Root to Leaf: A Southern Chef Cooks Through the Seasons

Introduction

One hour. 23 minutes. 12 seconds. I glanced at the countdown clock on the East Atlanta Village Farmers Market website. It was ticking down to the late-afternoon season opening and I made a point to arrive right on time, knowing it would be swarmed. It was the first warm day of spring and the market was teeming with energy. I ran into an old acquaintance who seemed a little more than disappointed with the spring offerings. I guess it’s just really early in the season? He shrugged as he disappeared from the scene, empty-handed. I did a quick scan of the market booths and wondered what he meant. Where my friend saw nothing, I saw possibility.

I picked up a few bundles of greens, some spring garlic and leeks, some fresh pasta, a pint of berries, a young cheese, and a little basket of tender mushrooms. The wheels in my head were turning and I already had dinner figured out: melted leek ravioli with mushrooms and green garlic; a salad of tender baby chard and dandelion greens; a hunk of artisanal bread; some macerated strawberries with a delicate sheep’s milk cheese; a chilled bottle of rosé. Later that evening, as some friends and I enjoyed this delightful spring meal, I kept thinking about the disappointed fellow at the market. His mind-set is all too common. Even regular market goers who aspire to cook fresh produce–driven meals are often stumped when they have to decide what to put on the table.

Americans have been conditioned to believe that more is better. It is a first-world problem to have everything you want, anytime you want it, and this type of thinking has done some serious damage to our food systems and collective health. Unlimited options clutter our minds and stifle our imagination. We are out of touch with the earth’s rhythms and we do not allow ourselves to appreciate the anticipation of the natural cycles of the seasons. I use these seasonal variables as guidelines, rather than limitations, when I buy fresh produce.

I’ve learned that if you are able to show up with an open mind and some empty bags rather than a shopping list, you can respond to what is available. Allowing the fresh produce to guide you is true seasonal cooking. It’s what this book is all about. Yes, I have the advantage of many years in professional kitchens, and this has honed my skills for thinking on my feet. But I still remember the growing pains of making mistakes and learning from them. In writing this book, I am distilling the lessons I’ve learned to empower you to shop for, select, and create delicious meals regardless of where you may reside. I am fortunate enough to live and work in a locale with extraordinarily rich diversity, and while I realize every region has different climates with varying access to fresh food, with the right information, you can cook like this too.

When I am deciding how to use a fruit or vegetable, I consider several things:

Texture: Is it crisp, tender, starchy, juicy, seedy, or stringy?

Flavor: Does it taste sweet, chalky, grassy, bitter, or sour?

Shape and Size: Is it large, petite, round, oblong, heavy, or flat?

Color: Is it bright green? Will the color deepen? Does it look fresh? Will it turn brown if I cook it?

Challenges: Is it thick-skinned, hard-shelled, thorny, gooey, time-consuming? Do I know how to cook it? Do I know how to get started?

One bit of advice that I often give people when they are working with fresh produce is to taste it in different stages of cooking. Try it first raw. If you are blanching green beans for instance, taste them several times while they are cooking. You will notice that they go from a dull green with a chalky taste to a tender crunch with a lot of sweetness and a bright green color. That’s the moment when you want to pull them from the water and plunge them into an ice bath. Think about the advantage you have that you can actually taste vegetables when they are raw. You can’t do that with your chicken dish from start to finish, can you?

When I first started cooking professionally, vegetables were more or less an afterthought and most of the focus was on the protein. The idea of Southern food as something noble and respectable was just catching on. And as I grew more and more interested in the local farming community, I thought to myself: why not start a restaurant where we can react to everything that is in season and incorporate all that is harvested? Miller Union was born from this idea, and even though we serve plenty of meats, our focus is on the world of seasonal produce. When we write the menu or test ideas, we are always referencing the farmers’ current availability lists.

But before I began my culinary career, I was on a different trajectory. I grew up on the Georgia coast in Savannah, America’s first planned city. I was never afraid to cook, and in fact was quite comfortable in the kitchen. I used to rummage through drawers and cabinets, playing with the spice containers and sniffing each one, memorizing the smells. When I was a teenager, I would volunteer to make dinner for the family, opening up some cans or packages from the freezer and heating them up, and doctoring them, to suit my taste.

I moved to Atlanta in the late 1980s to attend architecture school at Georgia Tech. It was there that I got my first taste of living on my own. If I had enough money to go to the store, I would make my own food. My roommate at the time was always happy when I did because I usually made too much. I spent my final year abroad studying in Paris, France, and fell in love with the Parisian lifestyle of shopping on the streets of the marché with all of its specialized little storefronts. You simply walk from shop to shop on your way home and pick up what you need for the next day: bread, cheese, vegetables, fruits, and wine. I couldn’t afford to purchase meat, and the markets there inspired me to cook simple but satisfying vegetable-based meals on the single electric burner in my tiny one-room apartment.

From Paris, I returned to Atlanta, only to realize that my heart was not in the field of architecture. So I did what any twenty-one-year-old would do on his first summer off after sixteen years of schooling. I checked out. I picked up a guitar for the first time and started learning how to play and write songs. Just over a year later, I formed a band called Seely with some friends from college and we quickly and strangely became widely known and started climbing the college charts. We had the opportunity to play live shows all over the country and lead a fantastic life. But it wasn’t lucrative, so I turned to restaurants for supplemental income. I was working in short-order kitchens, but as we matured and took more time off between records, I sought out better food. I was lucky enough to land a job at local chef Anne Quatrano’s Floataway Café, one of the first real farm-to-table restaurants in the city. After that I started working under acclaimed Southern chef Scott Peacock at Watershed in Decatur, Georgia. Scott focused on traditional Southern cooking with seasonal flair and it was there that I planted my roots. I worked every station and eventually ended up running the kitchen. After nine years, I decided to go out on my own. With the help of my trusty friend and soon-to-be business partner, Neal McCarthy, I started Miller Union. I was beginning to realize that I had a knack for coaxing flavor out of just about any fruit or vegetable, and I wanted to explore it.

All plants are living things, with life forces and energy that we need to survive. Our earth is covered with edible plant life that changes and evolves throughout the year, following a somewhat predictable and seasonal course. It is the job of gardeners and farmers to navigate the many factors that affect this fresh produce as they seed, irrigate, prune, and harvest. I see it as the cook’s duty to acknowledge their hard work by respecting the vegetable. I truly believe that if a fruit or a vegetable is prepared with care, its very best features can be enhanced by the thoughtful cook.

There were many thoughtful cooks here before we were around. Think about a family that lived off of the farm, before industrialized food systems. If they harvested a pig, every single part of that animal would be used for something: pickled trotters, brains and eggs, liver pudding, chitterlings, breakfast sausage, pork chops, country ham, picnic shoulder, bacon, fatback, and so on. The same applies to the crops. If collards were being harvested, they might eat collards every day for weeks. The corn that was grown would be dried and then ground into cornmeal and later mixed with cultured buttermilk and chicken eggs and some hot fat from that pig. The term nose to tail was coined much later to describe this idea of using every part of an animal. Now I am proposing that we look at all food this way. Using every edible part of the plant, utilizing scraps, and composting are just as important. This is what I call Root to Leaf cooking.

We all need to eat more fresh produce. Plants are nature’s original vitamin supplements. Everything we need is there, if we pay attention, and eat what’s in season. Although I have always been healthy and active, in 2012, I was suddenly hit with a devastating diagnosis of cancer while writing the proposal for this book. I had to break away from all of my work at the restaurant, undergo surgery, cancel appearances, and endure chemotherapy for twelve weeks. During my treatment, I found solace in food. At a time when most people struggle to eat, I was drawn even more to cook for myself with local produce from the markets in order to heal more quickly. I ate as much fresh fruit and vegetables as I could get down, and continued to do so post-chemotherapy. This farm-fresh nutrition, coupled with herbs, probiotics, and positivity, helped me immensely. I cannot explain how this may have improved the healing process medically, but within two weeks of finishing chemotherapy, I was working a full-time schedule again and I haven’t stopped since.

I’m thankful for my health and full recovery and I feel I owe a lot of it to the world of fresh produce. Seasonal cooking begins with the harvest. And what I’ve come to learn is that there is little that changes so distinctly throughout the course of any year as the diverse world of fruits and vegetables.

SPRING

Springtime brings renewal. Ephemeral young buds, tender shoots, and pastel green leaves emerge. They disappear as quickly as they come when temperatures rise. The fleeting treasures of spring stay cool longer in the mountains, just a few hours away.

ASPARAGUS

As soon as daylight saving time begins, I start texting my produce guy. Have you seen any asparagus at the market yet? I ask. No, maybe next week, still waiting, he replies. Later that week, I prompt him again. Asparagus? Green garlic? Peas? By this time, I’ve had my fill of turnips and rutabagas. I’m prodding him for something fresh and green that screams spring, and I know that asparagus will be one of the first to rear its royal crown. When it does finally appear, we work those spears into the menu every way we can: diced in creamed rice, sautéed in fish dishes, pickled in jars, grilled and chilled as the centerpiece of the plate. I’ll shave asparagus into salads or peel it into thin ribbons and toss it with olive oil and garlic like a pasta.

Asparagus is one of the most recognizable symbols of spring. Its season is fleeting, with an average healthy patch yielding for only six to eight weeks. These tender shoots are one of the first things to emerge from the ground as the sun rises earlier each day. But it’s not just the warmth that brings these springtime treasures from their underground dwellings. This perennial, related to the lily, needs a cold winter to thrive. If the ground doesn’t freeze, it is difficult for the plant to go dormant and regenerate. Asparagus takes three to four years to begin producing from seed, but it can regenerate itself for fifteen years or more. It’s an old joke among homeowners who garden that a productive asparagus bed is a good reason to renovate rather than move.

These luxurious spears have always been a delicacy. Before asparagus was cultivated, it only grew wild in sandy maritime soils. Roman emperors would send out ships for the sole purpose of bringing it back for royal feasts. Nowadays, the demand for asparagus is so great that it is produced in and shipped from other parts of the world, so it is available in supermarkets nearly year-round. In the United States, the harvest is primarily from the chilly climates of Northern California, Washington State, and Michigan. Luckily, I can get asparagus in good supply from some of the local farms in Georgia as well as the mountainous regions of North Carolina.

Chlorophyll accounts for the distinctive green hue of asparagus, and it tinges the purple asparagus, too. The skin of the purple varieties contains anthocyanin, the antioxidant that is responsible for red, blue, or purple pigment in food. There is a farming process called blanching that inhibits chlorophyll development: it involves covering the spears with dirt and shielding them from the sun. This results in altered colors and less grassy flavors. Blanched purple varieties never darken beyond pink, and the blanched green varieties never actually turn green, but grow white. While there are minor flavor differences, they are basically interchangeable, and if you happen to find some of these less common colors, they make a stunning presentation.

Asparagus is marketed in specific sizes: pencil, standard, large, and jumbo. All have a similar flavor, but they benefit from different treatments in the kitchen. The smaller sizes need the least cooking, if any, and don’t require peeling. The larger, meatier ones may require peeling, especially toward the bottom of the spear. The best way to test is to slice off a piece near the bottom and eat it raw. If the skin is woody or stringy, peel the bottom third or so away. The skin nearest the top will be the most tender.

Whatever the color or size, look for firm, unblemished spears with bright color. The cut ends should not be too hard, although a little woodiness at the base prevents the stalk from drying out. Store asparagus like cut flowers—make a fresh cut at the bottom and set the spears in a vertical container filled with about 1 inch of water. Place a damp towel over the tips to keep them from drying out, until you are ready to use them.

ROASTED ASPARAGUS WITH GREEN GARLIC AND RADISHES

This vibrant side dish pairs asparagus with radishes quickly roasted together. Perfect with an Easter ham, the recipe also fits into a Mother’s Day brunch menu or adds seasonal flair to any weekday meal.

4 servings

1 pound standard or large asparagus

1 bunch radishes (reserve tops for another use)

1 stalk green garlic, thinly sliced (or 1 small garlic clove, finely chopped)

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1 to 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Heat the oven to 400°F. Wash the asparagus and trim away the base if woody. Pat dry. Slice the spears into 1-inch pieces and place in a large bowl. Wash the radishes and trim off the taproots. Quarter the radishes and add to the bowl. Add the green garlic, season with salt and pepper, drizzle with olive oil, and toss to combine. Transfer the mixture to a wide baking dish or baking sheet and spread out in a single layer. Roast on the middle rack of the oven until just tender, 10 to 15 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.

GRILLED ASPARAGUS WITH BREBIS AND BREAD CRUMBS

Temperature plays a critical role not only in cooking but also in eating. Consider what happens to asparagus when it briefly meets hot wood smoke and then is chilled before serving. The spears become refreshingly crisp, with a deep meaty flavor that tastes even better over a thick smear of creamy brebis, the sheep’s milk equivalent of fresh chèvre. Olive oil bread crumbs add a layer of savory crunch to the cheese in the same way that a graham cracker crust complements a cheesecake.

4 servings

1½ pounds standard or large asparagus

2 to 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

¼ cup (2 ounces) brebis (or chèvre)

¼ cup Olive Oil Bread Crumbs

2 medium radishes, halved and thinly sliced

½ teaspoon fresh lemon juice

4 teaspoons loosely packed chopped fresh mint

Grill the asparagus: Heat the grill to high. Wash the asparagus and trim away the base if woody. Pat dry. Lay the spears on a baking sheet or flat surface. Drizzle with olive oil, season lightly with salt and pepper, and toss to coat.

Lay the asparagus spears on the grill, perpendicular to the grill grates so they don’t fall through. Do not crowd. Lightly char 30 seconds to 2 minutes per side, depending on the thickness of the spears, turning with tongs. Be sure not to overcook, as the hot asparagus will continue to cook once removed from the grill. Transfer to a plate in a single layer to cool. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Assemble the salad: Place 1 tablespoon brebis in the center of 4 plates. With the back of a spoon, smear it across the middle of the plate. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon bread crumbs across the cheese. Lay the asparagus in a single row across each of the plates. In a small bowl, toss the radish slices with the lemon juice and a pinch of salt. Garnish each portion with some of the radishes and sprinkle with mint. Drizzle each salad with more olive oil if desired.

OLIVE OIL BREAD CRUMBS

I like having these around to sprinkle on salads or add to simple pasta dishes. They taste like well-seasoned garlic bread in the form of a crispy fine crumb.

About 1 cup

½ loaf rustic sourdough bread or a baguette, preferably stale

1 tablespoon finely chopped green garlic (or 1 small garlic clove, finely chopped)

¼ to cup extra virgin olive oil (enough to saturate crumbs)

Fine sea salt

Heat the oven to 300°F. Cut the bread into 1-inch cubes and spread in a single layer on a baking sheet. Bake until completely dry but not browned, 10 to 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool. Working in small batches, transfer the toasted bread to a blender and blend into fine bread crumbs. Do not fill the blender pitcher more than one-fourth full. Transfer the bread crumbs to a wide skillet. Add the green garlic and olive oil (just enough to saturate), and season with salt. Turn the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring constantly, until the crumbs are lightly browned. Taste for seasoning and adjust as needed.

CARROTS

Of all the species in the vegetable world, I have the longest history with carrots. They may very well be the first vegetable that I not only agreed to eat but also actually liked. As a kid, I didn’t care at all for cooked carrots, which I thought were mushy and overly sweet. But I loved carrots raw and would stand at the refrigerator door eating them straight out of the crisper. You’re going to turn orange if you keep doing that, my mother would warn me.

As a grown-up chef, I am always discovering ways to create the perfect cooked carrot. Its natural sweetness can be balanced with acid or savory herbs, or enhanced with maple syrup, sugar, honey, or sorghum; the texture can be tempered by roasting or braising instead of boiling. In cooking terms, carrots are aromatic plants that add deep flavor and aroma to whatever they are cooked with and are often used in combination with other vegetables for braises, sauces, and stews. Carrots are related to parsley, celery, chervil, cilantro, dill, fennel, and parsnips. They do best in spring and fall weather, but do not grow well in winter and cannot survive hot summer days.

I am a lot pickier about my carrots now than when I was a kid, because I understand the special earthy sweetness of a freshly harvested bunch. The carrots that you might find at a farmers’ market will, I guarantee, be some of the best you have ever tried. They are almost like a different vegetable. I have a particular disdain for those bagged baby carrots in the supermarket, which are typically regular-size carrots that have been whittled into uniform baby-carrot-size pieces.

Carrots come in many shapes, colors, and sizes. Besides the expected orange, carrots can be purple, pink, red, white, and yellow. Some are indeed naturally tiny. Others are ginormous: the longest recorded carrot measured over nineteen feet. They may be tapered or truncated, elongated or round, straight or gnarled. Imperator carrots are the classic long, tapered shapes that are most commonly seen. The Nantes varieties grow six to seven inches long in a cylindrical shape with blunt tips. Chantenay varieties are shorter and more squat, and usually grow from one to four inches in length. The first domesticated carrots were red, purple, and black and were grown in Afghanistan. Then in the eighteenth century, the Dutch developed an orange carrot and fed it to their cows to produce richer milk and yellow-tinged butter.

Carrots have a special talent for absorbing heavy metals from contaminated soil, so buy organic whenever possible. If they are sold with tops, look for fresh perky greens and deep color. Don’t buy carrots that are limp or soft. If they are cracked or green, they could be bitter. Not all carrots need to be peeled. In fact, you need to peel them only if they are very large or especially rough and dirty. Otherwise, just give them a good scrubbing in cool water. Store them in the refrigerator but protect them from the dry air by keeping them in a sealable plastic bag or covered with a damp cotton towel. Once carrots go limp, there is little you can do to revive them.

If you buy carrots with the tops still intact, separate the tops from the roots before refrigerating. Because the tops are trying to stay alive, they will draw moisture, nutrients, and flavor out of the carrots. The tops are edible, but I am not a fan of their strong flavor—unless I’m making Gumbo Z’Herbes, or blending them with a host of herbs into an à la minute salsa verde.

Mom may have been onto something when she warned me not to eat too many carrots. Because carrots are rich in beta-carotene, overconsumption can cause one’s skin to turn yellow or orange, especially on the hands and feet. If this happens to you, try to branch out and eat a few other vegetables, preferably of different colors.

PICKLED BABY CARROTS

These crisp, tangy pickled carrots are easy to make and extremely versatile. You can thinly slice them and add them to a salad, serve them alongside a sandwich, or eat them straight out of the jar for a healthy snack. If you prefer, you can strain off the spices while pouring the hot brine over the carrots. This will make them easier to handle later, as no spices will be floating around in the jar and clinging to the carrots.

1 quart

1 to 2 bunches baby carrots, about ½ inch thick at top

1 cup apple cider vinegar

1 tablespoon honey

4½ teaspoons kosher salt

½ teaspoon mustard seeds

½ teaspoon black peppercorns

½ teaspoon allspice berries

½ teaspoon coriander seeds

½ teaspoon fennel seeds

1 whole clove

Trim off the carrot tops and taproots. Wash and scrub the carrots thoroughly. If thicker than ½ inch in diameter, slice in half lengthwise. Place the trimmed, washed carrots in a clean quart jar. In a small pot over high heat, combine the vinegar, honey, 1¼ cups water, and salt. Add the mustard seeds, peppercorns, allspice, coriander, fennel, and clove. Bring to a rapid boil, and cook about 5 minutes. Pour the hot brine into the jar, leaving ¼ inch of headspace. Place the lid on top of the jar, screw on the band, and refrigerate after cooling. The carrots are best after 2 days and will keep, refrigerated, for up to 3 months.

SORGHUM-GLAZED BABY CARROTS

I like to cook carrots in this flavorful liquid until they are barely tender, and then rescue them from the pan. The starch that the carrots leave behind reduces with the pan liquids to form a glaze that is tossed with the carrots just before serving.

4 to 6 servings

1 cup hard apple cider

½ cup sorghum (honey, molasses, or maple syrup may be substituted)

Juice of 1 lemon

Juice of 1 orange

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 bunches baby carrots (about 1 pound trimmed)

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Combine the cider, sorghum, lemon juice, orange juice, and butter in a wide skillet. Bring to a simmer, then add the carrots in a single layer. You may need to cook them in batches, depending on the size of your pan. Lightly season the carrots with salt and pepper and cook until tender, about 10 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and continue to simmer the sauce until it is reduced to a thin glaze. Before serving, put the carrots back in the pan and reheat them in the glaze.

ROASTED CARROTS WITH RED ONION AND THYME

Carrots can sometimes come across as overly sweet when cooked, but quickly roasting them with strong flavors like red onion and fresh thyme brings out their savory side. This simple, straightforward preparation is delicious with braised rabbit, with duck confit, or in the mix on a vegetable plate. This was one