The best herb garden I ever had thrived in less than a hundred square feet of hot, arid Colorado clay. I learned a lot from that small patch of ground, in part because I planted a bunch of herbs that looked pretty but that I didn’t know how to use. As the summers went by I came to love them all, from familiar grassy parsley through the resinous bite of rosemary to the delicate cucumber-like taste of salad burnet. In New York I am too surrounded by traffic to want to eat anything I could possibly grow, but Stokes Farm feeds my hunger.
Herbs, technically, are plants whose leaves or flowers are used for flavor more than substance. Some (thyme and basil come to mind) are utility infielders, happy to bring a kick to almost any dish. Others are more particular. Anise hyssop, for example, looks lovely in the garden, with soft, furry leaves and brilliant arrays of tiny purple flowers, but it has a very specific and unusual flavor, like anise candy in its sweetness and intensity. It’s spectacular with summer fruits.
One of my very favorite high summer desserts (from a recipe by Jerry Traunfeld, my hero in all things herbal) starts by combining two parts sweetish Riesling to one part sugar in a big pot and adding some fresh ginger, half a vanilla bean, and a bunch of ripe, peeled peaches. Add cold water to cover and bring the pot just to a simmer, then turn off the heat and add a couple springs of anise hyssop (including the flowers, which will tint the syrup a lovely shade of purple). When everything has cooled to room temperature, fish out the peaches, cut them in half, and serve them with a little of that herby, sweet syrup. It’s a fabulous and super-easy dish, an unexpected combination of flavors that sings of summer.
About once a week these days, when late summer’s abundance of herbs means you can use extravagant fistfuls, I improvise a chopped herb sauce. I spend a quarter of an hour picking a variety of sympathetic herbs: earthy thyme, perhaps, and rich tarragon (I prefer the French varieties to the Russian), a little oregano, a lot of parsley, maybe some marjoram for its dusty flavor or mint for brightness. I mince together garlic, capers, salt-packed anchovies, and some dried chile peppers, then chop these together with the herbs. I add a fair bit of salt and stir in enough good olive oil to create a mixture just thinner than a paste. The sauce vibrates with intense flavor, with the heat of the garlic and chile turning up the volume on the riot of herbs. It’s great slathered on hot or cold grilled meats or chicken, roasted potatoes or corn on the cob, or just about anything else that comes within reach.
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