The
more we got to know about purslane, the greater our wonder and respect for it.
It has an astoundingly high level of omega-3 fatty acids, more than any other
vegetable. And omega 3’s are very fashionable these days. Purslane is loaded
with vitamins, especially vitamin C and E, along with lots of healthy minerals
and antioxidants. Doctors have been singing its praises since antiquity, for
countering inflammation, sore throats, ulcers and earaches. It’s good for the
heart and the joints. Put some in a poultice on your bee stings and boils.
Even in the garden, purslane’s fans claim it is the
most virtuous of weeds. It makes good ground cover to hold moisture in the
soil, and breaks up soil to help plants with less robust roots. (Maybe so, but
if you let it, it will take over everything. Everything.)
There’s been no
rain for two weeks now, but the purslane just keeps coming. It’s time to yank
some up and cook it. Everyone who has ever used the stuff recommends picking it
in the morning. The plant employs an unusual sort of photosynthesis; it does
its work at night, storing up nutrition in the form of a slightly acidic
chemical, which it converts to sugars over the course of the day. Get it in the
morning while it’s still tart.
This we do. We
have to cut off the roots and soak it; growing next to the ground it picks up a
lot of dirt. Italians have been eating porcellana (also called portulaca) forever. The
Milanese Bonvesin de la Riva mentions it in his list of foods in his 1288 Marvels
of the City of Milan. But we haven’t found a lot of compelling recipes for
it. So we try it the most common
way: like any other green, sautéed with a little garlic and olive oil (and a
chopped chilli, because that’s the way we are). It looks about like any other
green when it’s done, but I have to admit we were a little disappointed by the
taste. The tartness disappeared, and a
blandness replaced it. Fortunately we didn’t cook it too long. That’s
the worst mistake you can make; after about five minutes on the stove a sort of
gluey texture starts to emerge—not nice. Five minutes is just about right.
One
cookbook suggests making a sauce for meat or fish: mash up a bunch of it, with
an egg white, an anchovy and some oil. Others remind us that the country folk used to make it sott’aceto, preserved in vinegar. Everyone else seems to limit it to salads: with
cucumber, with tomato, beetroot, beans, lentils or whatever. There’s a nice one (in Italian) involving cold
chicken, basil, pistachios, shaved grana padano
and red currants.
Bottom
line—it’s absolutely fine in salads, though it will never be a star. You can
leave the smaller stems in, and there doesn’t seem to be any difference in
taste between the young shoots and the full-grown monsters.
The
Italians haven’t provided much inspiration, so we looked to see what the French
do with their pourpier. Back in Roman times,
Pliny oddly referred to it as ‘Gallic asparagus’, which suggests it was
somewhat prized. And Gallic pourpier, after all,
is what’s menacing my garden. But the French were no help; all they do is purée
it for a soup, a velouté, like they do with everything else.
Next year the
purslane will certainly be back, and we’ll be trying a Mexican favourite, pork and purslane, or the Lebanese
salad called fattoush, with lots of mint and
lemon juice, or this
very intriguing Indonesian salad.
Finally, all you
gardeners be advised that purslane has an evil twin. The false purslane is called
‘creeping spurge’. it is nearly as common and mildly toxic. Almost as soon as I
learned this I noticed, yes indeed, we’ve got that in the garden too. But the
leaves are smaller and flatter, and grow in pairs. It’s not hard at all to tell the difference.
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