Sometimes we seem to write a menu based on the sound of the words alone. Their tone. The beat of them. You say "green strawberry, chamomile" out loud once or twice and suddenly the combination seems to sing. Strawberries are not green, of course, and the words kind of prick up in your ears -- they sound strange and compelling. Yet chamomile is the softest of words, a sedative, and it kind of just drifts in and steeps. It's in the meter, yes, the anapest of chamomile, three unstressed syllables in a row. Taking it easy.
This week we are pairing tart unripe green strawberries with the fresh flowers of chamomile we grew on our own roof top garden. This isn't a classic combo, but it's not experimental either. Really it's just a marriage of bright-sour-green-fresh with floral-wispy-sweet-grassy. If it makes sense on the palate remains to be seen, as we are just now clipping the chamomile from the stems and just now pickling the green strawberries in a little honey and white vinegar.
We take the risk because that's what farm dinner is about. The chance to listen to the sounds around us, to steal the flowers of the moment, and combine.
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