The Lemons of the North
While the British cherished their gooseberries and brought to this country their liking for them, the French never really took to this sour fruit. Perhaps it is because they had already so wholeheartedly embraced sorrel—the leafy-green acidic herb native to both New England and Europe. I tasted sorrel while living in Paris in my 20s, and particularly liked potage germiny, a soup made of sorrel and cream and thickened with egg yolks. But it was years later, back in New York, before I finally found the recipe. I was editing Julia Child's first cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Knopf, 1961), and was delighted to discover potage germiny in the manuscript. Sorrel's tart bite is a perfect balance to the rich cream, and I have made this classic soup many times since. I consider sorrel a first cousin to the gooseberry. They're the north country's answer to the lemon—and though neither has quite the same astringency, either can serve the same purpose of heightening flavors with their acidity.
Now, I grow sorrel in my hilltop garden in Vermont. When I arrive in May, my one clump of cultivated sorrel is already sending up its long, spear-shaped leaves. All around the meadows and woods there are bursts of wild sorrel that grow with the abandon of dandelions.
It was Lydie Marshall, the Paris-born cook who has taught so many Americans about good French food at her cooking school in New York City, who showed me how I could have my sorrel year-round. Although my garden variety generously sends up new shoots as I cut back the leaves from May to October (it is undaunted by cold, the hardiest of perennials), when the frost finally comes, it hunkers down for the winter. Following Lydie's instructions, I cook down the leaves from my surplus crop in a little butter, and freeze them.
Like spinach, sorrel reduces by an astonishing amount when cooked. Even more surprising is how the green leaves turn an unappealing khaki. But sorrel's intense acidity needs taming anyway, and when it is combined with cream, eggs, or mayonnaise, its color becomes more appetizing. Sorrel adds a cleansing accent to many of my favorite dishes, including braised breast of veal, and shad with shad roe, which has become for my family one of the celebrations of spring.
I have been inspired by my sorrel and gooseberries to find new ways to bring out their unique flavors. Each year, when I return to our house in Vermont, I am greeted by these vibrant harbingers of the season, so much a part of the Northeast's heritage—and my own. Now that these hardy plants have become my summer companions, I wonder how I ever did without them.
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