Literary City Guide: Cambridge, UK

Photo by Rachel Helen Smith

After publishing the Oxford guide last year, I was promptly contacted by Cambridge-resident Rachel Helen Smith who reminded me of the healthy competition shared between these two cities, and ask if I might feature a Cambridge guide as well. 

Like Oxford, I spent a lovely afternoon in Cambridge well over 10 years ago when I was studying abroad in London. The city is charming, and the scholarly atmosphere will inspire you to snuggle up with a good book in one of the many cozy cafes in town. 

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Stop by to welcome Cambridge to the Literary City Guides!

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"turnip root" by Polly Hatfield + Turnip and Chard Buckwheat Tart

You would think a turnip to be straightforward. After all, it's nothing more than a tuber, cream with a bright purple neck, peppery, bold, confident. Yet, we're put off. Very little in the way of turnip recipes feels inspired. We see them roasted, often with carrots or parsnips, the trio of roots tossed in oil and pushed to the side of our plate. I'm guilty of it myself.

Even one of my favorite food writers, Nigel Slater, had a slow start. "The Romans knew the turnip, though hardly worshipped it, and part of its problem may stem from the fact that it has always been used as animal fodder. It has taken me most of my life to appreciate the turnip."  I knew if Slater was reluctant, there would be little hope for the rest of us.

True to form, it took me three recipes to be happy. I made a tart the first time around, but it wasn't hearty enough. The turnips were thinly sliced on a mandolin, the circles too large. I waited two or three weeks before trying again. Next, root vegetable latkes. Potato, turnip, golden beets. Not terrible, not memorable. It still didn't feel inspired. I went back to the tart, tried again, adding onions and chard, cheese and mustard—ingredients meant to enhance the peppery turnip. 

What I learned was that to cook with a turnip is to forge a path in the darkness, not unlike the turnip itself as it grows underground in the cold. In the spirit of fresh starts, realizations, and fighting for the underdog, I turn to this poem that was sent to me by a reader. You'll see, the poor turnip has stiff competition. 

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turnip root

by Polly Hatfield

i lack the pr team of organic mesclun
the allure of blanched white asparagus

upstaged by the newfangled glitz of micro greens
the lunatic verve of doughnut peaches             

i am a white root vegetable    
with a pungent mustardy bite

i simply cannot compete 
with the hothouse fervor

of sun-ripened heirloom tomatoes
sweet, succulent, sexy orbs

i languish unharvested in the fields 
where forgotten i wither and turn punky with neglect  

Poem first appeared in Alltopia Antholozine, Summer 2010, Volume 2, Issue 3. Reprinted with permission from the author

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In any other season I would agree with the turnip's lament. In August, it "cannot compete/ with the hothouse fervor/ of sun-ripened heirloom tomatoes." The tone is jovial, almost dramatic. But there is some truth here, because a turnip can easily be upstaged. It's such a sad scene, turnips languished "unharvested in the fields," likely to be tossed at the pigs for a meal. In this poem, the turnip knows its place, and how difficult it is to share the stage with other vegetables that are sexier and more popular.

In a way, the turnip makes his peace with neglect, but employs a passive aggressive strategy to plead with us, letting him prove that with a little attention, he can make something of himself in this world. Let's resolve not to neglect the turnip this year. You don't have to love it or praise it, or cook with it frequently, but give the turnip a chance, if only to reach out of your root vegetable comfort zone temporarily. Of all the months to embrace the turnip, January offers new beginnings for us all.

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Turnip and Mustard Tart

To get ahead with dinner prep, make the crust in the morning (or better yet, the day before), so you’ll be ready to assemble. 

Extra-virgin olive oil
1 large turnip (about 1 pound), diced into 1/2-inch pieces
1 brown onion, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
1 bunch chard, stems removed and thinly sliced into ribbons
1 sprig thyme, leaves removed
1 buckwheat crust (via Sprouted Kitchen)
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard (I like a combination of whole grain and smooth)
Salt and pepper
4 sprigs thyme
1 cup grated gruyere
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. 

Saute the turnips in 1 tablespoon of oil over medium low heat for 8-10 minutes, or until just beginning to turn golden. Season with a pinch each of salt and pepper. Add the turnips to a large bowl and heat another tablespoon of oil in the same pan. Add the onion and garlic; cook for 2 to 3 minutes, then add the chard, thyme, and season with a pinch each of salt and pepper. Cook for an additional 3 to 5 minutes, or until the chard is wilted. Scrape the vegetables into the bowl with the turnips.

Roll out the crust in an 11 to 13-inch circle and gently place into a tart pan. Lop off any overhang by running your rolling pin over the top. Add a piece of foil and a cup or so of beans or pie weights on top; bake for 15 minutes. 

Once the vegetables have cooled slightly, add the egg and half the gruyere; mix well to combine. Pour the filling into the crust and spread in an even layer. Top with the remaining gruyere. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until the tart is just set and the top is starting to brown. 

Living With Poetry | On the Coast Near Malibu

The last time I apologized for a poem was in January 2011. It was my first post on Eat This Poem, and Louise Gluck struck a somewhat melancholy note to begin the year. 

I won't apologize for this brief stanza from Robert Hass, but I will say that things are strange. On Christmas Eve, we found out that Andrew's parents were both recovering from the flu, so we postponed our visit until the weekend. That left us with no plans for Christmas day, and with such little notice, I didn't have time to cobble together a plan like I normally do.

So we drove to Malibu. With few provisions to make a picnic, I threw together a sturdy kale salad dressed with lemon and studded with almonds. It was packed in glass jars, and we drove, unobstructed by traffic and long lights, to the coast.

It was not the coast of Sausalito, but I thought of this poem just the same. Robert Hass is like me, a Californian, and his poems often draw from the landscape of our rugged and beautiful state.

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from On the Coast Near Sausalito

by Robert Hass

I.

I won't say much for the sea,
except that it was, almost,
the color of sour milk.
The sun in that clear
unmenacing sky was low,
angled off the gray fissure of the cliffs,
hills dark green with manzanita.

Low tide: slimmed rocks
mottled brown and thick with kelp
merged with the gray stone
of the breakwater, sliding off
to antediluvian depths.
The old story: here filthy life begins.

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Yes, life begins. In January, we feel it. Life is tugging, gnawing, requesting refreshment, and I'm grateful to have had a couple of weeks to retreat from my routine, read cookbooks, make plans, and rest before 2014 began.

I didn't manage to put together a retrospective post on Eat This Poem for 2013. In fact, I had a near meltdown on New Year's Eve when I couldn't find grass fed short ribs for the traditional meal Andrew and I share (served under a bed of celery root risotto), so I was feeling out of sorts the entire week. But we found a way through (Andrew called three butchers before finding one that had what I needed) and our meal was salvaged. In fact, it was spectacular. We set goals, ate cheese, drank one of our best bottles of red wine, and I managed to stay up until midnight.

Here we go.