Horseradish: One Man’s Pungent Passion

I love horseradish. A good piece of toasted bread with a chunk of Vermont cheddar cheese and a smoodge of freshly ground horseradish? Yes, please. A piece of smoked salmon topped with horseradish whipped cream and bit of chive? Pass another. Poached shrimp dipped in cocktail sauce heavy on the horseradish I grew in my garden? Do you really have to ask? Yes, yes and yes again. That pungent root is one of the favorite products of my garden. I started with a small root and now have almost more than I can handle. It spreads, the leaves are gigantic, and it takes some careful management for it not to overrun your garden. I planted mine five years ago and it is no longer even near where I originally planted it. It has a mind of its own and that is perfectly okay with me. It’s the most delicious thing I grow. You can have your Cherokee Purple heirloom tomatoes and your sugar and butter corn. I’ll take my Armoracia rusticana over those any day. A ten-dollar investment has returned many times over.

I’ve got a problem this year, though. Another issue on the long list of things that make the coronavirus so annoying. But more on that later.

Preparing horseradish is somewhat time consuming. You have to dig up the roots (I actually screen the soil so I can try to take good roots, replant and control their spread). You must wash the roots and let them dry for a day or so, then peel them and cut them into chunks. The ingredients are simple: ground horseradish root, vinegar and salt. That’s it. Some use a food processor to grind the root, but I prefer to grind it using the grinder attachment on my KitchenAid mixer. It’s a nice, consistent feel.

The first time I did this I did it inside the house. I set up on the kitchen island, had my bowls ready, my ingredients at hand and everything ready to go. I even had a crude mask similar to what we wear grocery shopping today. I was woefully unprepared for what then occurred. I had a small amount that seemed to take forever to grind. The first few sniffs of the vapor were unpleasant but bearable. It wasn’t long, though, before I commiserated with Hong Kong protestors. This was perhaps the most excruciating experience my sinuses had gone through since my brother left a dozen herring in a cooler outside. In the hot sun. For a week. At that moment I would have taken the herring. My sinuses were on fire. I was choking and weeping. Even the tear gas experience of my basic training was not this bad. I couldn’t breathe and my brain was telling me to stop but I couldn’t, I only had a little bit to go. Miraculously, I finished. I mixed the ingredients, tamped them into mason jars and sealed them up. I cleaned as best as I could, windows open, fans running, eyes burning, throat closed.

We learn from our mistakes. I now do this procedure outside on the deck. I have a fan close to the mixer to whisk the vapors away and have a full-on face mask respirator with chemical filters to get the job done. With my bald head, glasses and face mask I must look like the Walter White of horseradish. I can breathe, however, and get the grinding done with no ill effects. This is one of the last things I do in my garden every year. Dig the roots, replant for next year, cover with straw, prepare the horseradish. It is a satisfying end to what can be a productive year and gives a great sense of satisfaction. I will survive the zombie apocalypse. I can fish, forage and grow my own food. That’s good.

You are waiting for the issue I mentioned a couple of paragraphs back. It’s simple really. The coronavirus generation of sourdough bread baking, homemade yogurt making, hat crocheting, bagel creating, pickle canning, jelly preparing homebodies have bought all of my canning jars. I can’t finish. You’ve ruined my end-of-garden routine. I went to every hardware store, grocery store, craft store and online. No mason jars. No lids and seals even to reuse what I had. So now, thanks to you, I don’t have horseradish.

I want to be mad. I really, really do. I want to say, “I was doing this years before you, rookie. Leave me my jars.” But I can’t.

When I can’t get my non-diastatic malt powder because suddenly thousands of people are discovering the joy of making homemade bagels? When the yeast is sold out because kids and moms are baking sourdough bread for the first time in their lives? Discovering the stages of fermentation and growth? When the cucumbers and juniper berries are sold out because families are making pickles together? When the seed selection is startlingly small because millions of people have planted their first Victory Garden? When I see dads out with their sons and daughters picking wild grapes to make homemade grape jelly? I can’t get mad. Instead, I am filled with a joy and happiness that so many people are going to discover just how good a fresh bagel, homemade jelly and a warm sourdough loaf are. That they will have a real connection with their food, yard and local environment. You can’t get more locavore than that.

So, here’s to the coronavirus and one positive aspect of it. Millions of people are discovering great recipes, interacting with their families and discovering nature. I will say this, however. If come next November I still can’t get eight ounce canning jars, Ball and I are going to have a little talk.