WEST BRATTLEBORO — The Gilfeather turnip is an amazing beast. This Poor Man's Lobster is fantastic - a turnip, and then some.
It is sweet - so sweet, it could be a potato. It is huge - so huge, it could be a pumpkin. It is ugly and hairy - so ugly and hairy, it could be a shrunken head.
This huge, sweet, ugly, hairy beast of a turnip is indigenous to New England. I like to believe it is special to Vermont; doesn't that seem romantic? The Gilfeather can grow only in Vermont soil and can only reach the zenith of its potential in Windham County.
Gilfeather turnips take their own sweet time. They need 85 days to reach maturity - basically, the entire Zone 5 growing season to develop. Cilantro, they're not.
During their gestation, they grow magnificent, hearty leaves. You could fan a baby moose with these suckers. Long, wide, tender to cook, and brimming with nutrients, the leaves chastise chard, put a spankin' on spinach, and cause kale to quiver.
The leaf stems (known to the layperson as “the leaf-connector-thingies”) are wide, long, and also packed with flavor and nutrients. They are perfect “stock stuffers,” and you can make a lovely vegetable broth out of a few cut-up leaf stems.
I like to cut the leaves throughout the summer, and they do regenerate. But my Yankee husband (read: patient, prudent, and pragmatic) faithfully reminds me that when I do that, I'm forcing the Gilfeather to reallocate its nutrients to the leaves rather than depositing them in the magical orb below the ground.
So if you have the patience (and enough spinach and kale), wait until you harvest the turnips before enjoying their greens.
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Gilfeather turnips are a hideous sight to behold. I remember the first time I saw an Ugli fruit, a hybrid of the grapefruit, the orange, and the tangerine. It resembled a large, yellowish-greenish freak grapefruit. I thought maybe the citrus grove had been planted too close to a nuclear plant.
The Ugli is bumpy and misshapen, but honestly, it's not that ugly. But there ain't no sugarcoatin' the Gilfeather; it screams ugly. Gilfeathers are a horror movie in your garden.
Okay, maybe they are not that ugly - nope, I'm sorry, they are.
A Gilfeather is a white, green, and gray monster with a long, gnarled neck, covered with hundreds of hairy roots and then larger, hairier roots, and then a few creepy filthy “aorta roots,” jutting and dangling out the bottom as if they were ripped out of a buried cadaver's neck. [Editor's note: Ick!]
They are also beautiful in their hideousness. If you've ever picked one from a garden, you know what I mean. They're just so horrendous that they are exquisite. Like the American Bulldog.
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Ready to eat a Gilfeather? Great. Pull a King Arthur and yank Excalibur out of the ground. Hack away at the tendrils and medusa-aorta-roots and dirt. Bring a wheelbarrow or a sturdy neighbor to help you carry it.
Lug the behemoth into the kitchen, scythe the baby-moose-fanners and the leaf-connector-thingies off to the side, and place your shrunken head into the sink. Scrub off the dirt and snails. Rinse the mud out from under your fingernails.
And, now you're ready to cook it.
Just kidding! Now you're ready to peel it.
Gilfeather turnips have an inedible fibrous skin about as thick as my father's big-toe nail. [Editor's note: Ick!] Just kidding, Dad. Your toenail is thicker.
You'll need the sharpest, sturdiest knife you've got. Cleave off both ends in a guillotine fashion. Avoid removing your fingers. Next, begin to peel the skin with your machete. Go slowly, as this procedure will compare to the undertaking of slicing through concrete.
After you have peeled the Gilfeather armor, you are ready to cook it.
Just kidding! Now you're ready to cut it.
Gilfeather turnips are huge - think bowling ball - so if you cook it whole, you'll have to put it in a cauldron and boil it on your woodstove throughout the winter. It might be ready by the time the snow melts.
With your hatchet, plunge the blade into the middle of the turnip as you would hurl a carnival hammer over your head with enough force to hit the metal plate at the bottom of the pole to ring the bell at the top of the pole so that you can win that stuffed, pink Teddy Bear at the Tunbridge Fair.
Then, in a similar manner, continue hacking and chopping the beast into manageable beast bits. Exert as much force as you would to prepare post holes for a fence around your neighbor's yard.
After you have cut up the Gilfeather into chunks slightly smaller than your fists, you are now ready to cook it.
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Here's the easy part. Gently boil the chunks in water or stem stock, until tender.
How do you know when they are tender? It's easy. When you call the turnip ugly, it will cry.
No, no, silly; the turnip is tender when you bite into a chunk and it does not crunch.
Serve with butter and salt. Maybe a dash of pepper, if you are feeling exotic.
That's it. After one bite, you will understand.
And you will insist on going through the entire process, all over again, next year.
Fare well.