Category — Jim’s Thoughts

Our San Marzano tomatoes are ripening in full force now. Their meaty flesh and relatively thin skin make them great for tomato sauce but also for drying. Ah, sun dried tomatoes. There’s nothing like their zesty flavor in mid-winter. To prepare some, I recently fired up my $15,000 solar dehydrator. That might seem like a lot to pay for a solar dehydrator but mine also gets over 20 miles to the gallon.

That’s right, I use my car as a dehydrator.

I know I’ve complained about temperature of the interior of the car on a sunny day. It feels hot enough to cook something. I even have one of those solar reflectors to decrease the heat. (We’ve got another use for those too… as part of a simple but effective solar cooker that we’ve written about here.) Instead of “wasting” the heat of the car, I put that heat to use to dry tomatoes.

We prepare tomatoes for drying by washing and drying them, then cutting and removing the seeds. I find seed removal most effective if I quarter the tomatoes lengthwise and just pinch out the seeds and juice between my thumb and middle finger. Then spread the tomato sections out on racks; I place them nearly crowded on the rack because they will shrink as they dry. Set the racks on trays or cookie sheets because that allows for easy transport and adequate air circulation. We weren’t going anywhere that day so we put the trays out in the back deck of the wagon which was parked in full sun on an 84 F day.

Obviously we can’t dry tomatoes in 20 minutes, but we can get our part done and let the sun do the rest. We had had a slight problem on some plants with blossom end rot this year so maybe a half dozen tomatoes had a speck of black at the tip that was easily cut off. In the interest of accurate reporting, I should say that I was able to do one tray in 20 minutes, but that included picking, washing, preparing and getting the tomatoes into the car. I subsequently readied two more trays, using about 20 tomatoes per rack.

The concern is not whether this process will work but whether the tomatoes might end up over-cooked. The goal is not tomato jerky, not to make completely dried out tomato pieces. What we want is something more like a fresh raisin or a fruit roll-up texture– still pliable, still slightly moist. Home-drying works best with the paste-style tomatoes, like Roma, Amish paste, the long ones shaped like bulbs or torpedoes, which have more “meat” and less liquidy juice to start. The drying time also depends on the weather so drying can take a day or two.

If the day turns gray or a car is not available, sun-dried tomatoes can also be made or finished in the oven. Put prepared tomatoes on racks or cookie sheets into a 150 F degree oven. Drying might take 10 to 20 hours. Check the tomatoes periodically and move the racks around as necessary.

The easiest and healthiest way to store sun-dried tomatoes is in Ziploc bags in the freezer. Fill bags with cooled tomatoes and zip them closed. All this hard work will result in a product about 80% lighter than what we started with, but don’t be fooled. These little babies pack a lot of punch. Another storage method is to fill a clean jar with tomatoes, top it off with olive oil, and keep in the refrigerator; this, however, is not a low-calorie selection.

I’ve heard hard-core organic folks muse whether the off-gassing from the PVCs in the car upholstery compromise the purity of the tomatoes, but we haven’t worried about that. We enjoy the fruits of our labor long into the winter, tossing sun-dried tomatoes in sauces or on pizza, in soups and scrambled eggs. When all we can get at the grocery are the pale imported tomatoes of winter, we can raid the freezer for bite-sized bits of sunshine in the form of home-grown, home-made, sun-dried tomatoes.

Recently, Jan and I were asked to write a column on kitchen gardening for our local on-line newspaper, AnnArbor.com. For the most part, we intend to cross-post articles but our first post was a getting-to-know-you piece that’s exclusive to AnnArbor.com. On Tuesday, we cross-posted about ichiban eggplant and we got a question by email that’s good enough to make a whole post about. One reader noted that we referred to eggplant as both a fruit and a vegetable and wanted to know, basically, what’s up with that?

Fruits vs. vegetables: It’s a great debate, I’ve come to appreciate, joined in by cooks and diners and gardeners and botanists and I even think the U.S. government has an opinion about it because of tariffs. I do not pretend to resolve the matter, only to add my voice to the great conversation. PLEASE, feel free to add your voice in the comments.

My favorite definition of a vegetable is “food your kids won’t eat.” I am only partially joking but what I like about this approach is that it accents preparation and reception. I’ve eaten sweet potatoes that were clearly a “vegetable” – roasted split down the middle with butter and garlic as a side to tandoori chicken- but also baked into a pie for dessert. One of Jan’s favorite salads blends garden greens with walnuts, crumbled bleu cheese… and dried cherries. I suspect many omnivores have trouble grokking vegetarianism because they’ve implicitly defined “vegetable” as a side-dish. To me, vegetables are the broad category of garden products primarily when considered as food. When I tell folks I’m a vegetable gardener, they know I’m growing things to eat, though I prefer the term “kitchen garden” since I feel it allows me to tuck in a few flowers.

But personally when I use the word “fruit” I’m indicating a specific part of plant anatomy. A fruit – to me – is a fleshy seed container. This means that tomatoes are fruits as are apples, as well as rose hips – though some rose varieties have a fleshier fruit than others. My beloved jalapeno peppers are fruits as are pumpkins and squash. But kale – the edible part – is a just a leaf as is lettuce and cabbage. Broccoli – if we catch it before it goes into bloom – is a cluster of buds. Asparagus is a stalk. Corn – to me – doesn’t feel like a fruit because it lacks flesh apart from the juicy sweetness of the kernels themselves… but that’s where the problem comes in. To botanists, I think corn is a fruit because their idea of “fruit” is also a seed container but they don’t seem to care if it’s fleshy or not, only if it develops from a flower.

So why do I willfully diverge from the proper botanical definition? By describing a fruit as a fleshy seed container, I identify two interacting factors I keep in mind about all my “fruits,” namely seeds and flesh. This system isn’t as important with my non-fruiting garden inhabitants. The plant itself is likely most interested in producing viable seeds while I’m (usually) more interested in getting delectable flesh. My general rule of thumb is that I don’t let any fruit sit on the vine too long unless I’m intending to use the seeds. At one extreme, I like to harvest yellow summer squash when they are clearly immature, when they haven’t even begun to think about making seeds. With winter squash and pumpkins, however, I let the seeds develop because they are a product themselves. (Try them oven dried with a dash of tamari or as a replacement for pine nuts in pesto.) When to pick tomatoes is itself another Great Debate – whether to let them ripen fully or pick them when they first start to turn – but in the background is the concern about the quality of the flesh and whether the plant has started diverting too much attention to making viable seed.

That’s what I mean when I say “vegetable” or “fruit” but I’m far from dogmatically attached to these usages. What do you think?

Ichiban (sometimes called “Japanese-style”) eggplant remind me of small carnival balloons, the kind that clowns twist into animal shapes, though I’ve never seen one this shade of purple. They’re the perfect eating size this time of the year, and if you didn’t plant any in your garden, these long slender fruit are readily available at the Farmers’ Markets around town. Although they might look exotic, don’t be scared. This recipe is an easy introduction to putting the ichiban eggplant on your table.

Wash the fruit and cut off the stem. I take this opportunity to delight in their shape and color and the feel of their resilient flesh. If we’re grilling, we slice them in half lengthwise and put them on for a few minutes for each side, just long enough for the flesh to get tender. It’s all too easy to grill them ‘til they’re soft bordering on mushy which is a texture I don’t enjoy. For your first experience, I suggest slicing them widthwise into wheels about a half inch thick. The cooks on TV would suggest olive oil but honestly a squirt of nonstick cook spray works as well. Saute until tender in a nonstick pan. The color changes a little but the best indicator is the texture of the flesh.

While they’re cooking, whip up this sauce. It’s my favorite kind of recipe, that is, it’s proportional so it can be easily scaled up or down.

Special Miso Paste Sauce
- one part red Miso paste
- one part mirin
- one part sugar
Simmer on the stove for 20 minutes or microwave it for 4 minutes stirring periodically. If you have four eggplant, try using a 1/3 cup for each part.

Miso is another product of the miraculous soybean and mirin is a sweet rice wine used exclusively for cooking. Both miso and mirin are available at the People’s Food Co-op or any of the Asian grocery stores around town. But now that I think about it, they’re probably available wherever you do your grocery shopping, although you might have to ask.

This potent sauce is both sweet and tangy, and since it’s a favorite around our house, we apply it like a glaze to the cooked eggplant.

You might want to keep the sauce on the side, until you hear the verdict at your house. We serve these glazed eggplant over rice as a side dish for grilled shrimp or chicken. The sauce also works well with other cooked vegetables, like broccoli, carrots and green beans. It also stores well in the fridge.

There are plenty of other (lower-carb) ways to serve this remarkable vegetable so you might consider growing a few eggplant in your garden. The plant itself is quite handsome, with a relatively contained growth habit and charming flowers. The purple fruit contrasts the green of the leaves beautifully so you might sneak a couple in among your ornamentals. The only real pest it suffers are flea beetles but we’ve found a way to outwit them that we’ll share next spring.

(20Minute Jim) Tomatoes are ripening fast enough that we’re *almost* tired of eating them fresh. Almost. Summer squash are appearing on the dinner table regularly. Basil is plentiful which makes pesto as much a staple as butter. Eggplant, even the plump Italian style ones, are ready to eat. The garden is handing out its bounty almost faster than we can accept these gifts.

And of course, the garden itself is a mess.

The winter squash vines have crept over the path and are ready to over-run the cabbage. Tomato vines are sprawling over even the tallest of the cages while other tomatoes seem to be wrestling with the basil. The raspberry bushes are overdue for pruning. The mint, despite our good-natured attempts to contain it, has fully claimed the asparagus bed and the asparagus fronds are lolling over like a lazy vacationers in a hammock.

Just when I’m most proud of the garden, it’s very lush exuberance is also a bit embarrassing. When I show my friends through the garden during August, I find myself spending as much time trying to explain, say, that the Coro del Toro peppers are actually hiding *underneath* the vines of those San Marzano tomatoes and that, no we didn’t really intend to have the pumpkins take over *that* much of the fence. I’ve found myself nearly apologizing as if these over flowing beds reflect a moral shortcoming.

But I’ve decided to be easier on myself. I find that this time of year, I’m spending my 20 minutes just harvesting, maybe with a few minutes to yank up a weed or two. And that’s OK too. Our kitchen garden is a blend of process and product, of means and ends after all. Some times of the year, there’s very little “product.” It’s not that time of the season.

I am reminded of that folk tale about the simpleton-hero who amuses himself by swatting flies. He practiced until he was able to kill seven flies at once. He commemorated this ability by embroidering a sash that said “Seven at One Stroke” which he wore proudly. I think the tale continues that an ogre was preparing to do battle with the simpleton, until the ogre read the sash and instead ran away, thinking that the simpleton had killed seven creatures more fearsome than house flies.

I feel a bit like that simpleton-hero today in my foolish pride for my weed-pulling abilities. I was able to extract a dandelion with a root at least 9″ long. It required a firm and steady hand… and truth be told, it also required the fluffy “chocolate cake” soil we’ve been developing for a decade. Still, when I pulled that root from the ground, I felt like I was pulling Excalibur from the stone.

I have no illusions that I’ve really “got” all the dandelion. If you look closely, the very tip of the root broke off and will likely grow back. But I don’t sweat that. In fact, I appreciate my deep-rooted weeds because they are collecting nutrients from far down in the soil and I can reclaim when I use the weeds as mulch or compost. I know I’m “supposed” to worry about transmitting weed seeds when I put weeds to work like that, but really around the garden at least, I’m too foolish to worry much.

Now where do you suppose I can get a sash embroidered around here?

Does anyone else have any weed-triumph tales that you would like to share?