Winter is long in the North Country, the uppermost region of New York State, where I’ve lived for 20 years. Some years it’s almost six months from first flurries to final melt, with unpredictable dips into subzero territory, and winter storm warnings of black ice and whiteout blizzards along the way.
That said, I’ve never been able to work much magic with the turnip or its near cousin rutabaga, both the bane of my childhood dinners and still sometimes too bitter for my grownup palate. The root of the word rutabaga is the Swedish rotabagga, from rot + bagga . Finding beauty in something that resembles a shrunken head or fireplace kindling requires an appreciation of hardship and hidden truths. Cookbook author Diane Morgan certainly gets it.
Roots only go so deep, nowhere near the “deep life” biosphere scientists are discovering, but in their most lyrical sense they are the food source that keeps us surface dwellers most connected to Mother Earth.
Until spring finally arrives upstate, I’ll continue to seek hidden truths, and nourishment, from the roots in my kitchen. And as for my own burrow nowadays? It sure makes a great wine cellar.
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