Remembering the Hungry Gap

The Hungry gap is a phrase you’ll hear a lot at this time of year, if you live amongst keen cooks, gardeners and growers. I’ve peppered my cookery writing with the phrase in the past but lately I find myself wondering if it is offensive for a well fed, privileged person to talk about “the hungry gap”.

People all around me are hungry, all year round. To get from my flat to my allotment I walk past a food bank. It’s only metres from the gate. Sadly allotment holders can’t donate fruit or vegetable gluts to the food bank, as they can’t store perishable goods. We are not far from Brixton’s community fridge, which is an awesome project…not to be confused with the nightclub. It’s a billion years since I last went there.

Sad to say, at this time of year there is a lot of food wastage on the allotments. In the inclement months many plotholders stay away. Maybe they don’t fancy taking their chances with the wind, the rain and the surprisingly treacherous muddy paths. Perhaps they simply forget that they planted some crops which flourish in winter. Plots that have been put to bed until spring might also play host to self – seeded visitors. You never need to sow rainbow chard or mustard greens on a London allotment. These two crops thrive all winter and seem undeterred by frosts. They’re not everyone’s cup of tea, of course. As I write, the patchwork of plots is ablaze with the yellow flowers of kale, broccoli, cabbages and mustards. You can tell who has been eating their brassicas all winter (and who hasn’t). Where they are untouched, whole bushes have burst into flower. On the plus side, these early blooms are a lifeline for the first pollinators to emerge from hibernation. Bumble bees are busy gathering harvests of their own.

If all this sounds like an aside, rest sassured we are still very much on topic. The flowering of brassicas is a sign that the so – called ‘hungry gap’ is upon us. Logic would associate hunger with the darkest months…the bleak midwinter, if you like. In fact, the hungry gap is heralded by the lengthening days and rising temperatures of spring.

You can sort – of divide plants grown for eating into four, broad categories. Those grown for their leaves, their roots, their flowers or their fruit. You could add a fifth, which is seeds (although strictly speaking, seeds are part of the fruit).

If you’re growing a plant for its leaves, you’re making the most of the time before it tries to flower. The leaves are broader, more tender and sweeter in this phase. The shortening days of late summer and the cold nights of autumn also sweeten things up and I know cooks who won’t use kales such as Cavolo Nero until after the first frosts. You could wait all autumn for a first frost in London and I’m too greedy. The same is true for most roots. Frosts are known to make parsnips and Jerausalm artichokes sweeter. As soon as a plant starts to flower, as part of the reproductive cycle, it sends its energy into that process, so that leaf and root production dwindles, depriving you of your crop. And that’s what is happening right now. Of course, It is the beginnings of a flower that creates a head of broccoli or cauliflower (the clue is in the name) but even if you grow these crops you’re on borrowed time. Today’s tight little buds of sprouting broccoli are tomorrow’s bee feast.

Most plants grown for their fruits, which are really immature seed – pods, favour warmer temperatures and long hours of daylight. Very few are frost resistant, so when food producers talk about the ‘hungry gap’ they are referring to an annual occurrence: as winter crops come to an end there is a lull in the soil’s productivity whilst the summer stuff plays catch – up. This usually occurs between late March and early May.

Historically, this was the also time when a household ‘s store ran low. Preserves and pickles, dried grains and pulses: the fruits – and seeds – of last year’s labours. The hungry gap, essentially a mismatch of timetables between mothers Nature and Hubbard, must have been tough. Even perilous. It’s no surprise that fasting became associated with piety in the climatic zones where the gap was most keenly felt. Lent being one example of this.

Nowadays the hungry gap might be an inconvenience if you’re having a go at self sufficiency (or even if you’re just impatient for summer). Canned food, frozen food, imported fruits and vegetables have all but eradicated most people’s connection with the seasons. I’ve had plenty to say on this subject over the years.

This is why the phrase ‘hungry gap’ has mostly been consigned to grower’s guides and recipe collections. Perhaps, here, it is not so glib to use it. When we share recipes or cook for others we are often telling stories. These stories have much to say about where we come from or who we once were. Just down the road from me, one of Camberwell’s best loved eateries is an exemplar of where this storytelling can take you.

A similar narrative informs much of the cooking in the cafe at Oru Space, where I teach Yoga.

A common theme that runs through many food stories is overcoming – or at least finding some form of opportunity – in adversity. Be that exile, poverty or scarcity of ingredients. Call it a cook’s ingenuity. In this way the Hungry Gap has its own stories and, as a result, it’s own flavours. To get a taste of these, you need to nurture your old hunter – gatherer roots and try a little foraging.

Just as the brassicas start to flower, there is bounty in the woods and hedgerows. If there is a space near you with enough bramble for at least one jar of jam…or a crumble…then that same space could be brimming with goodies right now. In spring, foraging is all about the leaves. Woodland plants, shaded to a certain extent from the lengthening day, are not yet spent after flowering. Free salad can be found in the form of wild sorrel, land cress and young dandelion leaves (you can read more about eating dandelions here). Be aware that these three are peppery and bitter. And whilst land cress can be eaten as a salad, if you pick wild watercress from a stream you must cook it to eradicate any risk of waterborne nasties. It might be a good idea to use wild salad greens to pep up something bulky and mild like a head of cos or young spinach leaves. If you’re after something milder and know where to look, hop shoots and sea beets are delicious. If you’re not a confident forager it’s possible to buy almost everything I mention in this article. Many UK veg suppliers including Chegworth Valley and Natoora carry wild garlic and some other forageable greens when in season.

Even If you’re a proper townie, two goodies you’re very likely to encounter are wild garlic…and stinging nettles. Yes, you read that last one right.

You can smell wild garlic aka Ramsons before you see it. It likes woods, and it’s often found near bluebells. True wild garlic is flat leafed, almost palm like. When raw, the leaf has all the pungency of chives (to which it is more closely related than actual garlic). It eventually produces a white flower which can also be eaten. When cooked it softens and sweetens considerably. The leaves can be used in any recipe where you’d usually add garlic. One popular way of eating it is to make it into a pesto, just as you would using basil. There is another allium resembling wild garlic. Three – cornered leek, once more common in Mediterranean countries, is a relatively new arrival in the UK (it’s still regarded as an invasive species). It has an unmistakably ridged, triangular leaf structure. It also favours woodlands but thrives in sunnier spots as well. Some people mistake this plant for snowdrops (which it sort of resembles) so don’t get caught out the other way round and risk upsetting your tum! Like wild garlic, three cornered leek has an unmistakable allium aroma. I find it harsher in taste than true wild garlic and I would definitely cook it rather than eat it raw. Some people swear by using the flowers in salads. A third option, known as Jack -by -hedge or mustard garlic, can be found in hedgerows. It is a brassica with a leaf that slightly resembles nettles. It also has white flowers and a much milder garlic taste than the other two.

The name Stinging nettle is a bit of an appetite suppressor, sadly, because this is a delicious and abundant source of food all over the UK. It’s a goosefoot, a member of the same group of plants as spinach, chard, beets, amaranth and quinoa. It only needs handling with care whilst raw. It is so ridiculously easy to prepare and cook that just trying it once will propbably get you hooked. The window of opportunity for enjoying it at its sweetest and tenderest is quite short because you really want the infant shoots. That said, if you have a patch of it in your own garden you can keep harvesting or strimming it so that it keeps re – growing. Tall, woody stemmed towers of nettle, close to or even at the stage of flowering, are tough as old boots and won’t be fun to eat.

Nettles are seen as an herbal medicine by many admirers. They contain a lot of histamine and have been credited with clearing up respiratory infections as well as being a natural prophylactic against hay fever. As a hay fever sufferer who eats his fair share of nettles I don’t know what to make of this particular claim. Maybe I don’t eat them regularly enough!

When foraging for wild leaves, be gentle. Don’t pull anything up by the roots and don’t take more than you need. Returning to the same place to plunder it every spring could make the plants run out of steam (although this is unlikely with nettles or wild garlic). Sorrel, landcress and dandelions are annuals so be sure to let some go to flower and set seed. This is especially true for dandelions which early pollinators rely on.

You’ll need gloves to pick nettles. Washing up or gardening gloves are perfect. Cut the tops, with the tenderest stalks and put them in a robust carrier bag (I like those big, reusable supermarket carriers). Until they are cooked you should only pick them up with tongs.

Each year I pick my first round of nettles, from a patch behind my neighbours hedge. He thinks I’m mad eating them but he kindly refrains from killing them so that I can grab an early harvest.

Nettle butter

This is what I do with my first nettle harvest. It’s an absolute trouper of a recipe with multiple uses. I’ve made a delicious plant – only version using Naturli’s vegan block.

If nettles really don’t grab you then this recipe works for wild garlic, too. There’s nothing to stop a bit of mix and match (don’t let the garlic take over).

The original template for this recipe used a couple of chopped, salted anchovies to add a very savoury note. I have found that a suggestion of Nori seaweed works well in place of these. I buy one of those small packs of roasted nori and blitz the contents to a fine powder which I can akeep in the fridge and use by the teaspoon or so.

The recipe here uses 225 g of butter simply because that’s a whole block. You could easily halve the amounts for a smaller batch.

You need :

225 g butter (salted or unsalted, up to you).

A really good stash…ie an average shop sized carrier bag full of nettles (yeeeek)!

1 or 2 cloves garlic (depending on your taste really…how garlicky do you like thiings to be? A single clove is a subtle hint. Two cloves is, oh hello)!

Half a nutmeg

Salt and black pepper

Half a tsp powdered nori.

First soften the butter by letting it come to room temperature.

Bring a large pot of water to the boil. Have a bowl of cold water right next to it.

As soon as you’re at a rolling boil, add all the nettles…with tongs… and cook them for about two or three minutes before plunging them into the cold water. They are now no longer stingers. You can use them from here on in with bare hands. Unless the stalks are really tender pick all the leaves from them. Now drain and squeeze absolutely every last drop of water from the leaves. You probably have a fist sized nugget of squeezed nettles looking for all the world like a block of frozen spinach…you know what I mean. Chop this block finely. Almost to a paste. Add it to the butter. Grate the nutmeg over this mix. Throw in the nori (or use two or three chopped anchovies if you’re not being veggie). Check the seasoning to see if you want salt and / or pepper.

Thoroughly mix the nettles and seasonings into the butter until you have a green splodge of the stuff. To keep it – you could just spoon it into a tub for the fridge but I turn it into a sausage shape so that I can cut rounds off it as and when I need them.

Here’s how:

Lay three sizeable sheets of clingfilm onto your worktop. They need to be about twice the width and length of your splodge. Place the splodge into the middle of the sheet and tease it out into a vague sausage shape. Roll it up into the sheets and twist either end of the clingfilm towards one another. This gives you a way of cutting discs of the butter as and when you need it. You can throw this butter around pasta or new potatoes, melt it onto baked field mushrooms, spread it on toast or even float it into a bowl of soup…

Talking of which…

Hungry gap soup

A meal in a bowl which combines ingredients from the store cupboard with the hedgerow. You’ll see that I include frozen peas in the category of store cupboard. They are probably one of the greatest culinary innovations of all time, since the freezing of blanched peas locks in all the goodness they have when freshly picked, without the need to dry or split them. Using potato as the base gives the soup an inherent savouriness but if you prefer beans, lentils or chickpeas you could swap them in. In that case you don’t need the frozen peas. Using potato or pulses as the base also means you don’t need stock but you could add some anyway if it’s handy. This is about using up what’s in, after all.

I’ll include nettles as an option for the greens but you could, of course, add nettle butter to the finished soup. Just float a disc on top when you serve up!

You need

1 small onion or shallot

2 sticks celery

1 or two large ish (300g) spuds

Mild tasting vegetable or olive oil

Salt

Water (or stock).

100 g frozen peas

A really generous fistful of foraged greens : Wild garlic, cress, dandelion, etc…

If you prefer you could use cultivated greens such as kale or spinach. If using nettles, prepare, cook and chop them first as per the recipe above.

Peel and dice the onion or shallot as finely as possible. If you’re working without alliums you can omit this part and just go straight for the celery.

Clean and dice the celery, just as finely.

Heat the oil gently in a large – ish pot add the onion and celery, plus a generous pinch of salt. Lower the heat as much as possible and stir everything together. Cover and allow this ‘weave’ to sweat. Don’t let it brown. If this looks like it is happening then add a splash, by which I mean 50ml or so of water.

While the weave is sweating, peel and dice the potato. Once the onion and celery are soft and slightly opaque add the potato to the mix, stir and add just enough water to make the vegetables swim, but not float. This will depend somewhat on the width of the pan that you’ve chosen. Basically the potatoes don’t want to be more than half submerged. Try a small glass of water and see if that does it (it probably will)!

Allow this soup to cook really gently, at a blip more than a simmer. The potato needs to be super tender for it to be ready and how long that takes will depend on the size of the dice plus the variety of potato. When it’s done the potato will start to fall apart. At this point you can take the pan off the heat and apply a gentle mashing action with the edge of a spoon or ladle. If you use an actual masher go easy because we don’t want actual mash. I call this action schmushing. Now return the pan to the heat and add the peas – if using – and the chopped greens. Cook until the greens are tender and check the seasoning. The soup is ready to serve once the greens have wilted.

Hop shoots at Fishley hall retreat, spring 2022