A Fondness for Fennel

making use of Seattle’s most fragrant weed

BY BETH MAXEY
PHOTOS BY JILL LIGHTNER AND BETH MAXEY

I am a pedestrian by choice. One of the reasons is that walking gives me an opportunity to forage as I make my way through Seattle’s neighborhoods. When I first moved to Seattle, in the late spring a few years back, I was astounded by the amount and variety of food that grew in the easements and alleys: rosemary and sage, plums and cherries, blackberries and raspberries and fennel. Fennel is one of my favorite things to find.

At the time, fennel was my favorite food. I’d just returned from Italy where I’d eaten it almost every day, shaved in thin slices with olive oil and oranges, or braised, softened and sweet. As spring turned into summer, I watched the lacy fennel fronds grow tall and produce vibrant yellow flowers. Bees hovered over the blossoms, bumbling heavily from the pollen on their legs. Every time I passed a fennel plant I’d look down at its base to see if the bulbs were forming. Summer turned to fall, and pears and apples dropped on the lawns, but the fennel bulbs never appeared.

As it turns out, the fennel I found growing near Seattle’s sidewalks was wild, or sweet fennel; in the botanical Latin, Foeniculum vulgare, and a member of the carrot family, Umbelliferea. Wild fennel is classified as a perennial herb, not a vegetable. The bulb-producing fennel I learned to love in Italy, finnochio, or Florence fennel, is descended from wild fennel and cultivated to have the swollen celery-like bulb I recognized. Wild fennel never forms a bulb. Like cilantro and dill, also members of the carrot family, fennel is valued for its flavorful, feathery leaves and seeds.

From Roman times, fennel seeds have been used in the kitchen and the pharmacy, to add flavor to food and to settle the stomach. Pliny the Elder used fennel seeds in his remedies and Charlemagne is credited with the spreading fennel throughout Central Europe during his conquest in the late 700s. From there, fennel quickly found its way into the gardens and kitchens of Asia, India, and the Middle East. Fennel was so important to the Spanish that they planted seeds along the routes that connected their missions from Saint Augustine, Florida to San Francisco, California. The Puritans brought fennel with them to the colonies, where they referred to it as meeting-seed—something they chewed to keep them alert and awake during religious gatherings.

Nowadays, fennel seed is an under-recognized ingredient, though it still appears in everything from absinthe to rye breads. In India, fennel seed is served fresh and green, as a digestive, after a meal. Chinese Five Spice, the Bengali spice mix panch phoron, and French herbes de provence all include fennel seed, though the fronds are no less valued. In 1796, Hannah Glasse recommended fennel fronds as a garnish and flavoring for salmon and other fish, in her Art of Cookery book. And in Italy, dating back earlier in the 1700s, Italians prepared a simple salad dressed with vinegar, called cartucci, made with the tender stalks of wild fennel. When the flowers bloom, Italians collect the vibrant yellow pollen and sprinkle it on top of dishes like pepper.

Today, though I still like fennel bulbs, I love wild fennel for its stalks and fronds, its pollen and its seeds. On my early springtime walks through Seattle, feathery green fennel tufts begin to appear and I collect a few to mix with my morning eggs. Throughout the season, these fronds find their way into my salads and pestos. When the salmon return, I make gravlax with fennel fronds instead of dill. And when the flowers bloom, I carefully collect some pollen to sprinkle on pasta or buttered Dover sole.

By the end of summer I’m on to the seeds. I love their crisp snap and green apple sweetness. Usually I eat most of them standing right in front of the bush, as if they were blueberries. If there are any seeds left after my snacking, I sprinkle them on salads, mix them into breads or serve them simply like they do in India: in a bowl, with a bit of rock sugar, after a meal.

Beth Maxey writes about food and wine when she is not eating and drinking it. Read more at www.twentyeightletters.com.

Sidebar: Finding Fennel