Fleur-de-Roscoff

Richard, Sabine, and Lais love spending Sundays at the farmers market near their apartment in Charleroi, Belgium. And I love hearing about their adventures—the unusual mushrooms and pumpkins, the bait-and-switch apples, and the sticker-shock onions.

Never did I suspect the 10 Euro onions would lead down a path of European history, culture, and a darn good story.

Richard paid for a selection of eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, and onions from one of the farmers at the market. As he walked away, checking the bill, he couldn’t believe that half of the total—10 Euro—was spent on 1.4 kg (3 lb.) of onions. They were nice looking onions, he told me later, but 10 Euro? Then he noticed a sticker. These weren’t just any onions. They were Roscoff onions of Appellation d’ Origine Controlee status, the champagne of the French allium world.

Having never heard of the famous French Roscoffs, I had to do a little investigating. Roscoff onions are pink-fleshed (Oignon Rose) natives of the far-west reaches of Brittany. They are valued for their sweet, mild flavor and make the finest French onion soup. But that is just part of their story.

As far back as the 16^th century, Roscoff valued its onions. In the town’s Place Lacaze Duthiers, there is a house decorated with a stone gargoyle clutching a rope of onions. In 1828, a French farmer named Henri Ollivier decided it was easier to cross the English Channel to sell his Oignon Rose to the British than to make the arduous trip to Paris with his harvest. The first “Onion Johnnies” carried 60-100 pounds of onion ropes hung from poles they laid across their shoulders. By the end of the 19^th century, there were hundreds of Onion Johnnies riding bicycles, handlebars draped with the onion ropes, hawking Oignon Rose door-to-door in England, Wales and Scotland. The trip was not without its costs. In 1905, 73 Onion Johnnies were among the 127 passengers who perished when the S.S. Hilda, heading from Southampton to Brittany, ran into the rocks during a snowstorm.

By 1929, the Brits were consuming 9,000 tons of onions from 1,400 beret-wearing, bicycle-pedaling, French onion farmers. Each July, the Breton farmers brought their harvest across the English Channel to store in rented barns, slept on beds of straw in small rooms at the onion depot, knotted the onions into portable ropes, and sold their exclusive produce by bicycle. In December or January, they returned to farms in Brittany. (There were no ferries from Brittany back then.)

World War II interrupted the trade, but by the late 1940s, the Onion Johnnies were at it again. The stereotype of Frenchmen wearing berets and riding bicycles was born in the English countryside and on city streets as the Onion Johnnies, and an occasional Onion Jenny, sold their goods. In the 21^st century, the old-time Onion Johnnies thrive only in the museum Maison des Johnnies et de l’Oignon de Roscoff, 48 rue Brizeux , and for the two-day Fete de l’Ognon each August in Brittany. Laurie Lynch

Cousin Connection: At another farmers market, on this side of the Atlantic, Richard’s cousin Wille (my chef-phew) has another story. As a chef in Washington, D.C., Wille rarely gets Sundays off. But on this particular Sunday, with no kitchen duty, he headed to the DuPont Circle farmers market. At that same market, chef, author, local foods activist, and proprietor of Chez Panisse Alice Waters was selling and signing her latest cookbook: My Pantry.

“It was just random, happenstance, serendipitous that I was off on this Sunday,” Wille panted, catching his breath. I was panting too, having just a handful of garlic cloves left to plant for the 2015-16 season. My mom, God love her, brought the phone all the way out to the garden.   “I never thought I’d actually meet Alice Waters. I can’t believe this. I’m standing in line for her book right now. Do you want a copy?”

Sure!

A half hour later, Wille called to report his success. Alice was there, with her daughter and co-author Fanny. How was she? “Charming,” he said, still dazed. What did you say to her? “Oh, I just gave her my elevator speech. Worked at Ubuntu. Ate at Chez Panisse.” And then he mentioned something about sleeping in some chef’s home…

A week or so later, I picked up a package at the State College post office—my very own copy of My Pantry. On the endpaper was a blue sticky note from Wille: From Alice’s hands to yours!

Fleur-de-WormBurgers

When you send them off to college…

During his undergrad days, Richard got quite the reputation for his barbecue skills. He definitely inherited those genes from his father. A year of cultural nurture as a Rotary Exchange student in Brazil polished his talent—they LOVE meat in Brazil and barbecue everything from chicken hearts and sausages to slabs of steak.

(Back in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, Brazilian gauchos herded cattle. It is said that when they stopped to bunk down, they skewered beef, poultry, lamb or pork, or maybe all four, cooked them over a fire and called it churrasco, Portuguese for barbecue. Churrasco permeated Brazilian life into the 21^st century, spreading from the grasslands of Rio Grande do Sul to cities like Sao Paolo and Rio de Janeiro.)

In college, Richard had a job as a bartender that morphed into grill-master for parties. By the time he was working as receptionist at Vesalius College, the faculty requested his services at their staff barbecues because he had the rep of being more than a mussels-and-frites kind of guy.

So now he is in grad school at Vrije Universiteit Brussel, which, in Flemish, translates as the Free University of Brussels. (Not to be confused with the nearby French Free University of Brussels—Universite Libre de Bruxelles). Neither school is free, but both have more manageable fees than stateside schools. He is studying linguistics, but apparently the curriculum does not include communicating with your mother…

So, what’s a mother to do? I can’t afford to be a cell-phone helicopter mom and there is the complication of a six-hour time difference. Richard is busy. He drops his 15-month-old daughter off at crèche (Belgian daycare) and hops on the train for his hour-plus commute to class. And, to be fair, he often pampers his Nonna with packages of Belgian chocolates. But providing mom with a “what I did in school today” report seems to have fallen by the wayside. So, I prowl the Internet for any news of life at the VUB.

When I scanned the school website I learned that Richard’s university is known for having the first commercial kitchen to serve insect-based (intentionally, that is) food.

In October 2014, the VUB cafeteria introduced worm burgers to the student population. They consumed 400 worm burgers on the first day. There were no leftovers. Since then, the university cafeteria has served insect-based entrées every two or three weeks. Worm burgers are rich in protein, low in fat, and reportedly taste “nutty with a hint of bacon.” The cafeteria later expanded its menu to include worm nuggets with autumn salad, soup, and dessert—a bargain for 5 euro.

The school’s worm burgers are made of the lesser mealworm or buffalo worm, Alphitobius diaperinus. The worms are dried, then ground, and shaped into patties. These worms are actually the larvae of the Tenebrionoidea beetle, and have been used as bird and fish food for years, if that makes you feel better.

The Belgian company Damhert Nutrition actually has a whole line of products named “Insecta.” Just a month before the worm burgers were introduced at the VUB, Dambert began offering tomato or carrot spreads containing mealworms (only 4-6% of the product) at Belgium’s Delhaize supermarkets.

There is a song playing in my head right now. As I youngster, when I was pouty and feeling sorry for myself, my mother would sing, Nobody Likes Me (Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms). And yes, I passed it on to the next generation. Little did I know that the song would return now that the kids are in their 20s.

A report by the United Nations Food and Agricultural Organization concludes that insects are a good source of protein, and a healthy, nutritious alternative to chicken, pork, beef and fish. Insects raised as food release fewer greenhouse gases than livestock and do not require clearing land—definite environmental benefits. To produce the same amount of protein, insects require 12 times fewer nutrients than beef and half as many as chicken, and insects consume much less water. In 2013 Belgium issued national guidelines covering the sale of insects as food.

Intellectually, eating insects makes sense. I know I’ve eaten bugs. My sister’s friend, Mariko, gave our family a container of dried grasshoppers from Japan when I was about 10. My lasting impression is that eating them was like munching on sweet and soy-salty Styrofoam. Unintentionally, I have swallowed gnats while biking, eaten a baby cabbageworm or two hidden under a curl of kale, or gobbled a weevil here and there in rice. But I also know, emotionally, I’m not ready for worm burgers, even if my baby barbecues them on the grill.

Maybe it is a Mom Thing. I keep telling myself: He is 23, not 13. Just as I did when he was 13, and I told myself he wasn’t 3. At 3, he needed me. He was my cling-on. His dimpled fists would hold onto my arms at bedtime, begging for one more lullaby. Intellectually, I know they grow up and have lives of their own. Emotionally, well, that’s a different story. Laurie Lynch

Written on Slate: “A fallen leaf is nothing more than a summer’s wave good-bye.”

Fleur-de-Memories

Jerusalem Artichoke Blossoms

In the early 1990s we were living in the Cement Belt of the Lehigh Valley and I befriended a retired, old-boys club of gardeners. Bent grew vegetables, Florian raised prize-winning chrysanthemums, Frank filled his gardens with dahlias, Peter had amazing blueberry bushes, and Dick could sharpen any garden tool known to man—or woman.

Bent carried a thick Danish accent and a love for the vegetables of his childhood in Denmark. When I visited his garden in Danielsville I always learned something. What he learned from me was that I had reached middle age without hearing of or tasting celeriac—knoldselleri in Bent’s mother tongue. “Celery root?” he would admonish me. I just returned a blank stare. It was like telling an Irishman I had never heard of potatoes.

Bent got his way. Eventually, I was growing celeriac and cooking with it. But with the busy-ness of a young family, celeriac and I parted ways. Last January I went to a winter farm market and was reacquainted. An Amish farmer had a large display of celeriac and I was happy to find local produce in our frozen Centre County winter.

I bought Giant Prague celeriac seed from Baker Creek Heirloom Seed Company and by March 1 seeded a flat of celeriac—planning to pickle chunks of celery root with my Jerusalem artichokes and carrots (more about them later) for this coming winter.

Just Dug Celeriac

The seedlings took off. Then I took off, for Belgium, leaving the young plants for my sister to get into the garden. Upon my return, I tended the peppers and tomatoes and beans; the celeriac was off in its corner, doing its thing. The rabbits got the carrots.

Celeriac has a long growing season and a long history. It has been used in Egypt, Greece and throughout Europe for culinary, medicinal and religious purposes. Why, it was even mentioned (as “selinon”) in Homer’s Odyssey in 800 BC. It’s no beauty, and perhaps that is why it has never caught on in this land of America the Beautiful. But, for the busy or lazy gardener, it provides a celery taste without the difficulties and blanching of regular “leaf celery”.

This past week, with memories of Bent bubbling to the surface, I harvested some of my celeriac crop and will leave the rest in the soil until frost. Washed, cut, and trimmed, it only lasts about a week in the refrigerator. I put the trimmed leaves (tasting like its cousin, parsley) in a plastic bag in the freezer for winter soups. After paring off the gnarly, brown roots, root hairs, and skin, I sliced the white flesh into ½”-thick slices and sautéed them in olive oil until tender, then sprinkled with salt and pepper—celeriac steak, if you will. Celeriac can also be grated, sprinkled with lemon juice to preserve its creamy color, and served raw in a salad, but I will pickle a lot of it. For long-term storage, the whole plant, roots, stalks and leaves, is covered with sand and kept in a cool root cellar where it will last all winter. Laurie Lynch

Celeriac Washed and Trimmed

Farmers Market Horror Stories: Farmers markets are one of my favorite destinations, in this country and abroad. But the old caveat, Buyer Beware, has crept into my casual stroll from one vendor to the next, sampling chunks of orange watermelon or oatmeal breakfast muffins.

There is a local farm market stand that sets up a tent in a nearby strip mall parking lot, April through Thanksgiving. The market offers baked goods, egg noodles, jams, jellies and pickles, as well as bountiful crates and bins and pecks of produce. I knew that one family, no matter how extended, couldn’t produce all that was there, but I figured the wide variety was just a symbol of their entrepreneureship—that they were offering other products from their local community.

In the spring I buy their shelled peas and spinach, and in summer, corn on the cob, peaches and watermelon, and a tiny cantaloupe called Sugar Cube. Fall brings apples, pear jam, cabbage-stuffed pickled peppers, and these little pecan pies the size of a silver dollar. I avoid their baseball bat-size zucchinis and carrots, and heads of lettuce that weigh more than a small child. But on Saturday, I was drawn to the carrot bin.

“They finally figured out how to grow carrots,” I said to myself. The carrots were long, thin, and tapered—and I was in my pickled-vegetable mode. I selected a half dozen. As I was waiting to check out, I saw a young fellow walk to the carrot bin to “refresh” it. He broke open one of the two plastic bags in his arm and dumped it in. Long, thing, tapered carrots. He reached for the second bag to do the same. “Product of Canada” was written on the bag.

Now I have no quibbles with Canada. It is a lovely country. But it is not “local” to Central Pennsylvania. I feel cheated.

Which brings me to another farmers market. It was August. I heard a voice call, “Oh, garlic scapes!” as a woman rushed to the stand. “Yes, we keep them in the refrigerator,” the young girl said.

“For two months?” I thought to myself. The woman went home with her prize—stiff, woody, petrified garlic scapes. I doubt she’ll be back for more, even in June when they are at their prime.

My Musical Education Continues: The other night I dragged my mother to yet another evening meeting. This was with a new group, so we started with circle introductions.   I usually introduce my mother, but this time the introductions started across the table and went clockwise. I didn’t even have time to worry about my mother introducing herself. She stood, flashed her wide smile that lights up her entire face, and sang, “I’m Marie the dawn is breaking.” I had never heard that before, but it brought a laugh from the group and the meeting went on.

When we got home, I rushed to my computer and typed in: Marie the dawn is breaking. Bingo! Marie (The Dawn Is Breaking) was written by Irving Berlin, and published in 1928, the year of my mother’s birth. It was the theme song in the film “The Awakening” starring Vilma Blanky. In 1929, Rudy Vallee’s recording of Marie hit No. 2 on the charts. By 1937, Tommy Dorsey’s Orchestra took it to No. 1. Frank Sinatra, The Inkspots, and even Willie Nelson continued bringing Marie (The Dawn Is Breaking) to airwaves, dance halls and my mother’s mind.

Written On Slate: “Listen! The wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!” –Humbert Wolfe