressing in a fresh herb vinaigrette and shaving some pecorino over top does it for me. 

*I read in Pacific Northwest Foraging the common assumption that Salmonberries are so named for their fish-like hue may not be the true origin. The use of the shoots to cut the oily flavor of salmon by Pacific Northwest Natives lends another theory. 

Stinging Nettles

Perhaps the most popular and well-known plant on the list, stinging nettles are familiar to the forager and bare-footed kid alike. Many childhoods are painted with memories of brazenly blazing through thickets, only to find oneself covered in itchy, stinging welts moments later (one of the beauties of not knowing any better is the balls it gives us). This is easily avoided with a pair of garden gloves and a quick boil or blanch before eating. Nettles are extremely versatile and wonderfully delicious. A specialty when restaurants can get their hands on them, they can be enjoyed simply sautéed in a pan with olive oil and sherry and dusted with salt and pepper, woven into a frittata or quiche with asparagus, or folded into homemade pasta.

*An interesting side note, stinging nettles are just one of numerous varieties of the nettle family which can be foraged. 

Siberian Miners Lettuce

Siberian Miner's Lettuce is a great wild green to have in your back pocket. It grows en masse and is easily found in the wet, shaded soils of the Pacific Northwest. Different from true Miner's Lettuce, Siberian Miner's Lettuce can be somewhat confusing due to its variation in appearance. Some have wider, squatter leaves that grow lower to the ground with a slightly more "Kelly-Green" appearance and small white flowers, others have stems that reach elegantly up from the ground to support similar white flowers. Light and subtle in flavor, it can easily be worked into many dishes, including salads, scrambles, pestos and as a bed for chicken or fish. I've had it as a garnish over halibut and draped over a piece of foie gras. Use anywhere you would use spinach or arugula and consider subbing in place of endive and butter lettuce as well. 

False Lily of the Valley

Not to be confused with true Lily of The Valley, False Lily of The Valley is an edible tender green growing en mass in wet, shady soils. Often confused with wild ginger, the heart-shaped leaves make wonderful bases for salads, are lovely in scrambles, and go just about anywhere spinach or arugula would go (pestos, pizzas, stir fry). They also pair exceptionally well with seafood. Gentle in flavor and texture, I often gather these to balance and mellow out the more domineering flavors of other foraged plants. Since they grow in large quantities, they are dependable when I'm looking to gather some bulk. Later on in summer, strings of small, translucent red berries resembling bog cranberries develop. If left undisturbed the berries will hang onto the plant for months, changing opacity and flavor with time. The seeds are large and I always spit them as I nibble to spread the plant.

Horsetail

Horsetail is a funny looking plant. Understandably, this turns many people off. Oddly enough the first known trees were closely related species of the horsetail, over 100 feet tall! There are two common varieties of Horsetail, often growing side-by-side near creeks or in marshy areas. Giant horsetail, with it's sturdier stem and stripy-pattern, Field Horsetail- a thinner, more delicate version lacking stripes. I find the thin, needle-like leaves quite dialed back and unobtrusive, and enjoy them mixed into a stir fry or sautéed and served with seafood (scallops would be an excellent pairing). Again, they are extremely versatile and I would incorporate them into a baked egg dish, a lively green salad with dried fruit and nuts, or a snappy ceviche in the summer. 

Wild Chocolate Mint growing in a stream.

Mint

Many varieties of mint abound across all sorts of environments. Both wild and invasive, it heartily boasts it's way to the front of the pack, choking out neighboring plants. Varieties such as peppermint, lemon balm and chocolate spring to life, calling for iced teas, Moroccan dishes, and desserts. The variety and abundance of mint means plenty of room for experimentation in the kitchen. I love to muddle some peppermint into a virgin Blackberry Mojito (a recipe from the Forage issue a few years back), and keep a pitcher of Lemon-Balm iced tea in my fridge in the dog days of summer. Chocolate mint is a fun flavor and inspires interesting combinations (Chocolate Mint Vanilla Ice Cream with Rhubarb Compote, Double-Chocolate Minted Fudge Cake). It's an easy one to spot and to apply. Just watch out for your compost if you don't want to turn your yard into a mint factory! 

There are many more varieties ready for harvest in the spring months (information on foraging spring watercress here). I encourage you to spend some time, foraging book in hand, strolling around without agenda and see what you come up with. 

Cheers, 

Shannon