SpiceLines

Thick-barked Indonesian cassia curls into scrolls or quill when it is stripped from the tree. Hotter and more pungent than true cinnamon from Ceylon, this is the spice most Americans know as cinnamon.

Yes, fall is in the air.

In my corner of the world that means shivery mornings, sun-struck afternoons planting saffron bulbs, and an evening craving for savory Moroccan tagines, tangy with preserved lemon, pungent with cinnamon.

In “Sweet, Hot,” (Saveur, October, 2009, pp. 82-91) Sara Dickerman takes a quick look at America’s favorite spice: its ancient history, the distinctions between true cinnamon from Ceylon and its more pungent cousin, cassia, and the best ways to cook with both.

“Cassia works well when you’re looking to give a dish a bit of backbone or to offset sweetness with a good, spicy kick: in chutneys, Southeast Asian curries and snickerdoodle cookies…” Dickerman writes. “True cinnamon lends itself to slow stewing and steeping, as well as to sweet applications; its round, clean flavor never comes on too strong.”

Saffron comes from the blooms of the autumn-flowering crocus sativus. The three red "threads" emerging from the center of each flower must be carefully plucked and dried to produce the spice.

Why do I do things like this?

Scour Mumbai for diamond bangles minutes before I have to leave for the airport? Endlessly scheme (at 3 AM) to open a café in my future biodynamic garden, complete with fragrant antique roses and ancient apple trees?

And now: Grow saffron.

This is not exactly the saffron zone. For that you have to go to Iran or Kashmir. Maybe Spain or Morocco or Greece. There’s even a field or two in France. But not North Carolina with its drenching hurricanes and hungry squirrels.

And there’s another little problem: harvesting enough to use for cooking. It takes 150 autumn-blooming crocus sativus flowers to produce enough stigmas—the long red threads in the picture above—for one gram—that’s .035 ounce—of dried saffron. No wonder it’s the world’s most expensive spice.

At the Saturday Charleston farmers' market, Raychelle Bennett offers a enormous pickled okra for tasting. Her delicious fresh pickles, which can be kept in the refrigerator, include beets with coriander seed, sweet and sour summer squash and incendiary cucumber spears spiced with four kinds of hot peppers.

Add the Saturday farmers’ market in Marion Square to my long list of reasons to love the Holy City.

A few days ago I was ambling along, minding my own business—hard to do, actually, on a steamy October morning, with the most delectable Southern things to eat and drink all around me—when a raspy voice called out:

“Here! Try one of these!”

I bit—and before I knew it, my mouth was exploding with flavor. Tangy, salty, blazing hot. The cool crunch of cucumber, the juiciness of ripe tomatoes, the pungent aroma of cilantro.

It was a fiery cucumber pickle, laced with blistering hot scotch bonnet peppers, improbably topped with an equally scorching fresh tomato salsa, and I loved it.

Basmati rice infused with saffron grown in Iran has a delicate floral scent and a subtle sweetness enhanced by Ceylon cinnamon. Sauteed almonds, onions and dried cherries add to the flavor of the dish.

Call me a pessimist—still, I knew this would happen.

No sooner had last week’s pale saffron shoots produced a few tightly furled buds than the rains came. Cold, pelting rains with ominous black clouds that made it seem like perpetual twilight for days on end.

A single streaky purple flower offered a tantalizing glimpse of its golden pistil, then closed up tight against the chilly assault. The next morning the slender bud had collapsed.

Meanwhile the pots are filled with pearly shoots in various stages of arrested development. The other early buds have not the slightest intention of opening.

And of course I’m leaving tomorrow for over a week. Will there be anything left to harvest when I return? Unlikely, says my gloomy Calvinist self.

But here’s a ray of sunshine: Glorious golden rice flavored with Persian saffron and Ceylon cinnamon, a dish to brighten autumn’s dark chill.

In Mexico, gaily decorated skulls made of white sugar and meringue powder are placed on family altars for the Day of the Dead. I found this one at Melissa Guerra's Tienda de Cocina in San Antonio, along with the papel picado in the background.

As soon as I unwrapped the crinkly plastic, I inhaled the sweet, sultry scent of white sugar and meringue. Some deeply atavistic instinct stirred….pure blissed out sugar craving!

The skull, more winsome than scary, was a kaleidoscope of fanciful swirls, flowers and stars. It had silver dragees for eyeballs and a heart-shaped red hot was pressed right into the middle of its forehead.

Definitely cute. And edible.

In Mexico, it’s almost time for Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, as families prepare to greet the souls of the dear departed when they return to earth at midnight on October 31. In places like Oaxaca, sumptuous ofrendas or altars are adorned with photos, toys, flowers, fruit, chocolate, bread and other foods that the dead enjoyed during their time on earth. Colorful calaveras de azucar (sugar skulls) inscribed with the names of the deceased are often placed there too.

I love the idea of grouping a few sugar skulls on a hall table amongst flickering votives and the last crimson roses from the garden. Add a pale blue-green hubbard squash, some ghostly white pumpkins and a photograph or two of your own late lamented, and you have the beginnings of a personal ofrenda.

Now what to eat? In Mexico it’s traditional to cook seasonal fruits and vegetables in a sweet syrup of piloncillo (raw brown sugar sold in cones) and Ceylon cinnamon until they are soft and translucent. On the Day of the Dead, these “candied” delights are set out on family altars with other foods to tempt the spirits of the departed. When it’s all over, the living get to devour the feast.

Right here on Spicelines there’s a wonderful recipe for Pumpkin Squash in Syrup (Calabaza en Dulce) which is adapted from Susana Trilling’s Oaxaca cookbook, Seasons of My Heart. I used Seminole, an heirloom, but you can substitute almost any firm, sweet pumpkin squash. Once cooked, the squash acquires a deliciously fruity flavor—perfect for dessert, served in a glass compote layered with rum-spiked whipped cream.

But don’t delay. Is that your doorbell ringing? Midnight approaches…