The Great Scape

There's no getting around it: garlic scapes are weird. I mean, look at them. They shoot up like arrows from the heart of the plant, straightforward enough, and then turn head-over-heels in midair, hanging there like a freeze-framed gymnast. Or a misguided rocket. There's something sort of prehistoric about them too. And, forgive me, but has anyone seen Tremors? Don't these guys oh-so-slightly remind you of the littler evil-looking snake heads that shot out of the monster's gaping maw? Anyone? Okay.

Scapes. I don't know why we call them that. They're nothing fancier than unopened garlic flowers, which admittedly doesn't sound very appetizing. Somewhere along the line a sort of Garlic PR person must've decided they'd catch on better if we called them scapes. I don't mind-- it does lead to some excellent puns.

Anyway. This story begins last weekend, when Patrick and I attended a barbecue under an enormous blue tarp. Through the sheets of rain pouring down, I beheld a mason jar sitting on the food table, holding mysterious contents. Pickled garlic scapes. I was trepedatious. I feared a pickled garlic scape just might be pungent and fiery enough to burn a hole in my tongue.

I need not have worried. They were about as potent as your average dill pickles, and, when washed down with ample beer, quite good. At one point, Patrick, myself and three other friends stood in a circle passing the jar around, taking turns extracting the long green garlicky straws within. Furtively passing a jar around and giggling, it might as well have been moonshine.

As I said, addictive. Last night after work, I picked a bundle and, using a recipe for Dilly Beans, did my first canning of the season.

And oh, it felt good.

And tomorrow, I make jam!

Find more information on garlic scapes, including how to grow them.