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See the happy moron, He doesn’t give a damn.
I wish I were a moron.
My God! Perhaps I am!
Anonymous
Most of us live our lives the way my overweight Labrador eats her dinner: in a frantic rush, with little pause for consideration or appreciation and an almost paranoid resistance to sharing. She salivates at any suggestion of food and invariably wants more as soon as it is finished. For her, there is no such thing as enough. It is said that her breed lacks the satiated gene and, given the chance, would eat to obesity and ultimately death.
I watch her eat with pity. Like Pooh Bear, she is a dog of very little brain, but her appetites are fairly harmless and, between meals, provided there is no hint of a bin to raid or a child’s lunch to steal, she is loyal and endearingly happy in her skin.
I like to believe that I am smarter than my dog and, though I admire her ability to live in the moment, as a higher being I have the future to think about. Surely we should be able to organise and live our lives for long-term happiness and fulfilment. Surely we should be able to balance the fleeting pleasures of short-term material gratification with the needs of our long-suffering planet. All the evidence shows that material wealth in developed countries is very poor at delivering lasting happiness, but we allow our appetite for it to outweigh all the wisdom that would recommend a more balanced life. I sometimes think we might stand a chance of attaining that wisdom if it weren’t for the fiendishly clever and well-resourced marketing industry that is so adept at appealing to our base desires.
Our phenomenal technical prowess, combined with a century of cheap fossil fuel, has given us the power to consume our planet in one last supper. All the signs are that we will consume until the last drop of oil has gone or the capacity of our planet to support us has been destroyed, whichever comes sooner. The spectacle of a species hell bent on self-destructive consumption is, like our Labrador, both pathetic and tragic, but not nearly as endearing.
Savoy cabbage is one of my favourite vegetables, yet we dare put it in the boxes only three or four times a year as we encounter such resistance – mainly from customers who are less committed to local, seasonal food. It is a nutritional and culinary tragedy that our traditional greens have been maligned in a national capitulation to the bland, seasonless, overpriced, over-travelled broccoli, peppers and mangetout that have replaced them. The decline may have been started by over-boiled white cabbage and tasteless, uniform varieties of green cabbage but the main culprit is the same fascination with the new and exotic that brought us fondues and prawn cocktails. A couple of generations after Elizabeth David initiated our love affair with Mediterranean food, most people are more comfortable with an aubergine than a cabbage. Last year, however, for the very first time, the calls for more cabbage in the boxes outweighed the moans for less. So maybe the tide is turning. If eaten fresh and not boiled to death, green cabbage and some kales (see Kale) are fantastic vegetables. Never mind the latest exotic or wonder food. You are being taken for a mug. A Savoy or January King cabbage will help you live longer at a fraction of the price. It’s just that they are so cheap, no one has the advertising budget to point this out.
Cabbages, along with kales and greens, belong to the brassica family and originate from the kale-like plants that can still be found growing wild between high tide mark and the cliffs on some of our beaches. Varieties differ in their winter hardiness, making it possible to harvest a good supply of greens for ten months of the year. April and May are the most difficult months, when we sometimes find ourselves arguing with the pigeons over the last remaining greens.
Savoy (July–March, best October–February)
The dark-green Savoys, with their heavily blistered leaves, are the slowest growing of the green cabbages and the most difficult to produce organically. They have a robust texture and strong flavour, making them ideal for inclusion in hearty peasant soups. You can substitute them for cavolo nero in most recipes.
January King (October–February)
A very pretty cabbage with tinges of red and blue in the leaves, a crunchy texture and sweet flavour. Tends to be unpredictable and can be ready any time from October to February. Along with Savoy, this is my favourite winter cabbage.
Tundra (September–March)
Boring, but the most reliable green cabbage for late winter. It is the last to plant and is often the only option for February and March when Savoy and January King have finished. Tundra is a cross between a Savoy and a white cabbage and passes the culinary acceptability test, but only just. Often a bit stalky as it gets ready to run to seed.
Celtic/Green (June–March)
This is the generic name for a host of solid green cabbages that make cannonball heads from July to December. They are easy to grow and high yielding – great for the farmer but dull in the kitchen – and have contributed to the culinary demise of the cabbage. Best avoided if anything better is around.
Hispi (May–November)
These pointed, crunchy, sweet-tasting cabbages are in season from late May to November but are at their best in the summer. They are relatively quick growing and are our staple summer cabbage. Good steamed, boiled and stir-fried; the more solid ones will even make coleslaw.
White cabbage (July–January, or May out of cold store)
When we grew vegetables for the supermarkets, we used to send off lorry load after lorry load of white cabbage. I was always at a loss as to who ate them all. How much coleslaw can the nation eat? Just about every other use of a white cabbage is better served by green cabbage or kale.
Red cabbage (July–December)
Red cabbage shares many lengthy growing and storage characteristics with white cabbage but has considerably more culinary potential. Depending on variety and planting date, it can be harvested fresh from the field from July to the first really hard frost, normally around Christmas. If handled carefully and harvested in good condition, it is possible to keep red cabbage in cold store for several months. The Dutch even manage to keep them right through to the start of the new season, though I would question how much nutritional value they have by then. When they are fresh and raw, the flavour is similar to white cabbage, though perhaps more earthy and less sweet. They can be included in coleslaw to good effect, giving colour and depth of flavour. Traditionally, red cabbage is braised with apples to make a wonderful accompaniment to game and roast meat.
Storage and preparation
As with all green vegetables, cabbages are best fresh but most of these cabbages will keep for a fortnight or so (a week for Hispi) in a cool vegetable rack or the fridge.
For any recipe requiring robust textures and flavours, such as stews, soups and stuffed cabbage, Savoy is usually the best choice. For quick eating – with lots of pepper and butter – January King and Hispi do well. As I have probably hinted already, I don’t see a lot of virtue in Tundra, except when nothing else is available, in which case I suggest you steam it and smother