BRATTLEBORO — Ah, May. Was there ever anything more filled with promise?
May allows me to imagine that anything is possible. In May, I walk around my garden and have the most ridiculous notions of what I will accomplish over the summer: an elaborate stone terrace, a fragrant rose hedge facing south, pear trees espaliered along the greenhouse wall, a permanent herb garden featuring walkways and tall urns filled with thorny spires of artichokes and cardoons. I see them all.
Yes, I say to myself, this year my garden will resemble those photos in magazines and those I envy so during summer garden tours. I know I can do it, this year, this May, I know I can.
Then, in their own particular order, arrive black flies, June, serious heat, and a diminishing bank balance.
What started out as a vision of a private miniature Sissinghurst ends up as my perfectly adequate but really very modest garden.
I hate the word “adequate,” but this year I am attempting to limit myself to one viable smallish-grand goal: an enduring herb garden, with or without those thorny spires.
* * *
I love to cook, and I use a lot of herbs. I have a healthy chive population and a few neglected thyme plants that somehow make it through the winter, and I always stick in lots of parsley, basil, and tarragon around the unweeded rows of beans.
The mint threatens to overrun my flowerbeds. I have never had much luck with cilantro or dill, but I noticed the other day that three lovage plants I put in last year are poking up their heads.
These May mornings, I dream of a centralized herb garden that lasts the winter, comes back each spring, and provides a focal point of beauty as well as flavor but doesn't break the bank or my back.
The first step is deciding what herbs I want, which brings me briefly to the question of the difference between an herb and a spice.
The world of horticulture seems to agree that herbs are usually the leaves of an herbaceous plant. (Think of parsley, oregano and mint.) Spices come from roots, seeds, bark and flowers. (Think of vanilla, cinnamon, and ginger.)
In the herb category, there are annual herbs that must be planted each year and perennial herbs that die in the winter but come up again in the spring.
To satisfy the needs of my kitchen, I will have to have some of both, but I doubt I could grow a cinnamon bush. I am not certain which plants will end up in my still-imagined garden, but here are some recipes for herbs that are near and dear to my ever-optimistic heart. Put together, they make the menu for a lovely spring dinner where herbs star as the main attraction.
* * *
Parsley may be my favorite, despite the fact that it is overused as a catchall garnish and underused as an ingredient on its own. Parsley is a biennial but normally planted as an annual.
My plants throw out a few seeds each fall, and I frequently have a few seedlings in the spring, but I always plant new stock as well. I prefer the flat-leafed variety and find its taste fresh, crisp, and rejuvenating, perfect for the month of May.
Along with its direct and delicious flavor, parsley has long been thought to aid in digestion and clean the palate. It also contains lots of Vitamin C and iron.
One of my favorite salads consists of nothing more than barely dressed parsley.
For two people, I start with 1 whole, large bunch of parsley. I separate the leaves, then wash and dry them thoroughly. I save the stems to put in soup.
Then I put the leaves in a bowl, drizzle them with extra-virgin olive oil, lemon juice, and a sprinkling of crunchy sea salt. Topped with a generous rain of Parmesan shavings, this salad is a perfect way to start a meal in May.
* * *
Tarragon is a perennial herb (although I am careful to mulch it heavily through the winter) with a flavor that hints of anise and mint.
In addition to its perfect bonding with chicken and vinegar, tarragon pairs beautifully with spring garden bounty like peas, radishes, and asparagus.
For two side servings of a great vegetable dish, bring a large pot of water to a boil, add salt, and cook 1 bunch of trimmed asparagus until barely tender, about 3 minutes. Remove from the pot and spread out on paper towels to dry.
Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a medium sauté pan over medium heat. Add ¼ pound of fresh peas and the cooled asparagus, plus 6 thinly sliced red radishes.
Cook until just heated through and the peas are tender, about 3 minutes. Take off the heat and add ¼ cup of chopped fresh tarragon, salt and pepper. That's it.
* * *
Let's return to that lovage I spoke of earlier. I fell in love with it a few years ago in Brooklyn when I was served a cold glass of Prosecco flavored with lovage syrup, a drink that was mysteriously delicious and refreshing.
Lovage is a relatively obscure herb that tastes like a combination of celery, parsley, and anise. Its flavor is quite strong, and a little goes a long way.
I like to make herb butter with lovage and place thick slices of it on pan-seared salmon.
To make enough for two servings of salmon, take ½ stick of unsalted butter and bring it to room temperature.
Finely chop 3 tablespoons of lovage leaves and add them to the softened butter with sea salt to taste. Mash and mix it all up, then roll it into a fat tube with the help of some parchment or wax paper. Seal the ends and refrigerate until firm.
Cut off slices and place on top of just-cooked salmon. The butter will slowly melt, dripping its green bounty over the pinkish fish and onto your plate.
What better to go with your herbal salmon and tarragon vegetables than some buttermilk-mashed potatoes flavored with chives?
For a generous mound that will feed two, begin with 2 medium, very firm russet potatoes. Peel them and cut them into 2-inch chunks.
Put the chunks into a medium saucepan and cover with 1 inch of cold water. Add a big pinch of salt and simmer over medium heat, covered, until tender, about 20 minutes.
Drain the potatoes, return them to the saucepan, and shake the pan over low heat until the chunks dry out.
Mash the potato with ½ stick of butter cut into pieces, one piece at a time. Add ¼ to ½ cup of room temperature buttermilk, and continue mashing until the mixture reaches just the consistency for you. Add ¼ cup finely diced fresh chives, salt, and pepper.
* * *
To stay with our season, dessert should be rhubarb.
Quickly and gently stewed with a bit of sugar and lemon then mixed with a small amount of fresh mint, this rhubarb is tart, barely sweet, beautiful in color, and unrefined in a way I find extremely appealing.
To serve two, trim and cut about ½ pound of young rhubarb into half-inch slices and stew gently on low heat with ½ cup of sugar and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice. This preparation takes about 12 to 15 minutes.
I like to let the rhubarb cool until it is just warm and serve it with a scoop of Walpole Creamery Sweet Cream ice cream and the following shortbread, which provides just the right salty, buttery crunch.
This recipe makes a 9-inch round. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F.
The choice of herbs in this recipe is yours, but I can suggest a mixture of rosemary, thyme, or lemon thyme if you grow it, plus a small amount of sage, lavender, or basil.
Sift 1 cup of unbleached white flour into a medium bowl. Add ¼ teaspoon of coarse sea salt. In a small bowl, mix 2 teaspoons of finely chopped mixed herbs with 2 tablespoons of sugar.
Add the herbed sugar to the flour and salt. Cut up 1 stick of very cold, unsalted butter into small chunks and work it into the flour with your hands or a pastry cutter, until the mixture comes together into a soft dough.
Pat the dough gently and evenly into an ungreased 9-inch pan. Using the tines of a fork, make pricks all over the surface of the dough and sprinkle it with 1 teaspoon of sugar. Bake for 20 to 30 minutes until it is barely golden and looks dry.
Remove from the oven and score the still-warm dough with a sharp knife into whatever serving shape you prefer.
Let it cool completely, then remove the shortbread as one piece from the pan and break it up into shapes, which if uneven will be even more charming. Serve with the rhubarb and ice cream.
If you would like to add the final touch on your herbal feast, I recommend some comforting tea made of equal parts of dried mint and lemon verbena.
* * *
After preparing and eating this lovely meal, I plan to sit down with that cup of tea and start drawing plans for my garden.
Some herbs, like rosemary and bay, will have to go into pots that will over-winter in my cellar. Perhaps this year I will splurge and get a Meyer lemon tree that I can make the centerpiece of my little herbal garden.
I think I will plant a small hedge of lavender instead of a bank of roses. If you have ever seen the silver-gray grandness of the cardoon, you will know why I must have just one. Perhaps a strawberry pot as well.
Angelica might be a striking addition with its purple-veined big leaves and some marigolds for color and-
Ah, there I go again. I'll keep you posted.
Happy spring.