You never forget your first geoduck. As a new transplant to Seattle in the mid-90s, I brought one home from the Pike Place Market, still alive and neatly rubber banded together. After getting all my other ingredients together--potatoes, celery, milk and so on--I started butchering the creature. The situation became a little unsettling very quickly.
First, the visuals of this clumsy looking bivalve are either funny or lasciviously evil. Maybe both. The comic part is the two shells that fit like tiny clown hats on that enormous fleshy body. Picture Jabba The Hutt wearing a yarmulke. The evil part is the the disturbingly ERECT foot that moves around the cutting board like an aardvark nosing around a termite hill. Wincing a little, I made the first cut. Almost immediately it became clear that I didn’t know which parts to throw away and which parts to keep.
Celery root, aka celeriac, is similarly awkward. Not because of any shlong-like appendages, but what to do with it. Celery stalks? Pretty straightforward. A humble and indispensable vegetable--where would turkey soup be without it? Bloody Marys crave celery. Even spread with cream cheese or peanut butter--a staple of my plaid lunch box in elementary school (yes, my friends all had Spiderman or The Hulk on their lunch boxes; I had an exuberant red tartan)--celery has long been ubiquitous in the American diet.
However, once in a while the curious shopper encounters a lump of celery root in their produce section, usually about the size of a softball. I’ve seen people hefting it in one hand, silently asking themselves, “I wonder what they do with this?” before putting it back. The intrepid few who bring one home are often faced with a woody, spongy and altogether unappetizing vegetable. And after cutting it open, they might remark, “Now what? Which parts do I keep?”
Things are different in Luxembourg. The celery stalk appears to be subservient to its root. Most of the celery stalks in the produce section are a couple of feet long, and a mature, deep green color. They don’t fit in a refrigerator, especially a European one, without drastic pruning. This dearth of celery stalks is balanced by a vast quantity of celery roots.
These are no spongy little softballs, either. The one I bought recently was actually larger than my head. The entire mass, upon being cut open, was as bright and crisp as a jicama root, though more firm than juicy.
After cutting away the rind, the “Now What” issue arose. At a restaurant in Bouillon, Belgium a few days before, I was served a yummy salad consisting of shredded celery root and carrots, served on a bed of frisee and dressed with a simple vinegar and oil. It took only minutes to recreate this dish to good effect.
Next, I julienned it into strips to munch on while exploring further options. The assertive celery flavor (much more than the stalks) tasted good dipped in either cream cheese or peanut butter. Whew! Passed the lunchbox test.
A common way of serving celery root in both Luxembourg and France shredding it and dressing it in a remoulade sauce, akin to coleslaw in the United States. The remoulade took a little longer, but turned out well. But enough of this raw stuff! Time to turn on the stove.
Luckily, I was making homemade chicken soup at the time. Cubes of celery root contributed nicely to the stock as well as being an interesting companion to the carrots and onions.
Still having plenty left, I made mashed celery root from the remainder. To follow along, chop the root into large chunks and simmer in salted water until soft. After draining, mash as you would boiled potatoes, adding butter and cream, and salt to taste. Whip until creamy and lump free, and serve hot. The final dish had a gentle non-celery “root” flavor that was quite delicious.
With the remaining celery root in my pantry, I have designs on a root vegetable gratin, featuring carrots, parsnips, beets and celery root. I may have to face my fear of turnips and rutabagas. Thankfully they’re not likely to nuzzle me on the cutting board.
