It was mid-March in Marfa, and a number of young local gourmands assembled on an ominously windy evening for a birthday cookout.
Drinking Modelos, fruity Lacroix and small cups of the host’s favorite raicilla, a radio engineer prepared the seasonally traditional fare of seared ground cow patties and generally managed the grill. The local esthetician brought her own vegan meat alternative. There was thick herbed bacon, imported from the capital city of Austin. An arts-rug embroiderer, new in town, made a notable potato salad dressed with celery vinegar from Brooklyn. I baked fresh rolls. Jocelyn Jerrils, formerly the sous chef of Cochineal and presently cuisinier of The Pool, made a cardamom olive oil cake topped with orange slices.
After dinner conversation turned to the arts — exhibitions past and present, the churn of romantic and political alliances that so often shape these exhibitions — and to the backyard garden we found ourselves in, scraggly in the early spring but pointedly well-established with mature plants. This was no ordinary garden, we learned, but one that had been carefully tended for 20 years by the artist Martha Hughes, recently departed for New Mexico. An herbalist artist and I flipped through the 20-plus page garden booklet that Hughes had left behind for the new tenants, photographically enumerating the indigenous flora.
“Did you know,” the herbalist told me, pointing to some fresh, leggy weeds topped with small yellow flowers that had pushed their way in around some vacant spots, “that these mustard greens are edible? They’re called London rocket, and they’re invasive.”
How exciting. Ms. Jerrils and I immediately seized some small leaves –– sacre bleu! They are little arugulas! –– and tried them. Tender, spicy… not great but interesting. No one was inspired to begin eating them by the handful but … maybe they could be processed into something else.
Sisymbrium irio, of the Brassicaceae family, received its common name “London rocket” after the Great Fire of London in 1666, when the plant spread prolifically throughout the ashes of the burned city. Originating in the deserts of Arabia, it thrives in disrupted soil near transportation centers, is often fed to livestock, and has been used by the Bedouin of the Sinai and al-Naqab deserts to “treat coughs and chest congestion, relieve rheumatism, to detoxify the liver and spleen, and to reduce swelling and clean wounds.” London Rocket is also of interest to academics and humanitarian workers studying famines.
The next day I uprooted several plants and brought them into my elementary school arts classes for the students to taste and illustrate. Warned that their leaf would be spicy, the responses of tasters were mixed, with the average being negative-neutral. Some bolder fourth-graders ate more than one leaf and claimed to like it. One second-grader spat a neon green glob out onto the table and glowered at me, almost tearfully, with a look of rage and betrayal.
They did not get to try the potion I brewed up next.
Lactic acid fermented London rocket:
By early April, my formerly cleared yard was absolutely full of sisymbrium irio. Theoretically, it would be nice and of culinary interest to preserve at least some portion of this bumper crop into a spicy, fresh, green condiment. Of the few published recipes online, many suggest turning the plant into pesto and freezing it. In hindsight, this seems like a good option, with a reasonably predictable outcome. But when Jocelyn and I were brainstorming potential preservation methods, we both were excited by the prospect of pickling the green in a lactic acid fermentation.
The procedure of lactic acid fermentation for pretty much anything is simple, and well-explored in The Noma Guide to Fermentation by René Redzepi and David Zilber, a book of extreme interest to people who like odder foods. Take a container, add whatever it is you want to pickle to this container, and cover it with water. Weigh the results, then add 2% of that weight in salt. Give this some time to ferment and then boom — pickles.
I tried this with the London rocket from my yard, and after two weeks, the plastic quart container swole up ominously, bulging at its seals. Intrigued and a little afraid, I slowly opened the lid. With a terrible hiss, my entire house was filled with a ghastly smell reminiscent of an embarrassed dog that has eaten a large amount of aged roadkill. There is no reason so far as I can tell for anyone else to try this. Do not do this. It is not good. The only possible use I can imagine for this recipe is if you needed to leave Marfa directly for an ocean voyage and needed to pack a source of vitamin C to prevent scurvy. This recipe does not taste good in Texas. Do not do this. It is not good.