SpiceLines

A round the world trip in a mouthful: Local squash, potatoes and eggplant in a Thai-style coconut curry with New Mexican red chile powder, Indonesian cassia and Moroccan cumin seed.

Our last CSA boxes were full of autumn vegetables that conjured visions of cooler days ahead. But instead of waiting for the sweltering heat to fade, I decided to use the squash and potatoes—and a few more locally grown ingredients from the Saturday market—to make a season-spanning curry with the flavors of Southeast Asia.

It was the best of both worlds: A dish, both local and global, that looked back to summer and ahead to fall. Even better, it hit all the flavor notes I love. Hot and sour, salty and sweet. And, thanks to a generous splash of fish sauce, it had hints of umami, that almost indescribable fifth flavor that adds succulence to dishes.

Here’s what went into the curry:

The main ingredients were sweet Kabocha squash, a few Corolla potatoes and a lovely pale purple Asian eggplant, all locally grown vegetables you can probably find in your own farmer’s market. But, wonder of wonders, I also discovered slightly embryonic baby ginger lurking amongst the chiles at Peregrine Farm’s weekend stand. Young ginger is so tender you can almost cut it with a dinner knife. Its flavor merely hints at the taste of the mature root, but it is already searing to the palate. Into the market basket it went.

On the global side, there was luscious, preservative-free Aroy-D coconut milk from Thailand, my new favorite ingredient...

This morning a lone Kinnaird's Choice apple, almost hidden among green leaves, winked at me from the iron arch in the center of the herb garden. The question is: What I should do with it?

I’ve grown accustomed to mini-successes in the garden. A few golden threads of homegrown saffron, a handful of Jefferson’s luscious green figs, a lone Angelique tulip which returns year after year despite the vanishing of all its companions.

It’s important not to call them “failures” because gardening is about the hardest thing you can do. It’s not at all like cooking where, as long as your ingredients are good and the techniques are well-considered, you will likely create something delicious to eat.

But in the garden the opportunities for mishaps are rampant. Squirrels feast on tulip bulbs, the plumper the better, so one year’s glorious display gives way to bare beds the next. Fantastic yields of the sweetest cherry tomatoes you can imagine dwindle to nothing when trees grow so tall they block the sunshine. Rabbits, voles, drought, thieving delivery men—yes, I caught one filling a bag with crabapples—hurricanes, depleted soil, hungry birds: Disaster lurks around every corner.

In the more innocent months before 9/11, I had the idea of planting heirloom apple trees in the corners of our foursquare herb garden which is divided by old brick paths, and training them to grow over a graceful arch fashioned of rebar. I had visions of antique apples dangling just above our heads, ripe for the plucking. There would be apples for caramelized tarte tatin, spiced apples with cassia, ginger and lemon, apples for eating out of hand with slices of cheese and brown bread.

The award-winning green chile cheeseburger at Bobcat Bite is a sinner's dream. Two thick-cut slices of applewood-smoked bacon are hiding under the melting cheese.

Most of the time I’m virtuous. Eight glasses of water daily, quinoa for lunch, salad for supper. Nix on the mojitos (well, more than one).

But there are times when I’m bad. Really bad.

Like when I ate at Bobcat Bite this summer. Just thinking about it makes me blush.

It’s outside Santa Fe, on the Old Las Vegas Highway, along what used to be Route 66. Once upon a time it was a trading post, then a gun shop. The restaurant, open since 1953, was named after the bobcats that slunk down from the hills to the back door, seeking a tasty handout.

The place looks like it’s been around forever. Old adobe, neon and a peeling sign advertising “Steaks Chops Hamburgers.” It’s not always open, but when it is, the dusty parking lot is packed with hungry locals. And don’t be surprised if you see a truck with Alaska plates or a church bus from Tennessee or a van disgorging a dozen Chinese and their cameras.

‘Cause the word is out: This is where’ll you get the best bacon green chile cheeseburger of your life. (Even the indefatigable Jane and Michael Stern concur.)

Green fire: A bowl of roasted and chopped green chiles, fruity and succulent, adds just the right touch of heat to pork stew, BLTs, and even cornbread.

My first taste of New Mexican green chile was at a fast food eatery on the outskirts of Albuquerque. The place was empty, so B and I had our pick of seats. We slid into a big booth and looked out the window at the rugged brown mountains that ring the city.

On the menu: the state’s iconic red and green chile.

I ordered a bowl of the green stuff and it came, as I recall, pure and unadulterated. No pork, no chicken, no potatoes. Just a bowl of green fire that scorched my tongue and sent rivulets of searing lava down my throat. I choked. My nose burned. Tears spurted from my eyes. It was the most painful culinary experience of my life. And this from a person who grew up eating mashed firebombs—aka chiles pequins from our own bushes—with everything.

Only later did I learn about the famous Hatch green chiles, a group of capsicums developed by horticulturists at New Mexico State University over the last 100 years. With names like New Mexico No. 6 and Sandia—and more recent cultivars like NuMex Heritage Big Jim and Heritage 6-4--these fleshy, thick-walled chiles are bred for their sweet, fruity flavor and mild pungency.

Oddly enough, it’s said that on the Scoville heat scale, New Mexican peppers (and the related Anaheims) are at the low end, clocking in at a mere 500 to 2,500 units. But in my experience, if you buy a batch of Hatch green chiles, some will be a lot more intense.

That’s the thing about chiles. Figuring out how hot they are is like Russian roulette. One bite and you may go up in smoke.

A taste of fall: Overnight the red banana leaves turned yellow and their edges, already nibbled by insects, are suddenly tattered and frayed.

It was folly, of course, to dream that it would last.

Overnight, blustery winds and a spatter of cold rain. This morning the lush tropical jungle outside the kitchen window is trembling with shock.

The soaring red bananas have collapsed and their leaves are in tatters…

It's serious!

I’m biting my nails, trying to decide…

Which market bag to pack? Oh, did I forget to tell you? We'll be in Paris very soon...

...landing just steps from the Marche Biologique on the boulevard Raspail. Sadly, there'll be no kitchen, so I’ll have to pass up the sheep’s milk butter and the bountiful baskets of pommes de terre —but absolutely must have room for olive oil soap, wild vanilla beans and the potato galettes that everyone raves about.

Please help! Which bag should I take?