A unique class of Italian liqueurs, amari are the ultimate all-in-one spirits. Carefully concocted from wild herbs, roots, and flowers, the best contain all the depth of flavor and complexity of a craft cocktail while their alcohol content makes them smooth sippers. Their medicinal aspects are most pronounced when served neat, though a splash of seltzer or an ice cube or two is never a bad decision. Italians have been making these aperitivi and digestivi for centuries, slowly perfecting the craft with the patience of a monk on a mountaintop (which is actually how many of them are traditionally made).

So while the average overly ambitious person might not produce a sublime, retailable amaro on the first try, that didn’t stop me from wanting to make a go of it. To start, I turned to Sother Teague, the barman behind New York City’s Amor y Amargo, a tasting room devoted to the craft of bitters. “The exciting (and frustrating) thing about amari,” he told me, “is there really aren’t any rules. ‘Bittersweet liqueur’ is the basic definition, and from there, anything goes.”

Bitter and sweet. It’s a start. But the final product is infinitely complex, and most recipes remain a secret: One of my favorites, Bràulio, from Valtellina in the Italian Alps, uses gentian root as its bittering agent and gets its deep brown color from years spent aging in oak barrels. A blend of herbs gathered from the alpine hills fills in the gaps between recognizable flavor bursts of spearmint, juniper, and chamomile. Even Campari, perhaps the most well-known of the Italian amari family, keeps its ingredient list behind lock and key, alluding only to an infusion of “herbs, aromatic plants, and fruit.” And it’s not just the Italians; the French have their bitter amers, and the Germans have their slightly sweeter kräuterlikör, the recipes of which all remain equally elusive.

Let’s start with bitter. “Gentian root and cinchona bark are the workhorses when it comes to bittering agents,” Brad Thomas Parsons, author of Amaro, told me the other day as I started plotting my grocery list. Gentian root contains many bitter compounds that release easily into alcohol, but most notable is amarogentin, supposedly the most bitter-tasting compound of all. “Bitterness can also come from other ingredients like wormwood, licorice root, and even tea leaves,” Parsons adds; the complete list in his book goes on to include burdock root, angelica root, cherry tree bark, fringe tree bark, and quassia bark—all ingredients high in bitter compounds. 

With the bitter accounted for, the rest of the ingredients start to feel like a free-for-all. “There’s a Wild West element to making amaro,” Parsons told me, “but there are some category profiles to consider.” When he creates an amaro, he avoids using commercially available products as models: “Most Italian producers have a headstart by a century or two,” he said, “so I’m not necessarily interested in making a clone of an existing amaro, but instead creating something driven by the season, occasion, or spotlighting local ingredients.”

Most amari were the result of foraging ingredients from the surrounding landscape, and therefore came to represent the flavors of their respective locations. Danny Childs, in his book Slow Drinks, tried to recreate an alpine-style amaro using plant parts scavenged from his home state of New Jersey in the wintertime—pine needles, juniper branches, birch bark, and horehound sprigs, to name a few.

The real magic of amaro, it seems, is that it doesn’t really matter so long as the plants are edible and the flavors appeal; a variety of contrasting and complementary elements will ultimately result in something complex and intriguing. It’s also worth noting that certain ingredients can seem appealing but should be avoided due to their latent toxicity. It’s best to start with a recipe, or at least do some research beforehand.

For my first foray, I used Parsons’ “Rite of Spring Amaro” as a loose guide. I visited Flower Power, an herbalist shop in Manhattan that stocks food-grade botanicals, and stocked up on angelica root, elderflower, licorice root, dried hops, calendula petals, hyssop, cardamom pods, lemongrass, and dried artichoke leaf. I also gathered some citrus peels, anise seed, fresh sage, fresh mint, and a few hoja santa leaves that were lying around the SAVEUR test kitchen.

I muddled a small heap of each of them together with a mortar and pestle, breaking down the fibers of the leaves and the citrus peels, and incorporating them all before putting the mixture in a giant lidded mason jar and covering it with Spirytus Rektyfikowany, a Polish rectified spirit not unlike Everclear that clocks in at 96 percent alcohol by volume (ABV). And then I covered it with a kitchen towel and put it under my desk for five weeks.

By the time I uncovered it, the mixture had turned a cloudy olive green color, and when I removed the lid, I was reminded of the sheer amount of alcohol present in it; at first it smelled like paint thinner, but then it opened up into a perfume of grapefruit peels, then a warm, herbaceous aroma of freshly cut summer lawns. In hindsight, I was perhaps a bit overzealous with the alcohol—I learned that a neutral spirit between 50 and 75 percent ABV will do just fine and will result in a final product that requires less dilution to taste nice. But my infusion was a whopping 192-proof, and the lightest drop on your tongue came with a burning sensation and an intense bitter sting. This is where the sweet part of ‘bittersweet liqueur’ comes in.

After the infusion is strained through a cheesecloth over a fine-mesh strainer (and strained again, then again once more), the sweetening stage is when you get to balance the bitterness of the liqueur you’ve prepared, and when you can bring your undrinkable hooch down to a palatable ABV. Kate O’Connor Morris, an experienced home amaro maker, says 30 percent ABV is her sweet spot. “30 percent gets you a smooth, non-burning sipping bitter that can also shine through when mixed with other ingredients into a cocktail,” she told me.

Frankly, I was worried I’d ruin it. With some slightly complicated math I hadn’t used since high school, I figured I’d need to mix my amaro with around twice its volume in simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar) to get it even close to the 30-ish percent range. I imagined a treacle-y sweet schnapps-like concoction that would have defeated the whole purpose of waiting a month for something meant to be intentionally bitter. So I experimented again, using a syrup made from a higher ratio of water to sugar, taste testing with every addition until I felt it didn’t need to be any sweeter. The alcohol content got progressively weaker as the mixing went on, but I still consumed enough that I’m slightly unsure of my math at the end there. (I think I got it to about 33 percent?) Everyone in the office had a sip and mostly the reaction was, “This is…actually really good?” I was giddy with success (and maybe a little drunk).

Poured over ice, it was the best I could have imagined it being. It tasted like it smelled: citrusy, herbaceous, and assertively bitter, with only the slightest sugary-sweet aftertaste. It certainly wasn’t Bràulio—it lacked the precision of flavor and the toasty vanilla notes from barrel-aging—but it was good, and far greater than the sum of its parts. If you’d like to make your own amaro, here’s a choose-your-own-adventure guide to help you get started. Or, you can trust the professionals and follow a recipe. But isn’t experimenting half the fun?

How to Make Your Own Amaro

Making your own amaro can be divided into five basic elements: the spirit, the bitter ingredients, the dried ingredients, the fresh ingredients, and the sweeteners used at the very end.

1. Spirit: Start with any overproof clear spirit that strikes your fancy (think vodka, rum, or Everclear), but try and keep it neutral so the flavors you choose can develop fully and shine through on their own. Around 75 percent ABV (or 150 proof) is ideal, but don’t go below 50 percent ABV, or the alcohol won’t absorb the flavors as well.

2. Bitter: Arguably the most important component, the bitter provides the backbone of the finished product. Choose one or two bittering agents to add to the infusion—like cherry tree bark, cinchona bark, wormwood, licorice root, angelica root, or gentian root—and use about one tablespoon per 750mL of spirit.

3. Dried: The dried ingredients lend depth and complexity to amaro and allow for a more diverse flavor experience than you can get with fresh ingredients alone (unless, of course, you happen to live on an alpine hillside). Use about one teaspoon each of 5–10 edible dried components as it appeals to you, like lemongrass, anise seeds, cardamom, juniper cranberries, hyssop, or elderflower.

4. Fresh: The liveliness of fresh herbs adds top layers of brightness to amaro, but use them sparingly as fresh ingredients like citrus peels can easily become overpowering. Use a handful of fresh mint, sage, or rosemary and a few strips of orange, grapefruit, or lemon zest.

5. Sweet: Once everything gets muddled together and infuses for several weeks, the inedible alcohol infusion needs to be diluted and sweetened to taste. Simple syrup is a classic, but for more depth of flavor, you can make a demerara syrup or dilute honey or maple syrup with fresh water before stirring into your filtered amaro.

Recipe: Alpine-Style Winter Amaro

Get the recipe >

The post How to Make a Perfectly Balanced, Complex Amaro at Home appeared first on Saveur.

This piece originally appeared in SAVEUR’s Spring/Summer 2025 issue. See more stories from Issue 204.

The first thing I learned from chef Olia Hercules is that you can chase a shot of vodka with a tomato. Specifically, a cherry tomato lacto-fermented in a tomato-pulp brine until its insides are fizzy and the whole thing explodes as soon as it lands on your tongue. It was 2015, and Olia was at the former SAVEUR offices in New York City celebrating the launch of her first cookbook, Mamushka: Recipes From Ukraine and Eastern Europe, a love letter to her home country. Fueled by strong liquor and an epic ’80s playlist, we were dancing on the tables late into the night. Stumbling back to my apartment, I realized something else about Olia: She knows how to make people feel at home.

Today, in London, at the Leytonstone house she shares with her husband, ­photographer Joe Woodhouse, and their two sons, Sasha and Wilf, that spirit of conviviality is alive and well—and more necessary than ever. When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, Olia poured all her energy into activism and organizing, co­founding #CookForUkraine with friend and chef Alissa Timoshkina, and raising more than $2.5 million for organizations, including the Legacy of War Foundation, Choose Love, and UNICEF. Her spacious home kitchen is an anchor for this work, as well as a crucial refuge from it—a place where she can surround herself with beauty, life, and art, which she treats as a form of therapy.

In her forthcoming memoir, Strong Roots: A Memoir of Food, Family, and Ukraine, out this summer, Olia dives deep into her relationship with the idea of home, and the cyclical nature of settling in and ultimately being cast out that has affected her family across Eastern Europe for generations. When we caught up recently, we talked about bringing elements of these family histories into the kitchen (specifically in the form of Ukrainian paintings and embroidery), the life-giving power of surrounding oneself with plants, an industrial-size cooking device by the name of Pylyp, and how to draw strength from them all during difficult times.

Alex Testere: What first drew you to this home?

Olia Hercules: I’ve lived in London for about 22 years, and at the end of 2017, we were looking for a house that could also be a studio for my cooking classes and for my husband Joe’s photography. Our friends moved into a new place and mentioned the house across the street was for sale. The woman who lived there before had built this huge kitchen extension, kind of like a dining area and cookery area together, and there was this big cooker with two sides where we can chop, almost like his-and-hers, which was perfect as well. Joe had these massive custom cutting boards at our previous house, and they slotted perfectly into the sideboard. It was lucky—it had been done pretty much how we would have done it anyway.

What role does the kitchen play in your home now? 

It’s the epicenter of everything. I work there, and we’ve got a little settee where I like to read. I host cooking classes there, and record ­videos for the online lessons I host on Patreon. Joe will sometimes use it as a studio. We’ve filled it with plants, so it’s a little bit of a jungle. With the French doors and this big, tarnished 1930s mirror, there’s so much light. It feels like you’re outside or in an orangery.

Is there some special significance behind the plants?

When we moved in, there were two ­important things I wanted: a long table a lot of people could sit at, and the plants. I found this woman on Etsy who lives nearby and propagated loads of plants that I got for quite cheap. And now they’re huge, they’re like these massive trees that fill the kitchen. It’s important to me because my grandmother was basically, you know, she was inside and out. She had plants everywhere, and my mother as well, so I guess this is a continuation of that.

“Inside and out” reminds me of your book Summer Kitchens: Recipes and Reminiscences From Every Corner of Ukraine, where you wrote about the rustic outbuildings many Ukrainian homes have for gardening and for storing produce and jars of ferments—things like that.

When I describe my parents’ home, the first thing that comes to mind is the garden. For Ukrainians, this idea of a garden and of the land is very important. Our kitchen opens right onto the garden, where I’ve mostly got herbs and medicinals, things I can’t always get at the supermarket. And I’ve got so many little objects that reflect the plant world—embroideries, dried flowers, these Ukrainian Petrykivka-style paintings of a man in a garden, a fish in a barrel. It’s all quite surreal, I guess, but it reminds me of how I’m constantly trying to marry my memories of Ukraine with how we live here in London.

Tell me about what you’re fermenting now.

There are probably 50 jars sitting around at different levels of fermentation—purple corn, aubergines, cabbages, tomatoes. I’ve got all these experiments, and lots of them are set on plates because they can get very active and leak everywhere. The fridge is full of them, too. Poor Joe is just waiting for me to start giving them away. 

You’ve got a lot of different objects on display. Have you collected them over time?

They built up quite gradually. I wouldn’t say we’re hoarders, but we’re definitely not minimalists, me and Joe. He loves his French brocante, so we probably could kit out a restaurant with how many vintage French plates we’ve got. I’ve become quite obsessed with baskets, which we now have hanging from the ceiling, and which I use for foraging. I’m really into Ukrainian things, obviously, so I’ve got loads of pottery, textiles, and hand-embroidered antique cloths. There are watermelons everywhere, which are the symbol of Kherson, my home region in Ukraine. We also have these incredible cushions from Finnish designer Klaus Haapaniemi, with fabrics based on Finnish fairy tales. It’s a riot of color.

I know you’ve been doing more painting and drawing lately. Does that ­happen in the kitchen, too?

Art has really become my therapy over the last couple years, you know, whenever I’m feeling sad or there’s bad news, I just go, okay, time to get painting. I’ve got my revolving therapy door in the kitchen that I paint—it’s a Ukrainian tradition, actually. Before holidays, people will paint decorative designs and plants on their walls, which will suck in the bad energy and evil spirits; afterward, they whitewash the walls and start fresh. So I’ve got this door, and this time I’ve done a mural of dill flowers. The paint is quite thick at this point!

I’m definitely going to start doing that with the old kitchen doors at my house. With all the decorative detail, how do you keep the kitchen functional? 

Most of that [décor] is in the dining area—we’ve got this whole other more functional side. There’s quite a big larder, and these stainless steel sinks we put in, like proper restaurant-style, which we needed for the kind of work we’re doing. There are pots and pans everywhere, including a massive pot for when I am making an industrial amount of soup. We never make a small pot of borshch. I’ve got loads and loads of jars I use for fermenting, and kitchen towels, which are so useful. There’s my grandmother’s rolling pin, which has probably rolled thousands of dumplings throughout its life. Oh! And how could I forget about Pylyp!?

Who is Pylyp?

Pylyp is a giant metal steamer Joe got at a Vietnamese shop nearby for my first dumpling class, and of course we had to give him a Ukrainian name. He comes out pretty much every time I have a class or when I’m making a ton of dumplings. He’s also very useful for steaming whole heads of cabbage, which I actually do a lot, to ferment or to make cabbage rolls. Pylyp is one of the most important members of the family.

We should all be so lucky to have a Pylyp in the family. Whether it’s family or folks coming for a cooking class, what do you hope your guests feel when you invite them in?

Sometimes I’m like, “Oh my god, do people think I’m completely nuts?” But I think they feel that warmth. Joe and I joke that when the kids are older, we’ll have a more pristine kitchen, but for now it’s just chaos. People have told me they feel immediately at home here, though. I just want to bring around life, you know? And I want living things around me at all times, especially now. All of those objects, the garden, the plants—they give me strength.

Recipes

Spring Borshch With Peas and Wild Mushrooms

Get the recipe >

Lacto-Fermented Cherry Tomatoes

Get the recipe >

The post Olia Hercules’ Kitchen Is a Haven for Plants, Art, and Community appeared first on Saveur.

I’m a firm believer that everyone who eats food (which is practically all of us) should learn how to grow it—or at the very least, familiarize ourselves with the process. Even beyond simply sustaining ourselves, growing our own produce can help us develop respect for the farmers and laborers who keep our grocery stores and farmers markets stocked, and give us an understanding of the value and community behind it. As Chez Panisse chef Alice Waters shared with me in an interview this past summer, “there is no more meaningful work than that.”

In putting together these gift suggestions for gardeners and plant lovers, I wanted to celebrate the people who love to grow their own food, whether it’s seasoned growers who’ve been tending their plots for decades or relative newcomers, like myself, who are still learning the ropes (but want to look cute doing it in a pair of bright blue garden clogs). There’s still plenty of planning to do before planting season is upon us—here’s what’s on my holiday wish list in the meantime. 

Gardenheir Italian Garden Clogs

Check Price

What is it specifically about these shoes that makes them “garden clogs,” you may ask? I couldn’t tell you, except that I fantasize about wearing them while plucking worms and weeds out of my raised beds all summer long. From stylish home and garden brand Gardenheir, they’ve got a comfy removable cork insole and are otherwise entirely waterproof, so they’ll be right at home during the morning watering. They come in a bunch of fun colors, but I’ve got my sights set on “bluebird.”  

Terrain Cotton Crusher Hat

Check Price

Gone are the days (in my mind anyway) of glorifying the excessive summer tan—everyone I know is way more interested in keeping their skin healthy and protected from the sun’s damaging UV rays. Sunscreens help, but when it comes to keeping the heat off your neck and face, nothing beats a good old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat. This UPF 50 cotton number from Terrain comes in eight colors and features a healthy 5-inch brim—and you might find yourself wearing it to the farmers market, too, because it just looks that good. 

Nisaku Hori-Hori Namibagata Japanese Weeding Knife

Check Price

The word “hori” in Japanese means “to dig,” and to say that’s what this tool does is the understatement of the century. It digs, yes, thanks to its trowel-like shape, but it also has two sharp edges, one of which is serrated, which makes it ideal for slicing through stubborn roots below the soil’s surface, or quickly clipping twigs or stalks that have grown unwieldy. Cutting things apart—whether it’s dried out, stubborn soil or undesirable offshoots—is a surprisingly important part of helping things grow, and these simple little knives do it all with ease. You could find a fancy one if you wanted, but this ultra-affordable one from Nisaku is remarkably efficient. 

Hudson Valley Seed Company Vegetable Seed Pack

Check Price

In one of my recent “Plot to Plate” columns, I waxed poetic about the beauty of seeds and offered up a bunch of my favorite retailers. One of my favorites is the Hudson Valley Seed Company, which gets bonus points in my book for being queer-owned and close to home. Their vegetable seed pack is a great starter for some springtime plantings, and includes five different seed packs featuring original produce-inspired artworks. Another favorite, Truelove Seeds, has a tremendous variety of heirloom seeds from the African diaspora, including the historically significant fish pepper, which makes an excellent hot sauce. 

FoodCycler Eco 3

Check Price

There are quite a few “countertop composting” devices on the market now, but the term is rather misleading, as they’re not composting your food scraps so much as dehydrating and pulverizing them, making them less smelly and easier to dispose of. (Wirecutter recently published a great explainer on their pros and cons.) While they certainly do not produce a microbe-rich living product you can add directly to your garden, the ground-up bits make a nice addition to the home compost pile, as they’re much quicker to break down than average scraps and are full of nutrients ready to be unlocked. If you know someone who is already composting at home on a small scale, this sleek countertop device is a great way to help things along. 

Vakker Lighting Zen Buddha Table Lamp

Check Price

Sure, you could bring a flashlight into the garden when you’re foraging for fresh herbs after dark, or you could bring this hand-held rechargeable lamp like something out of a Miyazaki movie. Stephanie Pancratz, SAVEUR’s managing director of editorial operations, also thinks it’s great for outdoor dinner parties, or for illuminating the dark corners of tables that “lack light but need to show me if I’m grabbing a piece of cheddar cheese (good choice) or blue cheese (better left for someone else).” 

Primavera Avocados Holiday Gift Bundle

Check Price

For anyone who appreciates the simple pleasure of a perfectly (yes, perfectly) ripe avocado, consider this lovely gift bundle from a family-owned California ranch. The harvest from Primavera Avocados is delivered fresh from the tree and is never held in cold storage, ensuring a slow and exceptionally even ripening process. For the holidays, the owners have partnered up with Ilex Studio to offer a case of avocados paired with this charming borosilicate-glass growing vase so recipients can take a crack at growing an avocado tree of their own. Avocado plants grown at home from pits are unlikely to bear their own fruit, but it’s a fun project nonetheless. 

Into the Weeds

Check Price

In her book Into the Weeds: How to Garden Like a Forager, author Tama Matsuoka Wong provides readers with bountiful ideas for making the most of their home garden spaces by taking inspiration from the wild world of weeds. In addition to practical advice for planting and harvesting, she also offers tips for utilizing invasive plants in culinary applications, such as making pickles from Japanese knotweed or substituting foraged wild mustards in for broccoli rabe. 

Flamingo Estate Roma Heirloom Tomato Candle

Check Price

I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that one of my all-time favorite parts of the summer garden is brushing my arms through a thicket of tomato leaves and releasing their pungent, peppery aroma into the air. This candle from luxury home goods brand Flamingo Estate captures the essence of the tomato patch, hand-poured in a recyclable glass vessel in Los Angeles. To add a little zest to your daily dishwashing, they make a version of their dish soap in this scent as well.

Every product is independently selected and vetted by editors. Things you buy through our links may earn us a commission.

The post The Best Gifts for Gardeners This Season appeared first on Saveur.

The skin of the first specimen—dubbed “Lemongrab,” from Warren, Vermont—is electric yellow with a hazy glow, almost as if lit from within. Pomologists, scientists who study the cultivation of fruit, call this irregularity scarf skin: The apple’s epidermis has separated slightly from its flesh, allowing light to refract in the spaces between. The effect is otherworldly; the fruit resembles a tiny planet, its whorls and flecks shifting like atmospheric storms.

“Denbow Etoile,” “Bowdler Bitter,” and “Tonguelasher” are next on the table, three of the 160 wild apple varieties on display at Matt Kaminsky’s annual Pomological Exhibition in Williamsburg, Massachusetts. Each entry is diced and displayed on a paper plate alongside toothpicks for sampling. Pens and paper are provided for visitors to jot down their tasting notes. Observations run the gamut from the conventional (“musky,” “acidic,” “honeysuckle”) to the bizarre (“ashtray,” “hairspray”) to the downright confrontational (“why are you picking these???”).

The exhibition debuted in 2019 as a way for Kaminsky, an orchardist and arborist, to share the strange varieties he had encountered in his studies. “But it kind of overtook my life and became my passion project,” he says. Apple seeds, it turns out, carry a tremendous amount of genetic diversity. Commercial apple varieties are produced by grafting; every Granny Smith apple tree, for example, is a direct clone of another. “Apples aren’t the first thing people think of when they think of a monoculture,” Kaminsky says, “but when you’re cloning that original tree, exact copies of the same organism are occupying dozens or hundreds or even thousands of acres of land.” The lack of biodiversity can have adverse effects on the environment.

A tree grown from seed, however, will produce completely novel fruit and adapt naturally to its terrain; Kaminsky is constantly seeking out resilient varieties that offer great flavor for eating—or applications in cider—that require little maintenance to grow. Countless undocumented varieties are growing in backyards, on roadsides, and in untended fields, all waiting to be discovered and cataloged in the latest volume of Kaminsky’s Pomological Series, an annual book he produces with photographer William Mullan.

With the exhibition entering its fifth year, Kaminsky now receives hundreds of submissions each fall, and every apple is tasted and judged. The apple voted “Best Quality Eating” in 2023 was called “Scout” and hailed from an orchard in Palermo, Maine; In 2022, it was “Lady Marmalade” from Alvadore, Oregon. Lately, he is sourcing dormant twigs, or scion wood, from the most compelling and flavorful varieties, which he uses to graft and propagate young trees in his home nursery. By making the saplings available for purchase, growers of all levels are able to access and cultivate more of these noteworthy fruits. “That’s what’s great about wild apples,” he says. “They belong to everyone.”

For more information and to submit your own wild apples to the fifth annual Wild and Seedling Pomological Exhibition in November 2024, visit gnarlypippins.com.

Recipe

Pan-Roasted Pork Chop with Apples and Mustard-Onion Gravy

Get the recipe >

The post Apples Gone Wild: An Exhibition Shows Off the Diversity of These Feral Fruits appeared first on Saveur.

This isn’t your average potato salad: Small, tender potatoes are boiled, smashed, and pan-roasted to crispy perfection before being tossed with roasted peppers, shallots, and a tangy Greek yogurt dressing. A heap of juicy cherry tomatoes lends brightness to the slow-simmered flavors inspired by chicken Basquaise, a Basque chicken dish that heavily features pimentón, or smoked Spanish paprika, and is often served with potatoes. SAVEUR x Burlap & Barrel’s Chicken Basquaise Spice Blend adds a smoky warmth complemented by hyssop thyme and coriander. When it comes to the potatoes, crispy edges are key, so don’t be afraid to let them roast as long as they need—the crunchy spuds will have plenty of craggy bits for soaking up the creamy dressing. The potatoes will start to soften once they’re dressed, so toss with the dressing right before serving.

Order SAVEUR x Burlap & Barrel’s Chicken Basquaise Spice Blend here.

The post Smashed Potato Salad With Cherry Tomatoes and Roasted Peppers appeared first on Saveur.

Plot to Plate is a SAVEUR column in which features editor Alex Testere exercises his green thumb, sharing practical gardening tips and seasonal produce-driven recipes from his patch of earth in New York’s Hudson Valley. He is also the author and illustrator of Please Grow: Lessons on Thriving for Plants (and People).

Autumn has finally arrived in upstate New York: The trees are beginning to release their spent leaves, glinting golden in the pale light; purple asters and feathery goldenrods bob and sway on the roadsides; and the air, devoid of its former humidity, is crisp and cool and ripe with the fragrance of woodsmoke and toasty earth. Frankly, I don’t like it one bit.

Don’t get me wrong, I respect the necessity of autumn. Most temperate climate plants need a dormant phase in order to survive, and this change of seasons is the critical signal for plants to send their energy into their roots—a means of staying safe and sturdy until spring. I appreciate that this transition into the cooler months is an opportunity to harden up, to thicken our figurative bark, growing stronger in the process. And, of course, my ever-growing collection of wool sweaters demands at least three months of the year to sufficiently spend enough time with them all. And so I begrudgingly permit the advance of autumn. But while many vegetables still thrive in the cooler months—broccoli, kale, beets—I have a hard time letting go of the summer garden, with its sun-baked fruits luminescent on the vine and the thrum of bees drifting between blossoms.   

Thankfully, generations of farmers and gardeners have honed their skills in capturing the warm season’s bounty, preserving it throughout the year. With the modern luxury of the supermarket, though, most of us today are less concerned with sustenance gardening. We may not rely on the summer’s harvest to nourish us through the barren winter, but that doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the honeyed burst of a preserved Sungold tomato on a frigid January afternoon. This fall, driven by a fervent desire to bottle up all of last season’s warm tingly sensations lest a single glowing drop slip through my fingers, I’m brushing up on fermentation.

Admittedly, some kinds of preserves can feel a bit fussy, particularly if the goal is shelf-stable pickles, jams, or tomato purées that can last at room temperature for years. (You can read master preserver Camilla Wynne’s excellent guide to waterbath canning here, if you like.) But rather than getting lost in the sauce, I’m thinking more about short-term preservation projects that are just fine to be left in the fridge for a while. I find it takes a bit of the pressure off, and there are fewer things that can go wrong. That’s where lacto-fermentation comes in, a method of preserving that uses salt to encourage the growth of beneficial Lactobacillus bacteria. Even if you aren’t familiar with the term, you’ve likely experienced it in the form of kimchi, sauerkraut, and some kinds of cucumber pickles, all of which are known for their distinct crunch and tart, tangy flavor. It’s a straightforward process that is surprisingly simple (and safe) to execute at home.

A few weeks ago, after picking up a haul of hot peppers from my local farmers market (deer broke in and devoured my plants at home, a story for another time), I had my heart set on making a fermented hot sauce. I sliced the chiles up in a jar with some garlic, shallot, and carrot, added 2 percent of the mixture’s weight in kosher salt, and set the whole thing aside to work its magic. After a few days’ time and a blitz in the blender, the result was a vivid vermillion spoonable sauce with all the heat of the summer sun. Okay, the heat level was actually closer to that of the Hungarian hot peppers I sourced, but you get the idea. I’ve since been adding a dollop to just about everything—my toast and eggs in the morning; dipping sauces for crispy spring rolls; one-pot macaroni and cheese; the tub of ranch dressing from my local pizza joint—and it’s got me thinking about all the other fruits and vegetables I can still get my hands on now, and how I can hold onto them in the dark months to come. Below are my tips for making the most of your summer produce using lacto-fermentation.  

The Basics

Lacto-fermentation is a two-part process. First, salt or a salt brine helps create an environment in which harmful bacteria cannot survive, leaving behind only the beneficial Lactobacillus. Then, these friendly microbes consume the sugars present in your fruits and vegetables and convert them into carbon dioxide and lactic acid, effectively lowering the pH and acting as a natural preservative. You will notice lacto-ferments will get very bubbly as they become more active, and if they’re in an airtight jar, will need to have their lids opened daily to prevent the gases from building up and creating pressure within the vessel. In addition to lending satisfying crunch and tang to any number of garden vegetables, lacto-fermentation also makes for nutritionally rich probiotic foods, which are helpful for digestion and overall gut health.   

Equipment

Start by finding some nonreactive vessels such as glass or glazed ceramic. A mason jar will do the trick, but be cautious with the lids and lid rings, as excessive salt and acid can cause the metal to corrode. Weck jars are my personal favorite as they come in a variety of sizes and have glass lids with rubber rings. During fermentation, you can simply remove the rubber ring while leaving the lid on to prevent an airtight seal from forming, enabling any pent-up gases to escape on their own. Fermentation crocks utilize a water seal, which also allows for gases to escape without requiring any “burping.” They also typically come with a set of weights, which can help keep the produce submerged in the brine, preventing it from molding. If you don’t have weights, Heirloom author Sarah Owens suggests using a zip-top bag filled with water, which will easily shrink or expand to fit in most vessels. 

Measure Salt by Weight

Salt is a natural antibacterial, though the trace amounts of minerals in it can actually be helpful for certain bacteria, like Lactobacillus, to thrive. The key to successful lacto-fermentation is the proper amount of salt—too much will hinder the growth of all bacteria, including Lactobacillus, and too little will fail to kill off everything else. A good starting ratio is 2 percent salt by weight, though you can generally go up to 5 percent if you’re working with particularly watery produce like cucumbers or tomatoes. If something seems more prone to mold, or if you’re fermenting in a rather warm environment, err on the higher end. Start by weighing the entire amount of produce you plan to preserve, then multiply this number by 0.02 (or up to 0.05 if using a higher percentage) to get your salt measurement. Measure out this weight of salt and add it to your mixture. Any kosher salt will work perfectly for this.

Wet or Dry

Some ferments, like kimchi, are rubbed with salt and fermented dry, while others, like pickled cucumbers, are preserved in a liquid brine of salt dissolved in water. Both have their appeal depending on what you’re preserving: A dry brine is ideal for shredded produce or vegetables cut into small pieces (such as sliced chiles for hot sauce)—the exposed inner surfaces allow the salt to enter the cell walls, drawing out moisture and creating a brine of sorts in the process. A wet brine works best for vegetables left whole or in larger chunks, like cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, or cauliflower, but keep in mind that bigger pieces will take longer to fully ferment. A few years back, I illustrated this fermentation matrix to help imagine exciting flavor combinations for a wide variety of vegetables.  

A Note on Sterilization

Even kept in the refrigerator, ferments can be much safer (and last longer) with some basic sterilization beforehand, which uses heat to eliminate potentially bad bacteria on your jars and bottles. Camilla Wynne recommends skipping the traditional water boiling and opting for a super simple oven sterilization technique: Place clean bottles, jars, and lids upside down on a sheet tray and bake at 250°F for at least 20 minutes, then allow to cool before using. Home preservers are often quick to worry about botulism, a toxin produced by Clostridium botulinum bacteria, but it requires a low-acid and low-oxygen environment to survive (hence why it can thrive in sweet, vacuum-sealed preserves). Lacto-fermented foods, however, are generally safe from this, as the Lactobacillus produces an abundance of lactic acid, which lowers the overall pH and acts as a natural preservative. When storing preserved or pickled items in the refrigerator or freezer, always give them a smell test before eating, and look for any visible signs of mold. Trust your nose and toss anything that seems off, just to be safe. 

Recipe

Lacto-Fermented Hot Sauce

Get the recipe >

The post I’m Lacto-Fermenting All My Late-Summer Produce—And You Should Be Too appeared first on Saveur.

Lacto-fermentation is a simple process that utilizes a salt brine to cultivate Lactobacillus bacteria, preserving foods and transforming their texture and flavor. In a sufficiently salty environment (which is measured by weight at 2 percent of the mixture to be fermented), harmful bacteria can’t survive, allowing the Lactobacillus to produce the natural preservative lactic acid, which can help keep fermented vegetables safe to eat in the fridge for months. It’s important to note this is not the same as canning, which can create shelf-stable preserves—lacto-fermented produce is meant to be kept refrigerated and should be monitored periodically for mold growth or off smells. Still, sterilization can help keep bad bacteria out, and you can easily sterilize your fermentation jars and lids upside-down on a baking sheet in the oven at 250°F for 20 minutes. Fermentation works best at room temperature, preferably out of direct sunlight.  

In this recipe, a variety of hot peppers (I used a mix of Hungarian hot peppers, Thai chiles, and habanadas, a unique breed of habanero with zero spice level) are sliced and fermented alongside carrot, garlic, and shallot before being blended into a smooth hot sauce. The carrots provide a subtle sweetness to balance the heat, and the garlic and shallot provide some aromatic oomph. If you’d like a milder hot sauce, you can remove the chile seeds before fermenting. Apple cider vinegar is an optional addition at the end if you like a more tangy hot sauce. 

Featured in “I’m Lacto-Fermenting All My Late-Summer Produce—And You Should Be Too.”

The post Lacto-Fermented Hot Sauce appeared first on Saveur.

Plot to Plate is a SAVEUR column in which features editor Alex Testere exercises his green thumb, sharing practical gardening tips and seasonal produce-driven recipes from his patch of earth in New York’s Hudson Valley. He is also the author and illustrator of Please Grow: Lessons on Thriving for Plants (and People).

A tomato is never just a tomato. Even when you, alone in your garden on a late summer afternoon, sift through the tangle of overgrown vines, gently prodding each available fruit before plucking the ripest specimen from its stem—even then, you are merely scratching the surface. You may have planted that tomato, but who grew the fruit that produced the seed you sowed? Who packaged that seed and shipped it to your door, or trucked it to the retailer from which you procured it? Who raised the cow that created the manure that amended the compost that fertilized the bed? Maybe you, indefatigable farmsteader, did all these things yourself—in which case, kudos!—but if you look closely enough, I think you’ll find some spaces where another person’s work shines through the cracks. 

Gardening has always been a community-powered enterprise, and no one knows this better than Alice Waters, chef at Chez Panisse in Berkeley, California, and founder of the Edible Schoolyard Project, a nonprofit dedicated to teaching students around the world the value of (and skills behind) growing your own food. “There is no more meaningful work than that,” Waters told me recently in a Zoom call, where we discussed everything from the fleeting delights of perfectly ripe produce to gardening’s relationship to community and democracy. In October of this year, Waters will also receive the tenth annual Julia Child Award for her contributions to transforming American food and cooking. 

On the subject of ripeness, I started thinking about the summer fruits I look forward to this time of year. Peaches and nectarines come to mind, and tomatoes, too. I’m sure to face flak from some of you for this, but I am very solid in my belief that a tomato has no business being consumed in the American Northeast outside the month of August, with some occasional exceptions for July and September. When a slice of sun-ripened summer tomato adorns a BLT or sits beneath a heap of herby chicken salad, I constantly wonder whose cruel joke it was to turn the otherwise anemic slices of mealy fruit into year-round sandwich staples. Perhaps that’s what first drew me to Waters’ recipe for Heirloom and Cherry Tomato Salad, a dish simply designed to celebrate a glut of the beautiful multicolored fruits.

While I would never attempt to “improve” a recipe of Waters’, I was inspired by our conversation (you’ll see why below) to toss some stone fruits into the mix, a balanced blend of whatever I could find at the farmers market in that perfect window of ripeness. I took a tip from Waters’ 1996 Chez Panisse Vegetables book and tore up half of a stale miche, tossed it in olive oil and minced garlic, and toasted it in the oven to make some croutons, their craggy edges eagerly awaiting a soak in the salad’s herby, shallot-filled vinaigrette. It’s one of those dishes you might only get a chance to eat once a year, at the singular convergence of ripe stone fruit and ripe tomatoes—and I think it’s all the better for it.

What follows is an edited and condensed version of my conversation with Waters:

Alex Testere: Thank you so much for joining me today, Alice. I’m so excited to chat about plants and gardening and everything they have to teach us. 

Alice Waters: My pleasure! It seems we both see eye to eye there.

Will you tell me a little about how gardening first informed your relationship with food?

Well, I guess it began back when I was a kid. My parents had a victory garden during the war, and I grew up eating strawberries out of that garden when I was very, very little. It was very important for my parents—they had four kids and didn’t know how to feed them. And it was so great because all their neighbors had victory gardens, too, and they’d trade vegetables that way. I didn’t know that until I was a bit older, but I just love that idea, that you can get a neighborhood together and plant all different things and just share them. So no matter where we lived, including when we moved to California, they planted that victory garden. 

And how did that evolve as you grew up?

When I arrived at Berkeley amidst the Free Speech Movement, that really changed my life because I felt then the power of the people to make change. And [activist] Mario Savio said don’t just study one discipline at school, you know? Go to another country and see what an education looks like there. I took him very seriously, and I up and went to France. I didn’t know at the time that France was a slow food nation, that it hadn’t been industrialized yet, and that was my first experience of a culture of eating only what was in season. So, for example, when those little fraises de bois (wild strawberries) were gone, I cried! I didn’t know I couldn’t have them all the time, or that they had to be gathered from the woods; they couldn’t be cultivated. I remember eating a Charentais melon in September and just having these extraordinary foods. I didn’t realize later that it was all about ripeness. I came home and I wanted to be able to eat and live like that.

I can already see the throughline forming to your work at Chez Panisse and sourcing ingredients directly from local farms. 

Yes, and now, after 53 years, the reason for the longevity of that restaurant is absolutely the ripeness of the ingredients—and of course, you can’t have anything ripe if it’s shipped from halfway across the world. It has to be picked before it ripens, and it never actually ripens in travel. 

This whole idea of seasonal cooking really is about ripeness as a criteria for wonderful produce—and you can’t think about ripeness without thinking about where the food was grown, how far it’s traveling, and that perfect little window of time when that heirloom tomato, for example, is at its best. 

I think you’re absolutely right. In 40 Years of Chez Panisse, Michael Pollan wrote the afterword about this, and I think he just nailed it. He ordered the fruit bowl, which at the time was a selection of ripe peaches, and he just understood this exactly. 

[Editor’s note: Pollan describes the peaches, presented within their impossibly small window of ripeness, saying, “There are times … when no amount of culinary artifice can improve on what nature has already perfected, and it would be folly—hubris!—to try.”]

And I’m really relying on this idea to make school-supported agriculture a reality in our country. If we decide nationally—internationally, even—to have schools be the economic engine behind agriculture, then everyone would eat ripe food. I mean, Eliot Coleman is up there in Maine farming in his greenhouse in winter, and we’re going to need that, but this was how we always did things before 1950. No pesticides, no shipping of fresh produce. You know, I think it’s a part of how our democracy has lost its way. I know it’s about food, and this obsession with the values of fast, cheap, and easy. 

It really shows us that access to fresh, ripe food for everyone has to be a community project. It’s like we’ve collectively forgotten that part of the process, and that personal connection to where the food comes from is the missing piece of the puzzle.

This is where the Edible Schoolyard Project came from. A woman at the San Francisco County Jail, her name was Cathrine Sneed, called me—she was a gardener and therapist there, and she asked if we would buy their vegetables for Chez Panisse if they grew them to our specifications. And I said absolutely, and she had me come meet her students, some of the inmates there. This one guy, maybe about 17 years old, told me it was his first day in the garden, but it was the best day of his life. I cried, and I said to myself, if it can work in a jail, it can work in a school. Thirty years later, we’re part of a network of over 6,500 schools around the world. Many of them are independent of us now, too: I can’t tell you how many are in Japan; [activist] Carlo Petrini has a million signatures he’s giving to the president of Italy to bring these programs to every school in the country; the mayor of Paris, a year ago, decided they would only buy organic, regenerative produce for the city’s schools from within 125 miles of the city, and they’re already close to meeting their goal.

So it seems like there’s a need for this, an urgent desire for folks all over the world to create these kinds of community-driven food programs. 

It’s meaningful work: “I planted this seed, I grew this plant, I picked this tomato.” I think the greatest issue in our country is a lack of meaningful work, but we don’t ever talk about it. My father in particular, he said, “When I don’t have meaningful work, I don’t want to be here anymore.” I think about that, and I don’t want to ever have work that I don’t love. I’ve loved every minute of the restaurant, and it has been a big challenge at times. But I love the people and that kind of collaboration. I never had a search committee finding people for me. I just ran into them and said, “Hey, do you want to do this?” And they were people that had all different talents.

I can’t help but think of the way plants collaborate with each other, how their roots intertwine and exchange nutrients, and, as with many forms of companion planting, the garden becomes a community in and of itself. 

That’s exactly right. And everybody has a contribution to make, it doesn’t matter how small. If we didn’t have our wonderful dishwasher at Chez Panisse, we couldn’t run the restaurant. He deserves to be elevated, to have a nice place to work. And it’s that—this hierarchy of people we see as important and ones we see as not as important, it’s so wrong. We all eat together at the restaurant, whether it’s a dishwasher or the head chef, it doesn’t matter. And it is like the way nature works. But that’s why I think this idea, if it could really take hold in every country, then we could really address this question of meaningful work and community, but also of health and climate change, too.

We talked a little about regenerative agriculture, but what role do you feel gardening and growing food plays in addressing climate change? 

I think it’s probably biodiversity that is my greatest hope for the future, because in this frightening world of climate change, we need to know what to plant when it’s hot, when it’s raining, when it’s really cold. And to do that, we need to exchange seeds and to know what’s happening around the world in other climates now. And of course, with all the incredible varieties of produce, whether it’s tomatoes or green beans or chicories in every color of the rainbow—it’s like wow, could we have a delicious solution to climate change, too?

So by collectively tending our gardens, we could be cultivating community, feeding the hungry, fighting climate change, and it can taste great, too. It sounds like a win-win-win-win to me.

It’s so important. There’s really nothing to lose.

Recipe

Heirloom Tomato and Stone Fruit Salad with Garlicky Croutons

Get the recipe >

The post Why Alice Waters Believes Gardening Can Save Our Democracy appeared first on Saveur.

This summer salad is a testament to the fact that the best things in life are worth waiting for—among them juicy, ripe seasonal produce. Inspired by a conversation with Alice Waters, as well as the Heirloom and Cherry Tomato Salad from her 1999 Chez Panisse Café Cookbook, this recipe also takes advantage of another fleeting summer staple—stone fruit, including peaches, nectarines, apricots, and plums. A heap of craggy, garlicky croutons is also added to soak up the sweet-and-savory juices, a tip taken from Waters’ 1996 Chez Panisse Vegetables book. Visit your local farmers market (or better yet, your home garden) to source the ripest fruits, and savor the process of selecting them; this might be your one chance until next year. Even small fruits should be sliced in half so their interiors can be exposed and their juices released. It’s best served as soon as it’s prepared so the croutons stay crunchy and the fruits don’t get mushy, but if you’d like to prepare this an hour or two in advance, refrain from adding the croutons until just before serving.

Featured in “Why Alice Waters Believes Gardening Can Save Our Democracy.”

The post Heirloom Tomato and Stone Fruit Salad With Garlicky Croutons appeared first on Saveur.

In this hefty summer side dish, charred scallions are whipped with fresh ricotta to lend a smoky sweetness that matches the sugary crunch of fresh snap peas. A small amount of mild white miso adds a gentle cheesy character that doesn’t overpower the peas; more intense red or yellow miso will be too strong. Korean chile flakes (gochugaru) are not as hot as other varieties, so if substituting, use another chile powder with a milder heat, such as Aleppo pepper. The dish should be bright and lemony, and not particularly spicy. You can cut the scallions in half widthwise before charring if they are too long to fit in the pan.

Featured in “This Green Vegetable Is a Triple Threat in the Garden.”

The post Lemon-Miso Snap Peas With Charred Scallion Ricotta appeared first on Saveur.

Plot to Plate is a SAVEUR column in which features editor Alex Testere exercises his green thumb, sharing practical gardening tips and seasonal produce-driven recipes from his patch of earth in New York’s Hudson Valley. He is also the author and illustrator of Please Grow: Lessons on Thriving for Plants (and People).

While a well-tended garden plot has the potential to keep us flush with fresh produce all summer long, most growers aren’t just in it for the sustenance. Between plucking weeds on the weekends, meticulously flicking away worms, and delicately affixing tendrils to trellises, no one’s putting in that much effort simply to eat a few sun-ripened tomatoes. A garden’s perks go way beyond the harvest, and one such benefit, I would argue, is the beauty of it all.

Many garden vegetables are quite attractive: Squashes and gourds explode with enormous golden blooms, cherry tomatoes ripen in an ombre from green to red, humble cabbages unfurl from within rippling green foliage. But one vegetable in particular captivates me every year as the warm days roll in and spring tips over into summer. Snap peas I planted back in March, some of the first crops to pop up in the spring, have been climbing skyward ever since, sending out a smattering of pink orchid-like flowers along the way.

The appeal of snap peas, for me, is threefold: First, they offer height and drama to an otherwise level garden plot, quickly rising high above everything else in the bed. Second, their powerful roots, like other plants in the legume family, help fix valuable nitrogen in the soil—a boon for raised beds that struggle to maintain nutrients year after year. Third, and perhaps most importantly, they make for an effortless, near-constant garden snack. Often, I don’t even bother to wash them. (I’m sure some of you will fight me on this, but I can’t hear you beneath my gigantic gardening hat.) Plucked right from the vine, snap peas are practically luminescent, plump and crunchy and sweet, and still warm from the sun. The French refer to them as mangetout (literally “eat all”), and, if left to my own devices, that’s exactly what I would do. The first year I planted them, the harvest never even made it indoors—they were all consumed on the spot, a sugary carbohydrate boost to fuel the day’s garden tasks.

If I must bring snap peas into the kitchen, though, I want to celebrate their sweet and simple nature, cooking them very lightly so as to maintain their crunch. This time, I decided to serve them tossed in a sauce of lemon and miso, gently wrapping them in umami balanced by the brightness of fresh mint. A pile of ricotta blitzed with charred scallions echoes the peas’ sweetness and provides a creamy foil. Dragging a crusty heel through the lot of it makes for a timeless summer side dish I can’t get enough of. 

When it comes to planting, however, the work typically begins in late winter or early spring, as soon as the ground can be worked, since peas generally favor cooler temps. But many varieties are heat-tolerant and can also be planted in mid-summer for an abundant fall harvest. Now, in late July, I’m cutting back the spent plants I started in March and planting a new crop, which should be ready by early October. Read on for a few key tips to make the most of these gardening triple threats.

Think “up,” not “out”

One of the great appeals of peas is how little ground space they take up in a garden plot. I regularly plant mine in a row just 3 inches or so from their neighbors, and they grow upwards with vigorous abundance. The trick is to give them something to climb, or else their vines will languish in a mildewy mess on the ground. The vertical height adds drama to the garden, with some varieties climbing eight feet or higher. A trellised archway is a sight to behold when heavily laden with supple green pods. A four-foot roll of welded wire cattle fencing can be cut to size and supported by wooden posts, for a simple makeshift trellis of almost any size you need—an arch included. 

Focus on the shoulder seasons

Some pea varieties are more heat-tolerant than others, but all can readily handle the cooler months of spring and fall—including some near-freezing temps. Plant seeds as soon as the ground is soft enough to work, and they’ll poke through the soil at the first signs of spring. Once they’ve run their course, by mid- to late-July, plant another batch for an additional harvest in the fall. Too much hot sun can cause peas to wilt, and I will admit, I have gone so far as to affix an umbrella to my trellis to offer them a bit of shade on the hottest summer days. 

Plant alongside hearty greens 

Lettuces and brassicas such as kale, collards, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts also love the cooler seasons and will greatly benefit from the peas’ remarkable ability to store nitrogen in the soil. If you grow peas in the spring, cut them back mid-summer and plant leafy greens in their place; turn the soil and leave the delicate pea roots in the mix for a steady release of nitrogen that will last all season long. 

Know your type

Edible peas come in three main varieties: snap peas, snow peas, and sweet peas (also called English peas or garden peas). Sweet peas must be removed from their fibrous inedible pods—these are the kinds you’ll most frequently find by the bag in the frozen food aisle. Snap peas look quite similar, but with smaller peas inside and sweet, crunchy pods that are edible, even when raw. Snow peas are very popular in stir-fries and have the smallest peas inside, with wide, flat, edible pods. While all three varieties are great nitrogen fixers and love to climb a trellis, I prefer the ones with edible pods because they make for a delightful snack while out in the garden.

Recipe

Lemon-Miso Snap Peas with Charred-Scallion Ricotta

Get the recipe >

The post This Green Vegetable Is a Triple Threat in the Garden appeared first on Saveur.