A Pagan Cooks from Her Garden with Spring Herbs

by Catherine Harper

The garden year for my family starts at Imbolc, when the pruning begins and we see the first tips of new growth. Those first weeks are the slow ones in the garden, the cleaning and setting of the stage. The overwintering vegetable beds are weeded and cleared of debris for the spurt of growth that will come with the lengthening days and warmer soil. The last of the previous autumn's dried up stalks are pulled up and added to the compost pile, and the ground is raked. But as Imbolc turns toward the equinox, spring accelerates.

As the days lengthen and the grass begins to grow again, snowdrops and crocuses flower, and daffodils begin to form heads. The pruning needs to be finished before the sap runs too strongly (and many times I have spent days late in February pruning in the rain, having waited in vain for better weather). Whether we have finished our preparations or not, the garden is returning to life.

Each spring, as the chives first begin to return, it is time to pull back the covers and wake up the herb garden. It begins with trimming back the grass from the bricks, and raking the grass and leaves from the walkways. My primary herb garden, the one right behind the kitchen, is one of concentric circles of bricks -- alternating rings of plants with rings of grass -- and over the winter the bricks are overgrown with grass and moss. Once the initial trimming is done, I start on the outermost ring and begin to slowly work my way around.

As a rule I don't spend a lot of time weeding on my knees. In many ways our property does not allow it. An acre may not be that much space, really, but on my knees I would not work through our gardens even once a year, and the encroaching blackberries and writhing kiwi vines would invade the house through the ventilation slits and strangle us in our beds. The last few years I have been initiated into the lore of different kinds of specialized hoes, and these -- and in extreme cases my Rototiller -- bear the brunt of the work.

But for the herb garden, with its small plants and tight spaces between brickwork, I do things the old, slow way. The outer ring is marked with the compass points, and I start in the east, between the lady's mantle and southernwood. Over the fall and winter, the moss has grown across the beds in such a thick layer that sometimes I can pull it back like a sheet of felt. In places grass roots have squeezed between the bricks and sent up their green standards, and there are myriad sprouts of stinking Robert to be removed.

Around it goes, past the poppies, coltsfoot and the first of the many clumps of salad burnet. Who would have thought that sweet cicely, a tender, anise-scented herb, would have sent roots as big as my fist, burrowing under the border and knocking the bricks out of alignment? At a few points along the rhizomes, pale green shoots are beginning to unfurl their fern-like leaves. This year's oregano is a low-lying cluster of leaves at the base of last year's withered stems and must be worked around. The tall, dried-out stalks on the vervain need to be removed, and how did I end up with so much of an herb I use so seldom?

The winter savory has only a few old leaves on it, though rosettes of sorrel run wild in the grass. The rue is spindly and unevenly colored but still has many leaves, and rosemary has lasted through the winter with its usual fortitude. The chives, usually the first of the new herbs up for the year, are a few inches tall, a good height for distinguishing them from the surrounding grass and moss. The sage has changed little over the winter, but its gray-green leaves, last year's growth, look subtly ragged and old. The next clump of salad burnet is thick with new growth.

Around the ring I make my slow way, on my knees, working from the east with the sun, as in so many other circles I have traversed. Beneath my hands the weedy, green fuzz gives way to rich, dark earth punctuated by clusters of plants made tidy. I pile the weeds and cuttings at eight points, the quarters and cross-quarters of the circle, and as I lay out the turning of the seasons in miniature, I plan ahead the year. Here I will plant clumps of parsley. This year I will plant runner beans at the same time I send in my taxes, and a month later begin to move the nightshades outside. I will wait to move the basil outside until only a few weeks before midsummer, and perhaps this year I will plant it in copper-rimmed pots to ward off slugs. And just as the garden is flourishing in the heat of the year, it will be time to start the cold weather crops, the kales, Brussels spouts, mustard and chard that will fill the garden and be eaten as we head back down into winter. The circle curves around, and I am back to where I began.

Coddled Eggs with Herbs

This is a very good time of year for eggs, as many have observed. As the days lengthen, hens (those whose days are defined by natural light and not artificial light on timers, anyway) begin to produce in earnest. For this recipe, fresh eggs are strongly recommended.

You will need an egg coddler, which is a small jar of glass or ceramic with a close fitting lid, made with such materials that it can be dropped cold into boiling water without cracking. (Do not try this with just any small jar.) You can find them at culinary supply stores, or sometimes at tea shops.

Set a pan containing about four inches of water on the stove to boil. Butter the inside of your coddler, including the lid, for later ease in cleaning. Beat one egg with a little milk or cream. Add a little grated mild cheese (or soft goat cheese) if it suits your fancy and a scant teaspoon each of finely chopped chives and sweet cicely. Pour the mixture into the coddler, close the top per the manufacturer's instructions, and place it in boiling water for 7-8 minutes. Open the coddler and eat the eggs with a spoon or on toast.

Herbed Cheese Spread

This is almost too simple to be called a recipe. Fine-chop a tablespoon or more of fresh, savory herbs. (Chives and salad burnet work well, but as with the previous recipe, other savory herbs may be substituted as they become available.) Place the herbs on a cutting board or in a bowl. Take a piece of cream cheese or soft goat cheese roughly the size of a tennis ball, and place it on the herbs. Knead the with your fingertips until the herbs have been worked all the way through the cheese. The flavors will mature better if you let the cheese sit in the refrigerator for at least a couple of hours before serving.

Lentil Terrine

This is another recipe that works very well with chives and sweet cicely, though I use chives and mint more often. More olive oil can be substituted for the butter to render it deliciously vegan.

1 medium sized shallot, chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil

2/3 cup red lentils

2 cups water

1/4 cup butter (1/2 stick)

3 tablespoons wine vinegar or the juice of half a large lemon

1-2 tablespoons mixed fresh herbs, finely chopped

Brown the shallot in two tablespoons of olive oil. Add the lentils, stirring until they are coated with oil and slightly browned. Add the water, and bring the mixture to a simmer. Cover, reduce heat, and leave it to cook until lentils fall apart (approximately half an hour). Remove cover, and stir while the water evaporates until the mixture is both thick and smooth.

Add all but 2 tablespoons of the butter, letting it melt into the lentils. Remove from heat. Add the vinegar or lemon and salt to taste (start with one teaspoon of salt, and work up -- remember, this is a spread, and can be fairly salty). Stir in the herbs, and pour the mixture into an appropriately sized ceramic pot with a lid, or other fitting container. The remaining two tablespoons of butter should be melted and poured over the top. Let chill for at least two hours before serving, or better yet, let it refrigerate overnight.