Tag Archives: root vegetables

Seeking salsify

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Salsify. Can you buy it in Australia, and if so, where?

I came across this article from the Glen Innes Examiner in the course of searching for information about salsify. Did it exist in Australia beyond sporadic mentions in gardening manuals and seed catalogues? Glen Innes, BTW is a town in northern New South Wales, about 570 kilometres from Sydney. The piece begins:

‘Canberra may worry itself—perhaps it doesn’t—about the accelerated rate of foreign migration to Australia. Ministers may call—perhaps they don’t—anxiously for reports on the rapid influx of aliens, to use the most unfriendly term, and its threat to our Anglo-Saxon racial predominance.’

With much heated, sometimes verging on hateful, debate about immigration taking place in Australia and elsewhere, this opening paragraph caught my attention. It could have been written now—but it wasn’t, it’s from 1938 not 2026.

Books, theses and thousands of words have been circulated about how twentieth century migration, the post-WW2 influx in particular, widened Australia’s foodways. As the anonymous author of A Question of Legumes notes, salads ‘have expanded under foreign influence’ and there’s a revolution taking place in the vegetable garden.

‘Even a cursory glance in the windows of the fruit merchants these days reveals that there are more things vegetable in earth, at all events than have been dreamed of in our Anglo-Saxon philosophy. One day this week I saw, for the first time in my life in Australia, the succulent salsify in a city fruiter’s.’

Because my partner and I are in the middle of renovations, my library of culinary references, food histories and cookbooks is packed in boxes and inaccessible. So it’s from online sources—and memory—that I’d describe salsify as looking like a thin, dirty parsnip. It tastes a bit parsnip-y too.
It’s an unprepossessing tap root.
And I love (almost) all root vegetables.

In horticultural as well as culinary  literature, salsify often appears alongside its cousin, scorzonera. Both are members of the large Asteraceae family. And you can use them interchangeably in recipes.

Salsify, Tragopogon porrifolius, is a larger relative of the wild plant, goat’s beard, and native to the lands around the eastern Mediterranean. Although it was probably eaten in classical times, cultivation began in France and Italy in the sixteenth century. In Britain it enjoyed a short-lived place in the sun, but has never been a mainstream vegetable. Today, France, Italy and Russia are the countries in which you’re most likely to see salsify being grown and eaten.

Salsify (Tragopogon porrifolius), watercolour on paper by Mary Vaux Walcott, 1921. Smithsonian American Art Museum.

An entry in The Australian Horticultural Magazine of 1878 suggests several ways to prepare salsify for the table—boiled, baked, battered and breadcrumbed. Or sliced like cucumber for a salad dressed with vinegar and pepper. Lamenting that it ‘is not so much cultivated in British gardens as formerly, and it is but seldom used in the Australian colonies.’

A sentiment echoed in the 1893 publication, The Art of Living in Australia: ‘The salsify, or “vegetable oyster,” is a typical example of a most unaccountably slighted vegetable with us.’
The entry continues with the following cooking advice: ‘It requires to be boiled slowly, in the smallest possible quantity of water, until it is almost ready to melt. If boiled fast, in abundance of water, the savour of both parsnips and salsify is to a great extent dispersed and lost beyond recall.’

Salsify and scorzonera are apparently super easy to grow. They require only a patch of decently drained soil and light watering should the weather turn dry. The main challenge is how to pull up those skinny roots without breaking them.

Tragopogon porrifolius. Salsify. from English Botany, or, Coloured Figures of British Plants, 1863 – 1886. Biodiversity Heritage Library.

I was introduced to salsify during a school exchange visit to France. I remember the fresh vegetable, peeled and baked in a gratin with cabbage. And canned salsify served with white wine and melted butter. Or in a mustardy, garlic infused vinaigrette. In fact, now I think about it, most of the salsify I’ve eaten in France has come out of a tin. In any case, fresh or canned, from that first bite I really, really liked salsify, and when I retuned to England I looked for it—in any form—in supermarkets, delis and grocery stores. Occasionally I’d find a can of it. On recent trips to Britain I’ve looked for it again, but to no avail.

In Sydney my search for salsify has taken me to farmers’ markets and speciality stores and to this wonderful website from master forager Diego Bonetto: How to Identify, Harvest and Eat Salsify.

And it’s also taken me to France at Home, a place to online order French products in Australia—including canned salsify. I’ve bought a tin and it should arrive any day now.
It’s been such a long time, decades, since I tasted salsify—will it be the deliciously delicate vegetable I remember?
Let’s see …

Meanwhile, back to 1938 and the Glen Innes Examiner:

‘Salsify, like a good many other new vegetables our migrant friends have introduced here, finds little demand as yet except from the Italians and the too rare Frenchmen in our midst and from local Bohemians with a taste for cooking and strange foods and a library half filled with foreign cookery books.’

 

Turnips—the village idiot of vegetables?

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Sydney’s Covid lockdown has brought roots to the fore. Hairdressers have been closed for months so everyone’s roots are showing. Cafés and restaurants are take-away only. Keen to support our local favourites, and desperate to get off the hamster-wheel of planning, shopping for, and preparing home-cooked meals, we’re indulging in take-away big time.

It’s no secret that I’m very fond of root vegetables. I have a chapter in The Book of Thistles called Forgotten Roots. It was a take-away dinner last week that got me thinking specifically about turnips. (Chinese turnip omelette from the Blue Eye Dragon in Pyrmont was the curiosity-provoking dish.) I wondered if there wasn’t more to the turnip than a synonym for dopiness. More to the village idiot of vegetables.

The Blue Eye Dragon’s Chinese turnip omelette

I started making notes.

The turnip, Brassica rapa, is one of the earliest cultivated vegetables. In the fourth-century BCE turnips were one of the foods that sustained the poor of ancient Athens. And they were an important food for the Romans. From the classical world the turnip spread east to China—and elsewhere.

Turnips taste better and are more versatile when they are picked young and small in late spring or early summer. There’s less you can do cooking-wise with the bigger, older ones.

A German cookbook published in 1485 gave recipes for preparing turnips and other vegetables. Less than a century later turnips—along with carrots and parsnips—were introduced to England by Flemish weavers. Initially grown as livestock fodder, they made the transition to the table, but were—perhaps still are?—associated with farm labourers, immigrants, and consumers of low socio-economic status. Although peasant cuisine is now fashionable, I’ve noticed that turnips are rarely on the menu.

From John Gerard, Herball or Generall Historie of Plantes, published circa 1597

In 1776 the Scottish philosopher Adam Smith (of The Wealth of Nations fame) noted that staples—like turnips—which had until then been produced largely by individual workers in allotments and garden plots, were now being farmed on a large scale.

Yes, turnips may be considered a peasant food, but the association with dirt and poverty seems unfair. Turnips, after all, helped make Britain wealthy. In the eighteenth century, Charles, Second Viscount, Townsend championed crop rotation, agricultural reform and the cultivation of Brassica rapa. It was the start of an agricultural revolution and earned him the nickname ‘Turnip’ Townsend.

Turnips will crowd out or smother weeds, are cold-tolerant and an all round easy-to-grow crop.

The swede, a.k.a. rutabaga, is a kind of turnip, possibly originating from a cross between the turnip and the cabbage, and a late arrival on the culinary scene. In 1916 – 1917 swedes helped save a substantial section of the German population from starvation.

In Forgotten Fruits, Christopher Stocks describes turnip varieties called Snowball and Orange Jelly.

‘I would not go so far as to say that winter turnips are useless. They have their place in soup and stocks …  But unless you are prepared to lavish attention and butter on them, I would suggest waiting until the spring and early summer.’ Jane Grigson was not a great fan of the turnip—and she actively disliked swedes. When it came to turnips, the French, she wrote, had the right idea. Their turnip dishes used young, spring-harvested vegetables. Whereas in England, ‘we stick too much to the agricultural view, regarding the turnips as a coarse, cow-sized vegetable, suitable for the over-wintering of herds, schoolchildren, prisoners and lodgers.’

In Digging the Past Frances E Dolan introduces chapter 2 (Knowing Your Food: Turnips, Titus, and the Local) with a couple of instances of turnip-related violence. The accidental death of an infant in 1651 from a turnip tossed over a church wall, and a wife murdered by her husband who couldn’t stomach the prospect of turnips for dinner.

Dolan points out that some historians and food writers have dismissed the turnip’s story as one that is not worth telling. Unlike say, tomatoes, apples, or potatoes. A point of view echoed—or prefigured—by Jennifer A Jordan in Edible Memory: The Lure of Heirloom Tomatoes and Other Forgotten Vegetables. A heritage turnip sounds like an oxymoron. Does such a thing exist? Yes, it does. There’s a Japanese heirloom turnip known as hoekurai. And no doubt somewhere out there are more lost varieties waiting to be rediscovered.

Everyone knows about heirloom tomatoes and the history of apples. They’re the A-listers. Turnips don’t even make the B-list. They’re at, or close to, the bottom of the celebrity vegetable hierarchy.

There’s nothing glamorous about the turnip. It’s an unprepossessing vegetable. Unlike strawberries or tomatoes, it’s not freighted with nostalgia. Nor a reservoir of youthful memories—except perhaps in Scotland where mashed ‘neeps’ are a traditional side-dish. Unlike strawberries, apples and tomatoes, turnips usually need cooking, or some kind of pickling or preserving.

The Turnip Princess is a fairy tale collected by Franz Xaver von Schönwerth. It fuses the magical and the mundane and when I read it I see elements of a reverse Sleeping Beauty. A bear tells the hero (a prince, of course) that if he puts a rusty nail under a field turnip his reward will be a beautiful wife. The Gigantic Turnip is a classic, much retold Russian folktale in which a farmer grows a turnip so large he’s unable to uproot it by himself, and has to enlist the aid of family members and a procession of creatures. Together they succeed in pulling up the massive turnip.

Turnips were apparently thrown by Roman audiences at unpopular orators and during plays and poetry readings that did not meet with their approval. The ancient world’s equivalent of rotten tomatoes. On a more positive note, in some translations of her verse, the poet Sappho, writing in the early seventh century BCE, calls one of her paramours ‘Turnip’.

Turnips play well in tagines and soups. Roasted with cumin and paprika, or with garam masala. Shavings of young turnips add crunch and pepperiness to salads and stir-fries. I cook very finely diced swedes, serve them seasoned with nutmeg, white pepper and extra virgin olive oil, or use them as the basis for a vegetarian Cornish pasty. And I like to think that buying turnips from farmers’ markets or organic providores is helping support biodiversity.

Celeriac

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Jamie Oliver calls it ‘the most underrated vegetable in the whole of the United Kingdom’. Others call it an unsung hero and the frog prince of vegetables. In 1960 Elizabeth David said it was ‘on the way up’.

I’m talking about celeriac, also known as knob celery or turnip-rooted celery. Its Latin moniker is Apium graveolens var. rapaceum.

Celery has a long history, celeriac a shorter one. Homer mentions the former in the Odyssey. This description of Calypso’s cave is from Emily Wilson’s lean and luminous 2017 translation. (Wilson is the first woman to translate the Odyssey into English—shocking but true.)

‘A ripe and luscious vine, hung thick with grapes,
was stretched to coil around her cave. Four springs
spurted with sparkling water as they laced
with crisscross currents intertwined together.
The meadow softly bloomed with celery
and violets. He gazed around in wonder
and joy, at sights to please even a god.’

For a long time celery root and upright celery were one and the same. The idea of developing a variety with really large roots arose in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, and today celery and celeriac aren’t grown from the same plant.

A popular ingredient in northern and central Europe. Not so much in the English-speaking world. Which is a pity. Yes, it’s a scruffy beast of a vegetable. Yes, it goes brown in a heartbeat unless you immediately plunge it into cold, acidulated water. But celeriac is full of character and let’s face it, looks aren’t everything. Pare off its gnarled, whiskery exterior and uncover the ivory-fleshed deliciousness within.

It was fennel that turned me on to cooking with celeriac. I dislike fennel so when a recipe asked for it, I used celeriac instead. (Celeriac and fennel are both members of the Apiaceae or carrot family.)

Celeriac is mellow and walnutty and earthy. Like stalk celery you can eat it raw, but it softens beautifully, and I prefer it cooked. It’s a great mixer too. I add celeriac to winter soups. I roast chunks of it brushed with olive oil and harissa and serve it with cannellini or butter beans and baked red capsicum. And it forms the basis of root vegetable stews and gratins. Slice thinly with carrots, parsnips, a generous layer of potatoes and spike with black pepper, garlic, nutmeg or thyme.

From The Book of Rarer Vegetables by George Wythes and Harry Roberts, 1906

Footnote.
Two varieties of Apium prostratum, known as wild celery or sea celery (and in some historical texts as smallage) are native to coastal Australia and New Zealand. Commonly eaten by Māori for whom it’s known as Tutae Koau, wild celery was also a survival food for explorers and early colonists. Captain Cook ate wild celery at Botany Bay and gathered boatloads of it at Poverty Bay (NZ). In 1770 Joseph Banks noted: ‘We indeed as people who had been long at sea found great benefit in the article of health by eating plentifully of wild Celery, and a kind of Cresses which grew every where abundantly near the sea side.’

The plant looks like a miniature form of regular celery and tastes much the same. Leaves and stems are both edible and dried leaves are sometimes used in spice mixes.