Читать книгу Wild Garlic, Gooseberries and Me: A chef’s stories and recipes from the land - Denis Cotter - Страница 11

Not fifteen years ago, the only kale to be found was the curly green one. Even then, most people believed it to be fit only for cattle; a tiny minority enjoyed it from their own gardens, but it never showed up on shop shelves. Kale may have suffered from its association with poverty and hunger, something it shares with the wonderful but often derided swede turnip.

There is something tragi-heroic in kale’s history, in the way it fell from a dull but important survival food to something looked on with disdain. Kale is a tough character, it survives well in cold weather and in poor soil, and it is a low-maintenance, cut-and-come source of food. Most importantly, it over-winters well and can go on through the lean months of March and April, the notorious ‘hungry gap’ months. So much for the heroic. Foods that nourish through times of deprivation are quickly left behind when the good times roll in. Throwing off the badge of poverty, the survival food is discarded, denied even, and replaced by the exotic, by what can be afforded.

Years ago, I was discussing roots with a German grower working in West Cork, who supplied me with local and imported vegetables, a man who went by the descriptive name of Organic Joe. I was moaning about the high price of imported roots like celeriac and salsify, and the humble turnips too, though I never bought those from him. He said that for a new generation of growers and foodies in Germany, Holland and other parts of Europe, roots were something of an exotic. They had largely disappeared once the post-war economic boom kicked in and people could finally put away the foods that helped them survive when rationing was necessary. As one generation shied away from roots and the associations they brought to the table, the next generation went back to them as something with the dual appeal of being both exotic and traditional. So it may have been for poor old kale in these parts. I don’t think this is a conscious thing or an overt snobbery; it just happens that people unthinkingly move away from the things that have associations with the parts of their history they would rather forget.

In the early 1990s, as Ireland became more self-confident due to its increasing wealth, there seemed to be the beginnings of a new lease of life for kale, echoing Organic Joe’s theory on roots. Kale, having been rejected by a generation or three, was at once new to us and obviously part of our food history. At first, there was a renaissance for the traditional curly kale. Not long after, other more exotic varieties began to show up. By the late 1990s, we were seeing kale as a newly fashionable ingredient. Put away that dull old cabbage, dear, we’re having kale for dinner tonight.

The first of the immigrant kales that I fell in love with was cavolo nero, the Italian variety, and still my favourite. Again, the issue of naming comes up here. We’ve always called it by the loose translation ‘black kale’, not for any reason other than that it became the term in common usage between grower and kitchen. I know this can seem annoyingly careless to those who are fastidious about the proper names of vegetables. I’m generally as fussy as the next person about attention to detail but, in naming things, common usage often dictates the rules.

Black kale is a strikingly handsome plant, growing up to 1 metre (3 feet) high, with long leaves fanning out from the stem. The leaves are the most fantastic colour. Definitely a green, but purple too at the same time, a very intense purple that is almost black. Take a look at the water in the pot next time you boil some. It will be a beautiful, bright, shade of green. No purple there at all. Meanwhile the kale itself will have become more intensely dark. What’s going on here? Most greens become brighter and more translucent when cooked. This one leaks its green colour, intent on becoming a black vegetable. Cooked in olive oil and stock, its deep colour glistens, and the strong flavour has the perfect balance of bitter and sweet elements.

A new favourite is Red Russian, though the colour is really more of a magical blend of a silvery translucent green with pink shading. It has a softer, more open leaf than the black kale, and it cooks faster to give a more tender vegetable. We still persist with the curly green variety too, but I admit it is only as a back-up to the current two favourites. Others we have tried and liked, and will definitely come back to, are Pentland Brig, Red Bor and Raggedy Jack.

All kales can be cooked in the same ways, making allowances for their toughness. If you are using leaves with a thin stalk, simply chop them coarsely. This is especially good when you are adding kale to stews, as the stalks cook down to a softly chewable texture. If the stalks are thicker or seem tough, pull the leaves from the stalks, discarding the stalks, and then take one of two options. The first is to boil the kale in a large pot for anything from four to ten minutes. If the cooked kale is to be part of a dish, such as in pancakes, frittata, tarts or gratins, cool it by dropping it into cold water. Squeeze out the water and chop the kale. How thorough you need to be in squeezing out the water depends on the dish. If you intend to add the kale to a soup or risotto, it’s not such a serious issue, but if you are making gnocchi or putting it in a frittata, try to get it as dry as possible. Alternatively, for a simple side dish, wilt the kale by frying it in olive oil over medium heat, splashing regularly with stock or water until the kale is tender. This simple method makes kale a perfect foil for rich food, such as egg or cheese dishes. Most kales are strong enough to take quite a lot of spicing, especially chillies, cumin and coriander seeds, and ginger.

Kale is traditionally a winter crop, and, as such, it is a vital part of our repertoire during those lean months. However, we also use it in summer, sometimes even from plants grown in a tunnel. Kale in a tunnel? In summer? That may seem to go against the accepted thinking on the subject of kale, and indeed on the whole notion of serving vegetables according to their season. Over the years, Ultan has developed growing patterns to ensure that we always have a variety of different greens to work with. In fact, because of kale’s affinity with different ingredients and flavourings (it loves tomatoes and herbs, but also chestnuts and potatoes), I like to have one or two varieties around most of the year.

In the early summer, when the spring greens are disappearing, kale from the tunnel is very welcome, and is followed by outdoor kale which crops through the summer. The kale of deepest winter is the hardiest, with the toughest leaf and the strongest flavour. Kale grown in a tunnel is a different beast. It grows quickly, producing softer leaves. These cook faster too, giving a softer texture and a sweeter, milder flavour. The Red Russian is particularly successful this way, finishing up closer in texture to coarse spinach than to winter kale. It’s a lovely summer green, simple as that, and very welcome on my plate and in my menus.

Another misleading theory about kale is that it is bitter in early winter before the first frost. Bitterness in greens is a good thing, but the theory suggests that at this time of year it is not balanced by any sweetness when the vegetable is cooked. The frost theory is applied to other brassica too, especially Brussels sprouts. Some go as far as to say these greens need a few weeks of frost. (Weeks of frost? Brr…no, thanks.) I would agree that the first outer leaves of kale in early winter are not as sweet as the inner ones later on, but they are far from unusable or completely lacking in balance. To rigidly await the arrival of frost only makes sense in a location where the weather patterns are predictable and there are plenty of alternative greens. Many vegetables with a long season go through changes in flavour and texture during their picking time. This is something to be celebrated and savoured, even if some adapting of recipes is called for. The best analogy I can make is with the Sungold tomatoes that Ultan grows all summer long. Through the season, their flavour moves across the spectrum from acidic to sugary sweet, and few people agree on when they are at their best. They are, however, always good. In any case, while the climate in West Cork may not be a sub-tropical nirvana, the winters here are not very cold. If we were to wait for a decent number of consecutive frosty nights before we picked the crop, then some winters we’d never get to eat kale at all.

Whether growing kale or doing any other kind of gardening, you can only ever take a manual or instruction book as a guide, not a bible. The rest depends on your own circumstances, as well as your needs and tastes. This is true of cookery books too, including this one. Ultan puts it succinctly when he says that every locality, every field or side of a hill, every tunnel or glasshouse is a micro-climate. In her classic book Grow Your Own Vegetables, Joy Larkcom says that all gardeners need to be experimenters who have to co-operate with the conditions and requirements of their particular garden, as well as with the local weather patterns. By the same token, all cooks in their own kitchens have to be experimenters too.