Grow Cook Eat

Introduction
 
“Without a kitchen garden—that plot of land on which one grows herbs, vegetables, and some fruit—it is not possible to produce decent and savory food for the dinner table.”
—ANGELO PELLEGRINI
 
This book came about because of a radish.
 
I discovered that radishes made seedpods—and that I could eat them—entirely by accident. I simply forgot to harvest a few rows of the spicy little roots. They grew large and woody, their foliage stretching up toward the sky. I thought all was lost, but the radishes had a surprise in store. They rewarded my inattention with delicate pink flowers followed by pods that looked like fat raindrops perched atop slender stems.
 
The appearance of something so pretty and unexpected gave me pause. On impulse, I snapped off a pod and popped it into my mouth. Crunchy, spicy, nutty, and decidedly radishy, that pod changed my perspective on kitchen gardening. I looked around, suddenly aware of all sorts of roots, leaves, blossoms, and seeds I’d never before considered as food, and asked myself a simple question: What else can I eat?
 
Fava greens, fennel pollen, kale flower buds, green coriander seed, carrot tops, squash flowers, and the tender tips of pea vines are now staples in my kitchen. I’ve also given myself license to harvest vegetables during all their myriad stages of growth. I pull garlic shoots in early spring, when they are slight and tender as scallions, and grill them. I rinse baby turnip roots off with the hose and eat them raw right out in the garden. I wait anxiously for my mustard greens to form flower buds because I love the sweet-spicy flavor they add to a stir-fry. Sometimes these delicious extras, as I’ve come to think of them, are available at farmers’ markets. But if you really want to experience the full range of food that edible plants offer, you need to garden. To grow food is to really know food. Not just in the sense of knowing where the vegetables on your plate come from, but how their appearance, flavor, and texture change as they grow.
 
The vegetables found in grocery stores are invariably sold at the stage that requires the least labor to harvest and the most convenience for packing, shipping, and display. The delicious tops of beets, turnips, and carrots are severed and discarded; strawberries are picked early and then artificially ripened; and tomatoes, though red, are too perfectly round and almost always hard.
 
Gardening gives you the chance to reacquaint yourself with food you thought you knew—like radishes. I plant their roly-poly seeds in a thick row and don’t worry about the spacing, because I know I can thin out and eat their delicious sprouts in a grilled cheese sandwich later. I harvest the roots when they are not much bigger than a marble and again later when they reach the familiar grocery store size. I cook their greens just like spinach, use the flowers as a garnish, and eat the pods as a snack. The whole radish plant is eminently edible and delicious—something I never would have discovered if I hadn’t grown my own.
 
I garden because I love food. Or, perhaps I love gardening because I grow food. Either way, I think there is almost nothing more satisfying than cooking with food that you nurtured from a tiny seed or seedling, and then serving it to others. It creates a tangible connection between the environment, the food that nourishes you, and the people sitting around your table. This book is an invitation to explore the amazing diversity of food that becomes available to you when you plant a plot of land with vegetables, herbs, and fruit, and to gain the confidence to experiment in the kitchen with the delicious raw goods your garden will provide.
 
But a garden should reflect its gardener. So think of the guides and advice in these pages as a recipe you can make your own—add a cup more here, a pinch less there—and have as much fun as possible. The most important thing I’ve learned is that in the garden and in the kitchen, mistakes can be the greatest gifts. You just have to have the courage to taste them.