Red-Hot Medieval Roots

In this fifth installment of the Hattonchâtel castle medieval extravaganza, I enlist Hanne Agerskov's help to cook a dish I've been meaning to do for years. There is so much poetry in those humble root vegetables cooked directly in the embers - I hope you can see it the way I did!

Hanne comes down the stairs on the castle's outer walls and down into the moat.

Under her dog's watchful eye, up there on the wall, she starts digging in the castle's vegetable gardens planted by the caretaker's wife.

I'm glad you want to do something with those bloody turnips, she says, as nobody like them here. She removes a dozen beautiful turnips from the ground.

I have seen many vegetable patches, but I admit this one has one inspiring location!

You will have to show me exactly what I need to do with them, said Hanne, a bit worried of appearing on the blog. Don't worry, this is the simplest recipe you can imagine, I replied, as we walked back to the kitchen.

I sat opposite Hanne at the kitchen table bathed in light from the North-facing window, and started directing her. As soon as she commenced peeling, her stress disappeared.

Peel the turnips, I said, but do not discard the leaves as we'll use them in a minute.

Then peel the lemon as thinly as you can, with as little of the white part as you can manage, I continued.

Now slice the peel lengthwise in the thinnest strips you can. The French call this julienne. Hanne repeated with a smile Ju-lee-enne.

Finally, cut the julienne crosswise to make little cubes. Hanne complied, precise as a Swiss clock. I just took pictures - you can really get used to this way of cooking with a camera!

Quickly, I re-read my recipe photopied from a French book about cooking in open hearths. Now please wash the turnips leaves, discard the ugly ones, and cut them crosswise in thin strips, I instructed my Danish friend.

Take a piece of aluminum foil as long as your arm ...

... prepare a bed of turnips leaves strips ...

and gently rest one turnip. Sprinkle with a pinch of lemon zest cubes, then decorate with a twig of rosemary.

Finally, place a piece of the half-salted butter we bought yesterday on top. As Hanne continued, I could swear she started to be fascinated as how the French could turn such miserable vegetable, those which Shakespeare called Thou Zed, the Last and most Unecessary letter of the Alphabet, into a delicate and sophisticated feast. All this with ingredients from her garden and fridge.

Now wrap the foil around it ...

...until you have a little ball. That's it - job well done! Hanne looked relieved and quite pleased with her work - and she could.

We continued with a few beetroots ...

... which were wrapped in the foil with a pinch of sea salt.

Next page see how we cook those vegetables in the castle's walk-in fireplace.

Guy, the caretaker, was busy serving our hypocras to the big enchiladas of the Meuse department when we asked for his help to manage the hellish fire we had made in the castle's huge fireplace. He had made the fire an hour before with logs taken from the little niches built on each side of the fireplace, but these are not regular logs. Each was at least 1 meter (3 feet) long and weighted as much as two cheese heads. Now the heat was so intense that you could not really get close to the fire. We need a big bed of embers, I told him.

Guy is quite fearless, and with the help of a long shovel, managed to spread the embers on the ground, then laid the wrapped vegetables to bed one by one.

He then started covering the vegetables with another layer of hot embers ...

... hellish work!

We left the vegetables alone for an hour.

As we came back, the fire had run out and Guy retrieved all the vegetables from the ashes. A roasted wild boar was placed before the fireplace. I'll tell you all about the wild boar next week.

As the banquet started, we rushed back to the kitchen and unwrapped the vegetables. Sure enough, a few turnips has burnt patches on the outside, but these zones were easily removed and the flesh inside had this heavenly taste of caramelized root vegetables.

We presented the sliced turnips as best we could on a platter, with generous helpings of half-salted butter on top.

Once the beetroots were unwrapped and sliced, Midas sprinkled walnut oil and sea salt over them, ...

... while Hanne sliced sorrel leaves. We had to buy a sorrel plant in a supermarket to get those leaves, but they are essential to this recipe because their tart flavor balances the beetroots' bland sweetness.

Sprinkle the sorrel on the beetroots and serve.

Rustic, but healthy and delicious. Serve a roasted wild boar as a side dish!

You don't need a medieval castle to cook this - any open hearth will do.

Next week you'll see how to roast a wild boar from start to finish.

You will find more recipes like this in an amazing American cookbook called The Magic of Fire. The author has done a lifetime of research cooking in open earths and over or directly in embers. A really unique and inspiring book, warmly recommended. The only thing missing from this book are pictures - I hope my modest effort will somewhat complement that masterpiece.