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Archive for the ‘Wild Plants’ Category

Purslane (Portulaca oleracea)

Purslane (Portulaca oleracea)

Purslane (Portulaca oleracea) is a summer ‘weed’ that is found through much of the world. Central Australian Aboriginal people used to (and a very few occasionally still do) wait for it to seed and pile it up in mounds; after some good dry desert heat, the withered plants can be pulled off to reveal a concentration of the tiny but nutritious seeds below. Throughout northern India and through to the Middle East, it is not just a foraged ‘welcome weed’ (or ‘volunteer plant’), it is even grown as a crop for its leaves (as it once was through a lot of Europe as well). Purslane is said to have the highest omega 3s of any vegetable and is a sure contender for that increasingly tedious epithet of ‘superfood’. This status, as well as being common in Central Mexican cuisine (where it is known as verdolagas) is said to be getting it increasingly on the food list rather than just the weed list in America. But across most of Australia it is simply a plant; one of those green things in the ground; neither worth eradicating nor using. It will be gone by winter after all.

Nonetheless, right now in mid-summer, purslane is doing very well across a good part of Australia. Basically, if you are looking for it, it is everywhere; the challenge is really only to find some growing in soil that you can trust. This particular harvest was essentially a matter of opportunism – which to my mind is utterly fundamental to foraging (in any sense). I was doing a survey in one of the back blocks of one of western Sydney’s old Olympic venues. I had already decided to do a saag for dinner and to stop off at one the small Indian food shops (which abound in much of Sydney’s west) to buy spices

I gather that saag basically means ‘greens’ (in Punjabi, Urdu and/or Hindi), and by inference, in the kitchen, it is a curry thereof. There was also some volunteer native spinach (Tetragonia tetragoniodes) doing so well under the citrus that I needed to cut it back whether for eating or not. Then there was some silverbeet (chard; Beta vulgaris subsp. cicla) that was close to giving up in the summer heat and our sandy soil (in which I would probably be better to intentionally grow purslane at this time of year); and also sow thistle (Sonchus oleraceus) that is getting by as a welcome enough ‘weed’ in the shade of intentional crops. Amaranth, with each passing week of summer, is also making more of an appearance. But it is the purslane, a genuine north Indian favourite, that is the forage that started the ball rolling.

Sow thistle or puha (Sonchus oleraceus)

Sow thistle or puha (Sonchus oleraceus)

Native spinach (Tetragonia tetragoniodes)

Native spinach (Tetragonia tetragoniodes)

It doesn’t matter too much which green, and perhaps the more the better (purslane, spinach, chard / silver beet, mustard greens, kale, amaranth, fat hen, mallow, chickweed, native spinach, beetroot tops, cress, sow thistle, etc, etc)

It doesn’t matter too much which green, and perhaps the more the better (purslane, spinach, chard / silver beet, mustard greens, kale, amaranth, fat hen, mallow, chickweed, native spinach, beetroot tops, cress, sow thistle, etc, etc)

The recipe is wonderfully simple and suits just about any green you can lay your hands on, foraged, grown or bought.

Recipe:

Start by toasting the whole spices – mine were whole cumin seeds, coriander seeds and a light touch of peppercorns, fenugreek and cardamom seeds which went into the mortar with dried chillies once toasted to fragrant and then joined by powdered turmeric. You can add whatever else blows your hair back among cinnamon, cloves, ginger, fenugreek leaves, etc – only giving whole seeds the toasting though.

Next, lightly sautee some onions in butter (ghee if you can) or oil and then pile the garlic, spices and chopped greens in and stir on low heat until wilted to a decent tender that should coincide with golden brown onions and garlic that isn’t burning to sticky and/or bitter (10 minutes or so), adding small amounts of liquid if required. I am also inclined to add some precooked chickpeas (kind of like canned ones but tastier because they are slow cooked in stock) – which probably makes it chana saag.

The handy thing with saag, is that with some cubed cheese you have saag paneer (using actual paneer (a style of Indian cheese)) if you have it, otherwise cottage cheese, or queso fresco (or fetta if you give mind to it being salted while paneer isn’t), but in any case not your everyday fatty yellow cheese); with some cubed meat you have saag gosht; and with hard boiled egg you have anda saag. In our house of both vegetarians and ominivores, with saag we can meet our different dietary inclinations with additions at the end rather than with entirely separate dishes. While there is something of an assumption that you would serve it over rice, the addition of the chickpeas or something else to bulk it up makes this optional. A side serve of good chutney (or salsa verde) is a good touch.

Australian forager’s saag: The roo, cubed and cooked sous vide at around 70 degrees with butter and herbs for the better part of a day is browned off and stirred in for the meat eaters (saag gosht), while the vegos still get a good feed from cheese (saag paneer) and/or chickpeas (chana saag). I don’t know what to call it when it is all in there…

Australian forager’s saag: The roo, cubed and cooked sous vide at around 70 degrees with butter and herbs for the better part of a day is browned off and stirred in for the meat eaters (saag gosht), while the vegos still get a good feed from cheese (saag paneer) and/or chickpeas (chana saag). I don’t know what to call it when it is all in there…

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Wild plums (Prunus domestica)

Wild plums (Prunus domestica)

Outside Jugiong, just as portrayed in the famous Australian folk tune, a track does actually wind back past an old fashioned shack and joins the road to Gundagai (the four-lane Hume Highway these days). The Murrumbidgee is indeed flowing and what happens to be growing, as matter of interest to me, are wild plums (Prunus domestica).

If you are on country roads along the eastern Australian range or slopes almost anywhere from New South Wales to Tasmania, January is the month for foraging wild plums. Of your common roadside fruit forages, the autumn fruits of blackberries won’t be right for another month or so and the apples perhaps another month after that. Plums are the summer thing. They can be red, yellow or something in between, or even that dark purplish burgundy like bullaces in Britain (often ripening later though). From whence they hail, among the named varieties of orchard-grown fruit, and whether from European or Asian stock, is a mystery to me; but as feral wildings, they have undoubtedly departed somewhat from domestic form. For one thing, they are a lot smaller than you might expect and you might pass them in the car thinking they are some kind of unknown inedible berry rather than the familiar drupe (botanically speaking) of the most common of stone fruits. Their prominence along roadsides suggests an initial origin as pips thrown out of passing car windows. But there are areas, like the road out of Jugiong, where their abundance suggests that they are some generations past being a travellers snack, and almost certainly instead dispersed by birds or even simply just rolling a little further down the hill from mum.

YellowPlums

RedPlums

With them, you can of course make a lovely plum jam, which has traditionally been my go-to response. They are pretty much like your shop-bought plum, but smaller and much more blessed with the sharp acidity in the skin which some of us love. But we are kind of full up with jams and jellies and don’t really get through that much of it anyway. So it’s plum sauce. Not the Chinese one that goes with Peking duck, but a more an Australianised British traditional stalwart of days gone by – much like the ditty Along the Road to Gundagai. This one is pretty loyal to Stephanie Alexander’s take on it. A well-tested standard recipe is worth it in this case if only to make sure you get something pourable that isn’t too runny – vary the flavours if you like, but not the solids to liquids ratio. It is a vinegar/sweet/savoury/fruit acid sauce that works as a topping for close to anything. Basically it is all that the ubiquitous tomato sauce/ketchup is, but better.

Ingredients:

Per kilo of plums:

1 tsp cloves

2/3 tsp whole allspice (pimento)

2/3 tsp whole peppercorns

1.5 cups brown sugar

2 tsp salt

1tblsp grated ginger

2 cups white wine (or apple cider) vinegar

1 chilli (or lots more, or none)

Methods

Stone the plums and crack half the stones (bash with a mallet in a tea towel) and put them in a muslin bag (this give pectin to get things gelling). Tie the spices in a separate muslin bag. Put it all in a non-reactive pot and simmer for half an hour. Remove the bags, giving them a good squeeze and press the rest through a sieve, fine colander or food mill back into the rinsed pot. Simmer for as long as it takes to get the thickness you want (remembering it will thicken when cool and wants to be able to be poured like tomato ketchup). It can then go in either sterilised jars or bottles (depending on thickness).

Cooking wild plum ketchup with cracked stones and spices in a partitioned wine bag instead of muslin

Cooking wild plum ketchup with cracked stones and spices in a partitioned wine bag instead of muslin

Although many would like to see such home-made delicacies in lovely glass with some neat finishes like a square of gingham cloth on top secured with a ribbon, we figure this is more an everyday kind of condiment and went for a plastic squeeze bottle (but wouldn’t do that for any stores we planned on keeping on the shelf for long).

Wild plum ketchup: A once-a-year harvest of your everyday sauce (on yet another fish pie)

Wild plum ketchup: A once-a-year harvest of your everyday sauce (on yet another fish pie)

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Urtica incisa, the Australian 'scrub nettle'

Urtica incisa, the Australian ‘scrub nettle’

My first nettle (Urtica spp.) recipe, made in England and taking on the traditions there, was a potato and nettle potage (either a stewy soup or soupy stew in my understanding). Back in Australia, where Greek and other Mediterranean food is more embedded in the culture, the next was cheese and nettle pastries. Along the way, I have chucked it in fairly indiscriminately as a ‘spinach substitute’ (although I use ‘substitutes’ so much more often than spinach, it is not a very fair term).

More recently it has been nettle tea. The flavour is mild and mixes in easily with whatever concoction I have on the go (currently lemon myrtle, ginger, strawberry leaf, fennel and lemon grass). Health claims (some proven) abound, none seem to be contraindicated by any issue or medication of mine, and so I figure that small doses in mixed tea are going to beneficial (but check for yourself, especially if you are going to consume a lot and are on blood sugar, blood pressure, blood thinning or psych drugs).

Out my way we have an Australian native ‘scrub nettle’ (Urtica incisa), although the European introductions of Urtica dioica (large leaf) and Urtica urens (small leaf) are also about.

You can sometimes get by picking nettles without gloves – but never without some regret

You can sometimes get by picking nettles without gloves – but never without some regret

Gloves are highly recommended, either leather work gloves or rubber dishwashing gloves being my preferred protection when picking. Sometimes I don’t fuss much about a few stings and other times they annoy me; picking nettles is like managing boundary-pushing naughty kids – it can bring out patient benevolence and suffering with a smile, or a lip-bitingly restrained frustration, depending on how it catches you. And so with the same analogy, you don’t want to approach it by sizing up the enemy, but with a well thought out engagement with something that may try you but which you actually love.

Once picked, the leaves and stems begin to wilt and with that the stinging hairs largely wilt too – after a day or so they can be dealt with in bare hands, giving just a few dull stings to the fingertips that feel somehow more numbing than painful. Nettles are commonly host to a fair few bugs hiding among the stinging protection, so it is useful to give them a chance to abandon the wilting pile while you are at it. Tie them in bunches, give them a rinse and hang them somewhere breezy, then come back to pluck leaves (the child-rearing analogy ended with last paragraph by the way – just so we’re clear). You then have something for dinner, for steaming and freezing (ice cube trays are handy for setting aside little doses that can go in anything taking cooked greens) or for the dehydrator. Once dried, I don’t suppose it matters whether it ends up in tea or food (or a hair rinse for that matter).

In more temperate parts of the world, nettles are often a spring thing, but with our native version, it seem that like many plants, the flush of new growth normally associated with spring can come any time after solid rains. This makes them just as likely to be an autumn or winter harvest in the areas that I go after them.

Drying scrub nettle leaves

Drying scrub nettle leaves

I think that nettles are one of those forages where neophobia can quite reasonably make for a limited and tentative start – these are leaves that you won’t touch after all, and so might not easily take to eating. But when you wrap your head around the idea that the stings are a defence behind which they don’t then have an added deterrent of inedibility (or unpalatibility), you may, like me, become quite fond of them as a vegetable or tea. After all, there aren’t too many plants that can do both (while also cutting it as allergy medication, dandruff shampoo and enough other things to get someone to settle someone down to write a book of 101 uses).

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Stewart Town pear (pyrus sp.)

Stewart Town is now just the dusty remains of a few mid-nineteenth century rammed earth and stone miner’s buildings up a hillside above the junction of the Kawarau and Clutha Rivers between Cromwell and Clyde (Otago, NZ). Where mountainsides weren’t sluiced away in search for gold, historic relics sketch out a hard-working past: The stone lined clay walls of a hugely impressive reservoir bigger than a football field, made by hand with stone and clay, up a punishingly remote mountainside; water races, stone lined and still partially intact, hewn into the slopes; and the gnarled old relics of an orchard. I imagine these sweet pears (Pyrus sp.) and apricots (Prunus armeniaca) punctuating the miners’ diet of dry stores and mutton like rare gifts from the stern kind of god favoured by hard Presbyterian Scots in Central Otago back in the day.

For my visit, the apricots were just pips on the ground and the pears just a little while before their best. Not to worry, they were bound for the cooking pot in my plans and that way could at least be gathered ahead of the possums, wasps, grubs and whatever else was likely to mar them. Such natural losses aside though, I am also sure that there are local pickers who head up there and sociably pluck their local heritage in its season, so I took only a few.

Stewart Town Otago

Pear (Pyrus sp.)

The next day, on the road back from the village of Cardrona, where at least one Gold Rush building survives intact in the form of its famously quaint pub, elderberries (Sambucus nigra) joined the hamper. I always assumed that when I posted on elderberries that it would be about elderberry wine. But being on the road at the time, I was pretty sure that they would not let me on the plane with a batch of fermenting wine as carry-on luggage. And so they joined the Stewart Town pears and some local thyme honey in a jelly. Mixed together, the pears’ pectin-fuelled setting ability and fruitiness offset the elderberries’ depth and tannin-like edge. It was all simmered with a little water until soft enough to mash and strain through cloth and set in the fridge (with a little added pectin from a packet to be safe (which was only available as pectin-enriched ‘Jamsetta’ sugar)).  Reducing it all down this way also had the added benefit of cutting down on the luggage weight of bringing it back to Australia. Where it now sits awaiting pancakes to lie upon with the ruby richness of a late summer Otago forage.

Cardrona Valley roadside elderberry foragers

Cardrona Valley roadside elderberry foragers

Elderberries (Sambucus nigra)

elderberries, pears, honey

The recipe used is more pear than elderberry and comes together pretty easily from posts and associated comments here and here.

The recipe used is more pear than elderberry and comes together pretty easily from posts and associated comments here and here.

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A degraded Otago valley near Bannockburn carpeted almost entirely with wild thyme (Thymus vulgaris)

A degraded Otago valley near Bannockburn carpeted almost entirely with wild thyme (Thymus vulgaris)

I have long struggled to grow thyme (Thymus vulgaris) in my herb garden, but now I know the answer. The trick is to start in some tough dry mountains that swing from baking heat to bitter cold, erode your land with huge scale sluice mining right down to lifeless rock scree, infest it chronically with rabbits and leave it be for a century. This is the setting for some stunning expanses of introduced wild thyme in New Zealand’s Central Otago.

The last remnants of thyme flowers in February, the nectar flow over and one of the world’s under-appreciated great monofloral honeys extracted and jarred for another year

The last remnants of thyme flowers in February, the nectar flow over and one of the world’s under-appreciated great monofloral honeys extracted and jarred for another year

I also now know how beekeepers here can honestly claim to be producing reliably monofloral thyme honeys – wonderfully rich with strong, mineral and herby bitter flavours. It is the recently visited Bannockburn Sluicings I have most in mind; a historic site preserving the remains of 19th Century hydraulic sluice mining for gold, where water was used to intentionally erode an entire mountainside away. Here the thyme is practically a monoculture and is similarly prolific in other areas across much of Central Otago where little else will grow or survive the rabbits as well.

Gnarled thyme stems scattered across bare ground look like a bonsai artist’s triumphant recreation of a desert scrubland

Gnarled thyme stems scattered across bare ground look like a bonsai artist’s triumphant recreation of a desert scrubland

It is hard to appreciate the scale of the land disturbance where the tops of the cliffs are the former 19th Century land surface with everything below taken away in search of gold

It is hard to appreciate the scale of the land disturbance where the tops of the cliffs are the former 19th Century land surface with everything below taken away in search of gold

It is a peculiar landscape of peculiar scale. You may look at the big view and struggle to imagine the former landscape where clifftops mark an original level over crinkled badlands surfaces that were tens of metres underground only 150 years ago, reminiscent of the mesas and buttes of an American western. Then at the macro scale, the gnarled tough trunks of these hardy survivors look most of all to me like a miniaturised southern Australian desert scrubland – mulga (Acacia aneura) shrunken to a 1:100 scale.

Dried Cemtral Otago thyme

Dried Central Otago thyme

So I tip prune off a modest crop, reminded by the pea sized mulch of droppings left across the land that I might get out hunting and be up for a rabbit stew. A taste test on a batch of breakfast hashed potatoes is delicious, strong and earthy; resisting the temptation to overuse some of the abundance of it proves wise, with just a small pinch giving a wonderful lift. It then sprinkles on some roasting pumpkin destined for soup and similarly gives a subtle herby lift. I leave stunned by how I have managed to hitherto not realise how good this wild herb is; and by how ridiculously abundant it is.

The Boy, not actually picking but pretending to be a giant in a forest.

The Boy, not actually picking but pretending to be the Giant of the Wild Thyme Forest.

 

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A trug of fresh picked leaves and flowers to be dried for foraged tea

A trug of fresh picked leaves and flowers to be dried for foraged tea

I am fairly new to foraged teas, long having seen the world as having essentially two types of tea – normal tea (Camellia sinensis) and hippy tea (all the others). I’ve done little more than dabble with herbal teas before and so haven’t gotten around to foraging for them; and I don’t know anywhere that normal tea is growing wild. But now, initially for no more directed a health benefit than something before bed that tastes great and specifically isn’t tea with caffeine (or wine or whiskey), and then secondarily with some thought to tailored health benefits, I have been working up foraged herbal tea alternatives.

The currently favoured flavour is a mix I have been able to gather easily through spring and early summer that works as a smooth balance of mostly mint (Mentha spp.), fennel (Foeniculum vulgare) and lemon myrtle (Backhousia citriodora). To this I usually add some other leaves that come along at the time, but that three-species foundation seems like it will be hard to beat.  Other additions have been for taste, health potential, or simply because they were there; like leaves of strawberry, mulberry, dandelion or nettle. The dehydrated leaves get 5 minutes steeping in a coffee plunger (dried leaf parts often crumble very small and the need to strain well makes a plunger perfect for the job) and served with a bit of honey stirred in and an optional sliver of lemon (or dried lemon zest). In months to come the available ingredients will change and so, no doubt, will the recipe.

A dehydrator tray full of foraged tea ingredients (in reality, different species are better off on their own trays because they dry at different rates)

A dehydrator tray full of foraged tea ingredients (in reality, different species are better off on their own trays because they dry at different rates)

There are some definite and proven health benefits and malady-specific treatments that are possible with herbal teas (along with a fair few that seem fanciful). This is something that foraged tea has in common with foraged weed eating, and so I take the same basic approach: First of all selecting based on availability and taste preference; then aiming generally to consume a little of a lot of different types and never one in excess; and finally picking up information along the way that might allow me to tweak consumption a little towards mine and my family’s particular nutritional needs (including some things better avoided).

For now, here is what has become my spring / summer holy trinity for foraged herbal tea:

Mint (Mentha spp.)

Mint (Mentha spp.)

Mint (Mentha spp.)

Mint tea is usually made from peppermint (M. piperita) and is reputed to be good for digestion and calming. Anti-cancer claims are also made, as well as warnings about messing with levels of hormones like testosterone. Mint has been a rampant ‘volunteer’ (what you call a weed when it is useful) in our community garden (until slayed by recent drought) and can be found invasively heading out from herb gardens in a lot of places. Once you find somewhere that mint is growing well, you would be likely to be doing the owner a favour by taking some away. Or if it is struggling, your harvest might be justified by meeting its common want of regular water – I have been watering a couple of stands I forage from during our current dry.

Chocolate mint

Chocolate mint

Fennel leaf (Foeniculum vulgare)

Fennel tea is usually based on seeds rather than leaves and is especially popular with lactating women – or more particularly those who would like to be lactating more than they are. Other reported benefits are for eyesight, mood, sex drive, digestion, the liver and your blood (in what way I cannot tell from claims as generic as ‘blood cleanser’ and ‘blood tonic’). The fennel that grows wild across many parts of the world and the bulb fennel grown in gardens are different varieties of the same species; you don’t use the wild ones for bulbs, but either work for tea.  Leaves and flowers have been a staple until recently, and seed foraging opportunities should begin within a few weeks.

Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare)

Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare)

Lemon myrtle (Backhousia citriodora)

Lemon myrtle is native in eastern Queensland, but grows fine in Sydney. It is the richest of all known sources of citral; which is that lemon grass / lemon verbena / lemonade ice block kind of lemon scent – something that I adore. In Sydney, lemon myrtle isn’t a hugely common garden species but it does occur here and there and is well worth planting either on your own place or in a public place that you can then forage from confident that few others will even know it is worth harvesting. It is not that distinctive a plant to look at, but one pinch of a leaf and a sniff and identification is assured. Other citral sources like lemon verbena (Aloysia citrodora) or lemon grass (Cymbopogon citratus) could alternatively take its place. Lemon myrtle in tea is one of those ones with too many health benefit claims to go through. I should be able to get leaves all year round, though they will get tougher in winter.

Lemon myrtle (Backhousia citriodora)

Lemon verbena (Aloysia citrodora)

Foraged tea

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Feral mustard greens (Brassica juncea):

Feral mustard greens (Brassica juncea):

At our community garden, people have tended mustard greens (Brassica juncea) as a vegetable sometimes, other times as green manure, but mostly because it now just pops up as a volunteer. For those who had something else in mind, it is then a weed. Mizuna (Brassica rapa nipposinica) also pops up, self-sown from bolted Asian salad green plantings. Same with bok choy (Brassica rapa chinensis), that I have also found cropping up as a weed in public reserves. In my herb garden, 3 volunteer heads of Chinese (napa or wombok) cabbage (Brassica rapa pekinensis) have also popped up this year after some was left to go to seed last year. This last one is the usual base for kimchi (spiced and salted Korean fermented cabbage), but all of the others can be used as well.

With a new sauerkraut crock (for German-style fermented cabbage, but Kimchi has the same process, just different ingredients), the previously sparsely used bounty of wild brassica greens has an invigorated welcome in my kitchen. A kitchen which also has the requisite fish sauce, red pepper and flaky salt, after a delightfully inexpensive shop at a local Asian grocer (Usagi-ya, Bondi Junction, where the Korean owner seemed thrilled to be kitting out a novice kimchi maker). I am still using some bought Chinese cabbage as at least half of a mix including other brassica greens and other vegetables, because that, along with the low temperature lactic acid fermentation is what defines kimchi (according to the Codex Alimentarius).

Mustard greens (Brassica juncea) and Chinese cabbage (Brassica rapa pekinensis), salting. This has about 1 cup of coarse salt to a huge head of Chinese cabbage and a good bunch of mustard greens, covered in water and then weighed down by a plate to be submerged for a day before joining other ingredients in the fermenting crock.

Mustard greens (Brassica juncea) and Chinese cabbage (Brassica rapa pekinensis), salting. This has about 1 cup of coarse salt to a huge head of Chinese cabbage and a good bunch of mustard greens, covered in water and then weighed down by a plate to be submerged for a day before joining other ingredients in the fermenting crock.

I have known I could easily start making kimchi, sauerkraut and other lacto-fermented food for some time (partly inspired by a great Tasmanian blog by a lady named Prue); just as I have known that it is tasty and very healthy; and I have known that an underutilised abundance of volunteer brassicas has being going to waste. I almost regret having taken so long to get to it, but for the enjoyment that I am getting right now out of the discovery of lacto-fermented foods.

The finished product: Partly foraged mixed brassica kimchi

The finished product: Partly foraged mixed brassica kimchi

Recipe

I’m not really giving one. The internet abounds with kimchi recipes, but shop around. On the one hand there are many copied, cobbled and concocted recipes from enthralled newbies like me; and there is a lot out there from Koreans (especially expats and descendants in America) who are heir to centuries of the real deal; not to deny that perhaps there are fusions that take the heart of the latter and tweak to the palate of the former.

I have started from the straightest Korean version: Admittedly it required the right Asian grocer for me; and I accept that there are other chilli powders and fresh chilli options, different fermented fish sauces (like Vietnamese nam pla) and lots of flaky salt around; but there are versions of these ingredients made in Korea and exported to speciality vendors for kimchi by the masters of it. I’d suggest trying more authentic variations first, and then work out toward fusion and experimentation. Leaf brassicas other than Chinese cabbage, those that grow feral and volunteer included, are generally on the authentic side of the variation spectrum. There is a well resolved balance of salt, sour, spice, umami, sweetness and crunchy texture to the Korean tradition that is well worth buying into. And making the most of cheap and freely foraged vegetables fits well with it too.

Traditionally fermented kimchi including foraged brassica greens

Traditionally fermented kimchi including foraged brassica greens

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