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Kohlrabi isn’t the coolest kid in its class. It has a weird name, and looks even weirder. I admit I’ve always ignored it in favor of prettier, more popular vegetables. Why befriend it now?

Kohlrabi, courtesy Flickr user Lawrence Farmers Market

Well, because kohlrabi is nutritious: no fat, lots of fiber and vitamin C, even some protein. It’s cheap and in season locally. And it’s a member of the Brassica genus, which includes some of my favorite vegetables, like broccoli, brussels sprouts and kale.

So when a thoughtful coworker left a bundle of it at my desk, I tried to embrace the occasion (though not the kohlrabi itself, which smelled like cabbage) and took it home for dinner.

The greens were still attached and looked healthy, similar to collard greens, so I saved those to saute separately. After snipping off the globe’s odd appendages, I peeled away its outer layer with a paring knife—not always essential, apparently, but these were large and fairly thick-skinned—and ate a few slices raw.

The purple variety was spicier, like a radish, while the pale green kind tasted more like broccoli stems. Both would work well in a salad. I sliced the rest up lengthwise to make kohlrabi fries, using this recipe. They had a mild, turnip-like flavor that could have used a stronger partner than just salt—garlic or grated Parmesan, perhaps—but I loved their texture. I’ll definitely invite kohlrabi over again.

Five more ways to eat kohlrabi:

1. Frittered. A Hungry Bear’s kohlrabi fritters resemble classic potato latkes, while My Conscious Eating‘s elegant fritters incorporate fresh mint and cottage cheese.

2. Slaw-style. Since kohlrabi has so much in common with cabbage, it makes a great coleslaw. Try the Washington Post’s spicy Asian “kohl-slaw” or if you prefer it sweet, A Veggie Venture’s kohlrabi & apple slaw with creamy dressing.

3. Soup. It’s amazing how versatile kohlrabi becomes in pureed form—you can make a rainbow of soups, from white (creamy  kohlrabi soup) to red (beet and kohlrabi soup) and orange (kohlrabi and root vegetables) or green (kohlrabi soup with parsley and dill).

4. Pocketed. Tuck some kohlrabi inside an empanada with sauteed summer squash and onions, or whip up a glorious vegetable calzone.

5. Curried. Kohlrabi is popular in Indian cuisine, though it goes by many different names (knolkol and navalkol, among others). Chop it up and create a simple curry or a more complex one like coconut-milk and peanut.

Have you had kohlrabi? How do you like it best?

Banner from the 1860 presidential election, courtesy of Flickr user wallyg

It’s one thing for a political candidate to promise a chicken in every pot, as the Republican National Committee—though never Herbert Hoover himself—did during the 1928 presidential campaign. In the salad days of American democracy, the sales pitch was a little more direct: candidates actually plied voters with food and drink.

Even the father of our country, George Washington, was known to bribe the electorate with booze. In his recent book Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition, Daniel Okrent writes: “When twenty-four-year-old George Washington first ran for a seat in the Virginia House of Burgesses, he attributed his defeat to his failure to provide enough alcohol for the voters. When he tried again two years later, Washington floated into office partly on the 144 gallons of rum, punch, hard cider and beer his election agent handed out—roughly half a gallon for every vote he received.”

The practice, which was widespread and accepted (if technically illegal) at the time, was referred to as “swilling the planters with bumbo,” according to the 1989 book Campaigning in America: A History of Election Practices, by Robert J. Dinkin. “If a candidate ignored the custom of treating, he often found himself in great difficulty,” Dinkin writes. When James Madison attempted to campaign in 1777 without “the corrupting influence of spiritous liquors, and other treats,” he lost to a less principled opponent.

The practice of wining and dining the electorate can be traced back to Britain and, even earlier, to ancient Rome and Greece. By the 19th century, political parties—living up to the term—had elevated the tactic to a grand spectacle. In October 1876, Republicans in Brooklyn held the mother of all campaign barbecues, parading two oxen through the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn before roasting them whole in Myrtle Avenue Park and passing the meat out on sandwiches. The New York Times called it “one of the most magnificent affairs of the kind ever held in this neighborhood. The grounds were thronged with men, women, and children during the whole of the afternoon and evening, and at the close of the festivities it is estimated that not less than 50,000 persons were in the park.”

Sixteen years earlier, during the 1860 presidential election, the Douglas Democrats held a “Grand Political Carnival and Ox-roast” in Jones’ Wood (in today’s Upper East Side of Manhattan) that didn’t go quite as smoothly. The event attracted 20,000 to 30,000 people, according to an amusing account in The New York Times:

The native voters and the unnaturalized votaries of the party on empty stomachs wended to the Wood, and awaited the feast for which they had reserved their appetites. But disappointment waits on expectation. Of all those who for hours stood there in hungry anticipation, comparatively few obtained a dinner. An ox, a sheep, a calf, and a hog, were the sacrifices by which the people were sought to be propitiated.

The 2,200-pound ox was cooked for 12 hours in a stone-lined pit 16 feet long, eight feet wide and five feet deep. It was served alongside 2,000 loaves of bread and 10 barrels of Boston crackers. But, alas, this was not enough for the hungry electorate:

It was nearly 2 o’clock, and everything was prepared for the orderly and quiet feeding of the people, when,—cito concurritur—there was a sudden rush, the barriers were overthrown, the policemen and the cooks were driven back, and Popular Sovereignty in its most extended signification was practically exemplified. Around and upon the tables that groaned under the dismembered parts of the ox and his fellow-victims the crowd swarmed like so many ants. There was a wild scramble for the choice bits; a pulling and hauling at greasy bones and gravy-soaked fibre, a melee over the rind of pork, a tossing of crackers and bread and meat hither and thither, and the barbecue was ended.

I don’t know whether the barbecue influenced any voters one way or the other, but Stephen A. Douglas was trounced come election time. I’d like to think the outcome had more to do with his policies (including allowing states to decide on slavery, and support for the Dred Scott decision) and those of his opponent, Abraham Lincoln.

Every now and then, I just have to stop and marvel at the many culinary-themed lectures, exhibits and tastings going on in the D.C. area. What a great place for a food nerd to live, eh? Here’s a sampling of upcoming events:

THIS WEEK AND NEXT

October 22 and 29 at 12:30 p.m.

Meet curator Cory Bernat and tour her exhibit of war-era American food posters in the USDA cafeteria. Bernat’s lunchtime tours are only on those two days, but you can visit on your own anytime between 6:30 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. weekdays (through November 10, free).

Sallie Ann Robinson will demonstrate West African-influenced Gullah cooking. Photo courtesy of National Museum of African Art.

October 23 and 24

Get a taste of West African-inspired Gullah food, including “Gullah Diva” Sallie Ann Robinson’s crab fried rice and homemade pear preserves over biscuits, in a demonstration presented by the Smithsonian’s Museum of African Art (1 to 3 p.m. in Room 3111 of the nearby Ripley Center, $10 at door).

The DC Green Festival (Washington Convention Center, tickets $10 to $25) will include talks about organic gardening and urban farms, among many other things.

Slow Food DC is offering a farm-based class about edible ornamental plants (2 to 4 p.m. October 24th, River Farm in Alexandria, free).

October 30 and 31

Celebrate the Mexican holiday Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) with fire-pit cooking demonstrations and other activities at Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (10 to 4:30 p.m, free).

THINKING AHEAD

Slow Food DC hosts a potluck-paired book talk by Todd Kliman about the amazing Norton wine grape (Thursday, November 4 in Silver Spring, free).

Don’t miss the action-packed Food For Tomorrow Symposium at Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, which kicks off with an advance screening of the movie Truck Farm (6:30 p.m. Friday, November 5. Tickets $18 to $20, including reception) and features a three-course intellectual feast of discussions about the future of our food system (9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Saturday, November 6. Free, but tickets required for morning session). It all wraps up with a tasting and talk about innovative East Coast winemakers featuring Dave McIntyre (6 to 8 p.m. Saturday, tickets $18 to $20).

Okay, there is one excuse I’ll allow for missing the symposium: The Resident Associates’ annual beer program is on the same afternoon. The theme is The Pursuit of Hoppiness, and if it’s anything like last year’s “Beer Planet,” the suds-soaked lecture will leave your head spinning in more ways than one! (1 to 4:30 p.m., November 6 at the Brickskeller, tickets $65 to $82).

Slow Food DC presents a dinner and discussion about sustainable meat, featuring “Good Meat” author Deborah Krasner, at D.C.’s 701 Restaurant (Sunday, November 7, tickets $60).

The Culinary Historians Of Washington, aka CHoW, has food history lectures at its monthly meetings in Bethesda, usually on the second Sunday of each month. The next talk is titled “The Bakery, the Saloon, and the Quick Lunch: Ready to Eat Food in Working-Class Neighborhoods, 1880-1930,” by Katherine Leonard Turner (Sunday, November 14, 2 to 4:30 p.m., free).

On select dates in November and December, learn about Arcimboldo, the 16th-century artist behind those weird vegetable-faced portraits at the National Gallery of Art. (Free, 60 mins, see schedule of gallery talks).

Interested in really old beer? Grab a ticket now for “Our Intoxicating Quest For The Perfect Drink,” a Resident Associates lecture by renowned alcohol archaeologist Patrick McGovern, which will include tastings of ancient ales re-created by Dogfish Head Brewery (Thursday, December 2, 6:45 to 8:30 p.m. Tickets $25 to 35).

Prefer wine? Tastings and meze will follow a Resident Associates talk about the wine, food and culinary history of Cyprus (Wednesday, December 8, 6:45 to 9:30 p.m. Tickets $35 to $50).

December’s CHoW meeting is slated to include a talk about Mexican culinary traditions by the talented Mexican Cultural Institute chef Patricia Jinich. (Sunday, December 12, 2 to 4:30 p.m., free).

Ah, the power of candy. It can be mysterious and exciting, even a little bit scary. It can inspire dreams and life lessons.

And as freelance writer and food blogger Martha Miller points out in this week’s Inviting Writing story, candy can also make us act a little bit crazy.

Kit Kats & Candy Corn
By Martha J. Miller

In my family, candy is strictly a private matter. We all eat it, but don’t want to admit it.

It is something to be consumed alone, preferably in the home and ideally with the curtains drawn. (In a pinch, the car will do.) Candy is our ne’er-do-well cousin that drinks too much or spent a few nights in the town jail. It’s our creepy uncle and our eccentric aunt with the 50 house cats. Candy is the skeleton in our closet—the sour, gummy skeleton.

Halloween candy, courtesy of Flickr user S P Photography

Which is strange, since we are also a family that believes food is best enjoyed in the company of others. We shamelessly plan entire vacations and holidays around the perfect meal, and spend hours laughing and telling stories in the kitchen together. I adore food so much that I consider recipes and cooking to be the building blocks of my heritage. It is all I know of some of my ancestors. It’s how I finally emotionally connected with my sister, and how I pull family stories out of my mom.

So, why is candy our forbidden fruit?

Maybe it started when I was a kid. My older sister Ashley and I didn’t get our hands on much candy back then. In the 1980s, our dad was a bit of a health nut. My mom nicknamed him “Mr. Nuts and Berries” because he regularly cooked lentils, brown rice and whole wheat pasta for our family dinners. For breakfast, the other neighborhood kids ate big bowls of brightly colored sugary cereal while we ate Cream of Wheat with a few raisins or plain Cheerios and skim milk. Ultimately, I know he did right by us: we grew up healthy, with well-rounded senses of taste, nutrition and cooking skills. I will always be thankful for that.

Fortunately for Ashley and me, our childhood was not totally candy-less. But getting our hands on it did require a certain level of discretion. We spent most of our after-school and summer afternoons at Mrs. Supler’s house across the street. Mrs. Supler was like a surrogate grandmother to the neighborhood children, and I believe she thought it her duty to love us all, keep her front door open, and preach the Gospel of Candy, which she had spent years practicing.

She kept bowls piled with Kit Kats, Reese’s and Twix all over her house and when those ran low, she sent one of us to the wooden buffet in the dining room for refills. I remember opening the buffet doors to a sea of vibrant orange, gold, and red and the sound of crinkling plastic. The woman knew how to buy in bulk.

Kit Kats were my personal favorite. I always saved them for last, first nibbling off the chocolate around the edges and sides, then splitting the cookie layers apart and letting each one dissolve on my tongue. Later, when Ashley and I would return home for dinner, we kept our candy play-dates a secret and tried to disguise our full bellies over those bowls of lentil soup.

But maybe the secrecy didn’t start with Mrs. Supler. Perhaps it goes back even further, to what is known in my family as the infamous “Candy Corn Story.”

I don’t know where we were going or why, but I was a baby, strapped in a car seat in the back of my mom’s 1985 Oldsmobile station wagon, with the classic wood panel siding and red vinyl seats. My mom, presumably feeling stressed and in need of a seasonally appropriate sugar high, sat in the driver’s seat with an open bag of candy corn in her lap.

Suddenly, she became utterly disgusted with herself and the quantity of candy corn she was eating. I am not a fan of the stuff myself, but I’ve been told by others that this is a common occurrence with candy corn—that it has a strangely addictive quality, wherein you feel the need to keep eating until you feel sick, and the only way to stop to physically remove it from your immediate area.

So, in a fit of novelty-candy rage, my mother chucked the bag’s contents out of the open car window at a stoplight.

As the kernels took flight, she noticed a lady in a nearby car watching her, judging. They made eye contact and it was in that moment that I—her innocent, drooling and probably napping baby—became the scapegoat. Through the car’s open window she fed the lady an excuse that implicated me. (Side note: my mom gave me permission to tell this story publicly only if I added that she is 1. very wise; 2. the best mom in the world; and 3. has flawless skin. So there’s that.)

In the end, I’m not really sure why my family behaves so bizarrely in the presence of candy. It could be because we are some of the best home cooks I know and candy, with its heavy-handed sweetness and processed ingredients, represents everything we should hate…but just can’t resist. Candy forces us to let go, lose control for a moment, and become that carefree kid again.

And maybe such moments are best savored alone, in the quiet comfort of home, with a thin piece of Kit Kat melting slowly on your tongue.

Almond egg custard tart, courtesy of Flickr user wendalicious

We seem to be obsessed with food as sport lately: Iron Chef. Food Wars. Throwdown with Bobby Flay. Add all the non-televised cooking competitions and magazine and blog lists declaring the best barbecue, the best pizza, the best donut, and you might think deliciousness could be objectively quantified.

But we know, of course, that taste is highly subjective and, increasingly, researchers are discovering a scientific basis for the differences in how we perceive foods.

The latest is a study from researchers at Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia, who demonstrated that the amount of an enzyme in an individual’s saliva dramatically affected how the person perceived the texture of starchy food. The report was released yesterday in the journal PLoS ONE.

“Differences in starch perception likely influence people’s liking for and intake of starchy and starch-thickened foods and thus affect their nutritional status,” said study lead author Abigail Mandel, a nutritional scientist at Monell, in a press release.

Amylase is an enzyme that accounts for up to half of the protein in human saliva, and which starts the process of breaking down dietary starch into sugars. The amount of amylase in an individual is genetically influenced and varies widely, depending on the number of copies of the gene a person inherits. Other factors can also affect both the quantity and activity of the enzyme, including stress and circadian rhythms (the “internal body clock” that tells you when it’s time to sleep, eat, etc.). There is also evidence that a diet high in starch can signal the body to increase amylase.

The Monell researchers tested how saliva with varying concentrations of amylase worked on starch when mixed in a test tube, as well as how subjects perceived the viscosity of a starchy food after mixing it in their mouths for 60 seconds. They found that subjects who had higher levels of the enzyme perceived a more rapid and dramatic thinning of the starch than those with low levels.

“This means that foods with different starch levels will be perceived very differently by people as a function of how much salivary amylase they produce. What may seem like a thick and resistant pudding or starchy food to some may noticeably thin in the mouths of others,” said senior author Paul A. S. Breslin, a Monell perceptual geneticist.

The report noted earlier research that found that populations with a historically high-starch diet had more copies of the AMY1 gene, which determines the amount of amylase in the saliva, than populations with a high-protein diet. The Monell researchers suggested that this could help reinforce the preference for starchy foods in those populations, because amylase activity affects both the perception of a food’s creaminess and the release of flavor compounds. Anecdotally, this makes sense to me—my Eastern European ancestors plumped up on all manner of noodles, dumplings and breads, foods I also find hard to resist.

Researchers also hypothesized that the amount of an individual’s salivary amylase influences their starch digestion and metabolism. If further research confirms this hypothesis, it would mean that people with high amylase levels would experience an increased glycemic load after a high-starch meal because they rapidly break starch down into smaller glucose molecules. It could help explain why some people develop metabolic diseases like diabetes while others don’t.

“In today’s state of food excess and high starch ingestion, it is possible that high levels of salivary amylase contribute to the risk of insulin resistance and non-insulin dependent diabetes,” said Mandel.