August 14, 2007
By Maggie Heyn Richardson
Poor tarragon. For years, I associated the poor herb with a bossy ex-boyfriend who was impressed with anything French. He put it in every dish imaginable. Awful vegetable soup made from canned tomato juice and frozen corn got spruced up with generous pinches of tarragon. Innocent omelets were given shakes so healthy, they morphed into Green Eggs. Sandwiches that had been perfectly balanced got excessive sprinkles of the herb, knocking them off kilter.
It was too much to stand, in more ways than one. After months of hand-wringing about a relationship that had become drudgery on all fronts, I finally manned up and lowered the boom. The break-up was as clean as could be, but what ensued was like a blend of Fatal Attraction and Play Misty for Me, sans the blood. Eventually, the harassing phone calls and notes stopped, and I blamed myself more than I blamed him, but the episode left a foul taste in my mouth such that I swore off men - and tarragon - forever.
I got over the men thing quick enough, but tarragon was banished to a gloomy place in my spice cabinet, never to be called on again. If I happened to get a whiff or taste of it dining out, I would connect the strong, anise-flavor with my talent at picking the wrong men. It would make me gag. Years later, the gods intervened, and to everyone’s shock a handsome, funny guy with a job and without a checkered past came on the scene. We later married. But tarragon still remained on my culinary black list, along with random items like water chestnuts and a Georgia dish called Country Captain, two things I just plain didn’t like.
Now, tarragon is back. Call it time healing or me just letting go of my reckless past, but the vinaigrette of tarragon, shallots and lemon I had at a friend’s house recently effervesced with summery simplicity. A couple of weeks ago, Studio to Go sprinkled it on roasted sweet and white potatoes to my surprise and delight. The other day, I took the plunge and stuffed a chicken with fresh sprigs, a move that waked up the roast bird with new life.
Here’s a link to a handful of tarragon recipes. Like most herbs, it’s best used sparingly, and under the right circumstances.
Comments
Posted by sherishiqua on August 15 at 3:22 p.m.
And there is always anise and fennel seed, bulb and bronze fennel, and star anise, which have similiar flavor profiles as tarragon, but act differently in different situations.
Posted by spatuladiaries on August 19 at 6:25 a.m.
I love me some fennel. Tell us how you use bronze fennel. - MHR
Posted by case_insensitive on August 19 at 5:36 p.m.
Ouch...as a member-in-good-standing of Maggie's "former boyfriend" club, that column really hurt!!! ; )
Posted by sherishiqua on August 20 at 10:32 a.m.
It would be easier to say how I don't use it. Since its just the fronds, and not a bulbing fennel, I usually put it in near the end if it is being cooked. I use it in a citrus vinaigrette with cilantro for mild fish, with ground cumin for fish like salmon. in tomato sauce, on pizza, nice with anchovies, in brines for things like corned beef. I use it where ever I can. Oh yeah, it makes a great soup, roasted acorn squash, andouille and fennel. I origianlly used star anise, which is good, but bronze fennel is a bit more subtle. butternut squash is good also, but acorn is a hair bit better, and they are in at the market right now. Instead of tarragon for Bearnaise, use bronze fennel, may be a classical name for it and if you really want to know I'll research it. Lamb loves fennel. Omelets... anyhting under the sun, even some desserts....
Posted by sherishiqua on August 20 at 12:14 p.m.
And you can harvest the seeds and use them like, well, Fennel seed....
Post a comment
(225 magazine reserves the right to remove any comments from this site we deem offensive, malicious or otherwise inappropriate.)