Leeks and labour.
And a sort of sott'olio
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There is no doubt that the sterility of pristine vegetables in supermarkets is one of many reasons humans have become so detached from where their food comes from.
Unless you’re fortunate enough to frequent a local farmers' market or grow your own, then you’re unlikely to have to spend a significant amount of time cleaning and scrubbing the fresh produce you buy in a mainstream supermarket. There will be little trace of the very thing your vegetables were grown in, and whilst we might not consider it as such, this is a considerable level of convenience that we have all become very accustomed to.
We’ve always tried to offer a small selection of seasonal, organic produce at the bakery, customer appreciation of which ebbs and flows in a similarly seasonal manner. Nothing draws people in like bright pink stalks of forced rhubarb and deeply dramatic Moro blood oranges in the early months. Fuzzy percoche peaches from Italy are irrisistable come summer, as are ‘heirloom’ tomatoes, big beefy bulls heart ones and sweet orange datterini ones, even the gnarly and characterful specimens with scarred skin are scooped up as soon as they’re put on display.
Noticeably, all of these grow above ground. In stark contrast, any produce that arrives just pulled from the soil that birthed it is all too often given the cold shoulder. No matter how flavourful and fresh the carrots, potatoes and beetroot promise to be, they glean very little interest from customers. To the extent that when I order anything that is described as ‘dirty’ on the weekly list of fresh produce, I’ve consigned myself to the job of polishing it up and processing it into a baked good, preserve or condiment that can then and only then catch someone's eye.
Jerusalem Artichokes’ appearance on the list evokes a level of excitement that is followed by a proportionate amount of deflation; the hours required to spruce up such tubers are hours even I can’t afford to endure (as any small business owner is acutely aware, we have plenty on our spinning plates, and true pay per hour is already sub-minimum wage). It would be like kicking yourself when you’re down.
So how did I end up so tempted by Leeks, which are similarly laborious. It’s probably a spring thing, a desire to embrace the abundance that marks the arrival of the season and an attachment to the vegetable's cultural significance and endless versatility. Leeks, to my mind, are lumped with lamb, chocolate eggs, daffodils, decorated paper bonnets, fuzzy catkins on willow and sallow and buns, hot and crossed.
Nothing shows quite so much resilience as a leek, a cold-tolerant monocot, withstanding all the winter months have to throw, a hardiness that gives in easily once tamed by the transformative power of heat. Admittedly, the washing is an obstacle, but do so thoroughly to remove all trace of sand and grit, and you’ll have the means to make the most velvety soups, the most flavourful stocks and the most vibrant spring pies, galettes and salads.
The difficulty in cleaning them is partly due to the practice of hilling up the soil around the flat fans of jade green leaves. This blanches the main leaf sheaf, which stays ghostly white and tender to the heart. Leeks are engineered to be leaves within leaves, each layer protecting the next, but the tight spaces in between are easily filled with loose sand and grit.
Leeks are highly compatible with all manner of other ingredients; they make merry with eggs, potatoes, hard cheese, soft cheese, hard herbs, soft herbs, walnuts, mustard, butter, black pepper and vinegar, to name a few.
Their merits outweigh the fastidious need to clean, and it’s possible to make every inch of the process worthwhile; you owe it to yourself, the farmer, and the land. The jade tips, too often discarded as tough, can be stashed in the freezer, added to stocks and bean pots in fistfuls, or dehydrated to a similarly useful stock powder.
As the jade fades to a celadon and the ombre continues to white, you reach the most prized portion. They can be blanched, braised, baked and buttered up, become the star of the plate or do a lot of heavy lifting in the background. They show up in my quick mid-week meal repertoire, where they are sliced thin and sautéed for a slippery, silky texture that reads as sumptuous and sweet (far quicker than chopping and sweating an onion). Combined with white beans and tahini, they create a deeply savoury sauce that coats pasta perfectly, partly due to leeks’ long chain molecules that lend a thickening and gelling quality (the same ones are found in potatoes and legumes). Finish the dish with lemon zest and bay oil, and you’ll find yourself on the edge of where we are right now, at a rendezvous between winter and spring.
The leeks that prompted this love letter were baby specimens, small enough to keep whole and give the sott’olio treatment, or rather, my quick version of it. This technique is useful for all kinds of spring and summer vegetables, from asparagus spears to courgettes, peppers and aubergines. It’s low effort and uses the residual heat of the deck ovens after bread baking. The result is a stash of well-seasoned additions and toppings for sandwiches, focaccias and pizza, tossing through salads, serving antipasti style with charcuterie and cheese, or incorporating into savoury scones and quiches.
All this is to say that cleaning leeks is a lesson in humility. A reminder that we are but lowly humans dependent upon soil for life. As you spend more time than you’d like intimately cleaning every crevice, you get to know the anatomy of your ingredients and come up with more creative ways than you can imagine to use every bit of them.
Sort of Sott’olio
An inauthentic but endlessly useful technique that sees the leeks slowly roasted then marinaded in a bath of vinegar and oil before storing in jars under oil. The quantities of vinegar and oil will be determined by the amount of leeks you have, you’ll need enough of each to cover them completely. Stick to the ratio of 1 part vinegar to 2 parts oil.
Take well-washed baby leeks and season with salt, black pepper, and enough olive oil to coat. (Add hard herbs or garlic if you wish.)
Lay them out on a foil-lined tray or oven-proof dish and, roast them in the residual heat of the deck oven (I usually put them in when it drops to 180 degrees C), and forget about them for a good hour but not completely. Check periodically, and if they begin to look dry, tuck them in cosy by bringing the foil up around them. This will generate a little humid cocoon in which they will sweat and sweeten up. Once the leeks are soft but still holding their shape, remove them from the oven and transfer them to a bowl. While still warm, add 60ml white wine or apple cider vinegar and 120ml olive oil (increase amounts as needed, but stick to the 1:2 ratio). Here arises another opportunity to add accent flavours such as soft herbs, lemon zest or chopped preserved lemon.
Leave alone for a few hours, then remove the garlic (if used) and pack the leeks into sterilised jars; take care to remove any air bubbles and ensure the leeks are fully submerged in the vinegar oil mix, adding more if required.
Store in the fridge. As you use them, ensure the remaining contents of the jar stay under oil; top up with more oil if needed.
Be still my farmer heart, this love letter to leeks is absolutely perfect.