Spring forage: Alexander buds and Balsam Poplar

Today is officially the first of summer, and suitably equinoctal it is too - daffs in full fettle and lots of blossom in the hedgerows. For the first forage of the year, I was out gathering alexanders. This was once a potherb, so they say, brought by the Romans and naturalised around the verges and cliffs of England. It's a handsome plant whose stems can be eaten like asparagus, and the young leaves of which add a bit of zing to a spring salad. But I was gathering buds and flowers.

The flowers grow in bracts of creamy greenish white and are very attractive to insects. Under the open flowers you can find furled up against the stem a round ball of the flowers yet to come. These taste a little stronger than the flowers and can be used like capers.

A pinch of partly opened flowers (the buds are about the size of a pinhead) is a nice snack while walking, tasting something like cucumber with mustard seed: a very fresh green taste with a bit of heat to it.

Sprinkle them raw on salad leaves. We like french bread with a slice of goats cheese sprinkled with alexander buds and a little black pepper and grilled- actually the black pepper is slightly redundant, as the buds have enough zing in them. They are also good on hardboiled eggs.

I picked enough to pickle some for later use: bring some cider vinegar to the boil, drop in the buds and leave to cool before storing in a sterilised jar.

An experimental forage - not sure how it will work out - is some buds of balsam poplar. The smell of this tree in spring perhaps the most heavenly countryside scent I know, but it's oddly fugitive. Alan Bennett in his autobiographical writings describes getting a whiff of it while in company with a fellow undergraduate and thinking his companion had the odour of sanctity. He says he took some into Penhaligans, the very posh perfumier, and asking if they had something similar, but no joy.

You get a breath of it around this time of year, but it is hard to tell exactly what part of the tree it comes from. I think it is the brown carapaces of the new buds, which exude a stickiness when in sunlight. Anyway, I gathered a handful of these from a long row of the trees, a slow forage as I only wanted to take a couple from each tree in case it harms them.

Half I have put in a little jar and covered with almond oil and half in a jar with vodka - not to drink, but as a potential transporter for the scent. Last year I experimented with talcum powder but it didn't quite work: we shall see how it goes this time around. It would make an ambrosial perfume, I think, if I could get medium right.

Watch this space!

Spring Leaves 4; Garlic Mustard Pesto

'I never knew how much there is to see
Until I started looking
I never knew how good my tastes could be
Until I started cooking...'

Foraging for one thing leads to another: once you start looking there's no telling what you might find. A few sunny days have brought everything on like gangbusters.

First I went foraging for gorse flowers to make wine. It's fermenting on the must at the moment, and there is plenty more if I decide to make another batch. At the same time (spiny things tending to congregate together) I got some nice new nettles for risotto. And while looking for the nettles I found some fennel plants, lots of dandelions (that's my next wine batch), the heavenly-scented balsam poplar (which I don't know what to do with, apart from dry for pot pourri: any ideas?), what I'm pretty sure is horseradish (best in October), a spot likely to produce St George's Mushrooms  (so named because they come in on 23rd April, St George's Day) fairly soon, and lots of Garlic Mustard. Phew.

Garlic Mustard looks a bit like nettle, and likes similar places to grow in, but the leaves are heart-shaped and deckle-edged, smooth rather than hairy, non-stinging, and aranged in regular quarters off the straight upright stems, which end in tiny white flowers on top. As the name suggests it is neither a garlic nor a mustard, but a member of the splendid family of the cabbage - the lower leaves taste somewhat cabbagy, in fact, although mainly they taste of... well... of garlic and mustard. They don't smell much, unlike say Ransoms or Wild Garlic, which you can find with your eyes closed: the scent and taste are released when the leaves are bitten, or crushed.

Hmm... crushed...

'Pesto' takes its name from the verb 'pestare' - to pound or strike (also, idomatically to fuck). Pesto sauce is 'that which is pounded' - in the Genovese version, it is pinenuts, garlic, basil and oil which get pounded: a good protein-rich dish.

Well, I didn't have any pinenuts in the cupboard, but I did have some walnuts, and, as it happened, some walnut oil (which is fabulous on toast, btw).

I took 2 handfuls of garlic mustard leaves (removed from the plants without breaking the stalk: it will put out more so I can come again), washed them, made them into a wad and cut them up with kitchen scissors.

I put them into a steep-sided dish with a handful of walnuts and a pinch of sea salt. Then I set about them with the handle of a wooden rolling pin (I don't have a pestle and mortar at the moment), crushing the leaves and the nuts and mixing it all well in.

Add a slug of walnut oil, black pepper and a little ground nutmeg to taste.

Garlic mustard walnut pesto! (I must try it with pine nuts sometime).

I left it overnight in the fridge for it to infuse further before using. If you want it to keep longer, spoon it into a pot and then put a thin layer of oil on top: this seals it. Keep in the fridge.

You know, of course, the trick with pesto? Which is to cook your pasta in fast-boiling salted water, from which, just before the pasta is ready to drain, you ladle a spoonful of the water into the pesto sauce, stir, and then add the drained pasta. But you knew that already.

Spring leaves part 1

Well, all of a sudden it's spring - trees in full blossom, and all the new green leaves popping up all of a sudden.


The blossom came more or less over night - we had a really sunny day last week, and the branches went from little knobbly lumps of bud to full-blown flowers from one day to the next.


With luck we won't get another frost, which should mean a good autumn for fruit forage. 2010 was excellent, due to a cold winter before the sap rose and no frost later to kill the buds. This winter had plenty of cold, which fruit trees like, so fingers crossed for a good vintage 2011. In the mean time, pick leaves.


Dandelions are one of the best forage plants: there's no shortage of them. Indeed, gardeners often go to great lengths to get rid of them: futile lengths, as the plants have amazing powers of regeneration, even from the tiniest fragments of root. But why bother? Every bit of the dandelion  (except the stalk, which is full of bitter latex) is good to eat or brew.


Here's a recipe to do right now. I wrote a meat-eating version for my Wild Brews column in Smallholder magazine, but not sure if it's going in or not (if it doesn't, I'll post it here sometime).


This is a no-animal-produce version, suitable for all.

Dandelion Salad (serves 2-4)

• Two full handfuls of young dandelion leaves
• Two handfuls of sunflower seeds 
• Half a cucumber
• Lemon juice 
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Lay the sunflower seeds of a sheet of foil or baking paper and place under a hot grill, shaking from time to time so the seeds are evenly toasted

Wash dandelion leaves thoroughly in cold water. Drain the leaves, spin dry in a salad spinner, or wrap in a clean dry tea cloth and shake dry, or pat dry.

Wash and chop the cucumber.

Roughly chop the dandelion leaves.

Mix the leaves, cucumber and toasted seeds and toss together with lemon juice. Season with salt and black pepper.

This makes a good starter or side-salad for Risotto alle Ortiche, which uses another good foraging stalwart: nettles. Recipes coming up soon. Enjoy your forage. :)