How to Pick a Peach: The Search for Flavor from Farm to Table (Hardcover)

From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. Equal parts cookbook, agricultural history, chemistry lesson and produce buying guide, this densely packed book is a food-lover's delight. California food writer Parsons (How to Read a French Fry) begins with a fascinating tale of agribusiness trumping our taste buds en route to supplying year-round on-demand produce, and how farmer's markets are bringing back both appreciation of, and access to, local and seasonal foods. He then takes readers on a delectable season-by-season produce tour, from springtime Artichokes Stuffed with Ham and Pine Nuts to midwinter Candied Citrus Peel, and provides readers with the lowdown on where each fruit or vegetable is grown and how to choose, store and prepare it. Along the way, he detours into low-stress jam making, the chemistry of tomato flavor, a portrait of two peach-growing stars of the Santa Monica farmer's market and why cucumbers make some people burp. For readers who have always wondered where their food comes from, why it tastes the way it does and how to pick a peach, a melon or a green bean, this book will be an invaluable resource. (May)
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Product Description
Critics greeted Russ Parsons' first book, How to Read a French Fry, with raves. The New York Times praised it for its "affable voice and intellectual clarity"; Julia Child lauded it for its "deep factual information." Now in How to Pick a Peach, Parsons takes on one of the hottest food topics today. Good cooking starts with the right ingredients, and nowhere is that more true than with produce. Should we refrigerate that peach? How do we cook that artichoke? And what are those different varieties of pears? Most of us aren't sure. Parsons helps the cook sort through the produce in the market by illuminating the issues surrounding it, revealing intriguing facts about vegetables and fruits in individual profiles about them, and providing instructions on how to choose, store, and prepare these items. Whether explaining why basil, citrus, tomatoes, and potatoes should never be refrigerated, describing how Dutch farmers revolutionized the tomato business in America, exploring organic farming and its effect on flavor, or giving tips on how to recognize a ripe melon, How to Pick a Peach is Parsons at his peak.

About the Author
One of the foremost food journalists of the nation, RUSS PARSONS is the food and wine columnist of the Los Angeles Times. He has been writing about food and agriculture for more than twenty years and has won many James Beard Awards for his newspaper articles, as well as the IACP/Bert Greene Award for distinguished writing. He lives in California, which produces more than half of the fruits and vegetables grown in this country.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Artichokes
Alexander Pope wrote that it was a brave man who first ate an oyster. What
possible words can describe the heroism of he who first ate an artichoke?
Not only did he have to consume it, but he probably had to invent it as well.
At first glance — and maybe even after patient consideration — little about
the artichoke indicates either edibility or conscious creation. The thing looks
more like a primitive instrument of war than a domesticated product of
agriculture. With its overlapping rows of hard prickly petals, it seems only
one step removed from a stick with a nail stuck in it. Yet somehow,
sometime, someone almost certainly did create the artichoke. Exactly how,
when and who are unclear. Obviously, it happened well before anyone
thought to copyright a plant, or even to write a scientific paper claiming
academic bragging rights. But there is little doubt that the artichoke was
invented.
The vegetable that we call an artichoke is actually the unopened
flower bud of a plant that is an improved cardoon. (My colleague Charles
Perry says the word "artichoke" is derived from the Arabic al'qarshuf, which
translates as "little cardoon.") If you visit ethnic produce markets —
particularly Italian ones — you may have seen a cardoon. It looks like a
prehistoric stalk of celery. It is outsize and a pale dinosaur gray-green with a
thick, stringy skin. Peel it, chop it and cook it, and you'll taste artichoke.
Why did our unnamed farmer decide that the bud of the cardoon
was more desirable than the stalk? Is that even what he was going for? Did
he really think he had accomplished his goal, or did he simply give up? There
is something haphazard, even accidental, about the artichoke. One thing's for
certain: no modern plant breeder would dare to come up with something like
it. More's the pity. The artichoke is one of spring's great vegetables, with a
buttery texture and an appealing flavor — an almost brassy sweetness that
combines well with a multitude of other ingredients.
But there's no getting around it, the artichoke is a peculiar
vegetable. First, of course, there is its form — like a thistle-covered mace.
The edible part of the artichoke is an unopened flower bud, or, more
accurately, a collection of flower buds. If it is left to open, the artichoke will
turn almost inside out, blossoming into something that looks like a flat
pincushion stuck with hundreds of tiny lavender-blue flowers. It is attractive in
its own gargantuan way, and fully opened artichoke flowers are sometimes
used by avantgarde florists to make visual statements in arrangements. The
sharp, tough "petals" or "leaves" of the artichoke are what botanists call
bracts, which are actually somewhere between the two. Bracts are tough,
leaflike objects that protect the flower.
But the artichoke's contrariness is more than skin-deep. In fact,
peel an artichoke and set it aside for a minute, and you'll soon discover
another of its eccentricities. Exposed to air, artichokes turn brown or even
black. This is not altogether unusual in itself — potatoes do the same thing,
and so do peaches and shrimp, among many diverse foods.
The process is what chemists call enzymatic browning. The plant
contains a substance that when exposed to oxygen changes the color of the
flesh. This is not always bad. All tea would be green if it were not for
enzymatic browning. In the case of artichokes, though, it's hard to see the
benefit, at least for the cook. But whereas it is almost impossible to prevent
enzymatic browning, we can delay it fairly easily, either by preventing
exposure to oxygen or by treating the flesh with an acidic compound. Neither
of these takes any special equipment, just a bowl filled with acidulated
water — plain old tap water to which you've added an acid of some sort
(white vinegar and lemon juice work equally well). When you're done, keep
the artichokes in the water until you're ready to cook them. Oldtime chefs
used to call for cooking artichokes en blanc — in a combination of water,
acid and flour. This only slightly improved the color and pretty much wrecked
the flavor for anything other than serving them as glorified chips and dip.
You're better off settling for only minimal browning.
Another odd thing about the artichoke is its tendency to make
everything taste sweeter — not in a good way, but that weird metallic kind of
sweet you get from diet soft drinks. This is mostly caused by a naturally
occurring chemical called cynarin (artichokes belong to the genus Cynara),
which is unique to artichokes. This sweet reaction can be so powerful that it
is almost off-putting. Sometimes the flavor is so strong that even a sip of
water tastes as if it has been artificially sweetened. It is no surprise that this
sweetening makes artichokes extremely unfriendly to wine. It can be reduced
by extended cooking, which results in a gentler, more complex flavor.
Remember that when you're thinking about a dish: Cook artichokes briefly,
and they will have a big, brassy edge that can stand up to the most
aggressive seasonings — anchovies, garlic, black olives . . . bring 'em all on.
Cook the vegetable more gently, and you'll be surprised at its delicacy.
Unlike most vegetables, which can be harvested only during a
single season, artichokes actually bear twice. There is a large harvest in the
spring — March to May accounts for about 70 percent of the total crop —
and then a smaller one in late fall. Some connoisseurs claim to be able to
detect a difference between spring and fall harvests, but if there is one, it is
incredibly slight.
And, as if these weren't enough oddities for one plant, the
artichoke comes in many different sizes. In season the so-called baby
artichokes can be one of the best buys in the produce department. These are
actually fully mature chokes that are harvested from exactly the same plants
as the big boys at exactly the same time. An artichoke plant sends up many
flower stalks, some as tall as six feet. One or two of them will yield the large,
steamer-size buds (weighing a pound or more apiece). Maybe half a dozen of
them will be medium-size chokes (two or three to a pound). And then there
will be a scad of smaller ones (roughly a dozen to a pound). Because most
shoppers are interested in artichokes only for steaming, these smaller ones
are tough to sell. Most of them go to canning, but many of them wind up in
the produce aisle, where they're sold cheap to savvy cooks who know their
true value.
_
WHERE THEY'RE GROWN: Almost all of the artichokes in the United
States are grown in California, most of them within fifteen miles of a small
town called Castroville. There have been recurring efforts to expand the
plantings to other areas in order to expand the season, but they have met
with only mixed success.

HOW TO CHOOSE: Artichokes are one of the tougher vegetables; they'll last
quite a while with only minimal care. Still, choose the ones that seem
heaviest for their size and that don't have any visible damage. You don't have
to be too picky about this: the cut stems will, of course, be blackened
already. And if there are a few dark spots, they won't affect the flavor. The
industry has come up with the marketing term "frost-kissed" for this kind of
damage and claims that it makes the hearts sweeter. Perhaps, but it
certainly doesn't hurt them any. You can tell really fresh artichokes because
their leaves will squeak when you rub them together.

HOW TO STORE: Keep artichokes in the refrigerator, tightly sealed. Don't
clean them until shortly before you're ready to cook them.

HOW TO PREPARE: The big "hubcap" artichokes that sell at such a
premium price should be steamed, boiled or microwaved.
You can eat them leaves and all. To clean them, cut the stem off
flush with the bottom so the artichoke will sit upright on a flat surface. Tear off
the tough outer ring of leaves, bending them back from the choke until they
snap. Then pull down — this will tear away the worst of the tough, stringy
outside. Use sharp kitchen scissors to cut away the top third of each leaf —
the spiny part. Rub the cut surfaces with lemon. Steam the artichoke until it
is tender.
Exactly how long you need to cook it will depend on the size and
the age of the artichoke — figure anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes.
The artichoke is done when you can easily pull a leaf free. I like to
remove the bristly heart before serving. To do this, spread the top center
leaves as wide as possible without breaking them, then use a serrated
grapefruit spoon to dig out the choke.

ONE SIMPLE DISH: The best way to prepare artichokes is by braising. This
method is remarkably easy and flexible.
Here's the general outline: Put 2 pounds of artichokes that you've
trimmed well in a large skillet with a couple of tablespoons of olive oil, ½ cup
of water and a minced garlic clove. If you like, add some red pepper flakes.
Cover the skillet and let simmer over medium heat until the artichokes are
tender, about 5 minutes. Raise the heat to high, remove the lid and cook the
artichokes until most of the moisture has evaporated and what remains has
emulsified with the oil. Toss the artichokes in this glaze and serve
immediately.

HOW TO PARE AN ARTICHOKE
You prepare artichokes for cooking differently from when you are planning to
stem them and eat the leaves. The goal is to wind up with just the edible
parts — the softer inner ...