“So now you give me a nice warm blanket,” the mustard greens said.“Where were you this January when it was fricking 17 degrees? Naturally, the stories-high leafy mustard greens, with their knobby trunks and roots that must go very deep, were unfazed by this spring’s fickle behavior.It’s now mid-April, and I’ve already harvested overwintered mustard greens twice, and will soon harvest another batch.
The deliciously peppery and pungent flavor of mustard greens is all their own, and is one that is waiting for you to enjoy.
Braised Mustard Greens Get yourself some thick bacon, dice it up, and cook it over moderate heat in a large sauté pan until the fat is rendered.
Remove the bacon from the pan and leave a good portion of the fat in the pan—you want to have a solid sheen of fat on the bottom.
But that’s not where I spotted my over-wintered mustard greens.
I found them in my community garden plot early last month, after a premature burst of overly warm weather spun me into a frenzied gardening mode.
After a spate of seventy-degree days, off my husband and I went to our plot to prepare it for spring planting.
That was when I discovered the mustard greens that I’d left in the ground last fall as an experiment had made through the winter admirably well. Since then we’ve had two hard frosts, which had me scurrying back to the garden to throw plastic over the small seedlings that had begun to emerge, like tadpoles, around the year-old mustard greens.
The specimen I had in mind to test Randolph’s method was eight months old, and had been growing in my garden plot since last summer when I direct sowed some Early Flat Dutch cabbage seeds, hoping for a late fall harvest.
I misjudged timing and gave the poor dears too late of a start to reach their cabbage potential before the first frost came—even though in Richmond, Virginia, that can be as late as late October.
When it was time to prep the plot for winter, they were just one-tenth of their cabbage selves, but I didn’t have the heart to Read the rest of this entry → Overwintered mustard greens. I love what those three words evoke: a food with a stand-up-and-take-notice personality and a patina of flavor possible only after enduring hardship—the freezing depths of winter.
Right about now, you might find OMGs featured on the menu of some season-driven, farm-to-table restaurant in some food-lively town, along with other locally grown or foraged foods described with equally telling adjectives that marshal a world of artisanal food production: hand-pressed, pickled, preserved, house-cured, tree-ripened, aged, fermented, cellared.