Growing and eating skirret
https://www.foodforest.garden/2016/01/05/growing-and-eating-skirret/
Alexanders: the forgotten vegetable
https://www.foragingcoursecompany.co.uk/post/articles-alexanders-the-forgotten-vegetable
Chenopodium Bonus-Henricus / Blitum Bonus-Henricus / Good King Henry.
https://www.edibleacres.org/purchase/good-king-henry
Salsify — should be able to buy seeds from any seed catalog, real or online
Medlars
https://www.treesofantiquity.com/collections/medlar
Sidebar: https://www.seriouseats.com/what-are-pawpaws-wild-fruit-midwest-how-to-prep-and-eat-pawpaws
Chickweed / Stellaria media
Common Name(s): Birdweed / Chickenwort / Common Chickweed / Starweed / Starwort / Winterweed
https://plants.ces.ncsu.edu/plants/stellaria-media/
Scorzonera is probably only available online, these come back from the root in at least the second year
Sidebar: Jerusalem Artichoke, which spent some remarketed in the US as “Sunchoke” (yeah, that’s a better name) is a wild-growing sunflower. The Jerusalem part is a corruption of “girasole” (sunflower, I think in Italian) and someone once thought it tasted like artichoke. The sunflower isn’t too showy and is somewhat short, but the roots are the edible part anyway. For low-sugar folks, it’s an Inulin producing plant.
Welsh Onions:
https://www.gardenersworld.com/how-to/grow-plants/how-to-grow-welsh-onion/
Sidebar — Egyptian Walking Onions have a similar growing habit, and are what my parents used to grow.
https://hort.extension.wisc.edu/articles/egyptian-walking-onions/
Fat Hen (see above) — that leaf looks familiar, I’m sure that volunteers in every outdoor pot and garden spot.
Lovage seed should be available everywhere, if not, look online.
Sidebar: same goes for Borage.
Turnip seed should be available everywhere, if not, it’s time for this country to take a long hard look at itself. :^)
By the way, ya get the greens with the turnips.
Corn Salad / Lamb’s Lettuce / Mache
Should be easy to find among the specialty seeds, or just wander around the yard a while.
https://victoryseeds.com/products/corn-salad
Tansy should be available in the Spring as either live plants or in the seed rack.
Sea Kale, I think this was Frankie Ford’s favorite vegetable.
https://www.superseeds.com/products/sea-kale
Woad, why don’t we do it there?
https://www.woad.org.uk/html/biology.html
Turnip greens — recipes
https://www.google.com/search?q=turnip+greens
Reformatted by Gemini:
What if some of the best, healthiest vegetables just disappeared from our plates? Long ago, medieval farmers grew 15 amazing superfoods that most people have forgotten. Let's dig into them and see what we've been missing.
First up, skirret. This superstar root vegetable of the Middle Ages has mysteriously disappeared from modern farming. Unlike today's popular carrots, which demand constant attention, skirret was the perfect low-maintenance crop. Once planted, these sweet roots quietly multiplied underground, creating a hidden treasure trove of food with almost no effort from farmers. It's like having a savings account that grows vegetables instead of interest. The taste is what made skirret truly special. Naturally sweeter than carrots or parsnips, these slim white roots were so delicious they earned royal fans. Medieval nobility couldn't get enough of them and demanded skirret be grown in palace gardens. Talk about a vegetable with a royal fan club. What made skirret particularly valuable in medieval times was its reliability during harsh winters. When other crops failed, these hearty roots continued providing nourishment. Old farming texts described them as "the comfort of the poor man's table" when fields lay barren. Perhaps most impressive is skirret's versatility. Medieval cooks roasted them, boiled them, added them to stews, and even made sweet pies with them. They were essentially the medieval equivalent of potatoes before potatoes arrived in Europe. These roots were so useful they deserved their own coat of arms. But somewhere along the way, this incredible vegetable faded into obscurity. Modern farming favored faster-growing, larger roots.
Meanwhile, another forgotten plant was causing quite a stir in medieval gardens. Romans first brought this bold plant to Britain, where medieval farmers quickly fell in love with it. But alexanders weren't content staying in neat garden rows. This veggie had the ambition of a weed and the taste of a delicacy, the medieval equivalent of finding out your annoying neighbor is actually a great cook. What made alexanders special? Every single part was edible: stems, leaves, flowers, roots, and seeds. Medieval people ate the young shoots like celery, used the flowers in salads, and ground the seeds as a pepper substitute. The leaves added a strange but pleasant flavor somewhere between parsley and celery to soups and stews. The plant grows up to six feet tall with bright yellow flowers that attract beneficial insects. It thrives in coastal areas, cliffs, and roadsides without any human help. It's the freelance vegetable of the plant world, showing up uninvited but doing good work. Despite its usefulness, alexanders gradually disappeared from our diets by the 1700s. Celery had taken its place in gardens and kitchens across Europe. Today, most people walk past it growing wild without recognizing this once-valued food source.
While alexanders boldly spread everywhere, another medieval favorite had a more dignified presence in gardens. Why did one of the most useful plants of the Middle Ages vanish from our gardens? Good King Henry deserves a comeback. Unlike the rebellious alexanders, Good King Henry starts with a mystery: nobody knows why it got such a royal name. What we do know is that it was everywhere in medieval Europe, growing both wild and in carefully tended gardens. Growing Good King Henry is about as easy as growing dust on a bookshelf. It practically takes care of itself, sprouting year after year without replanting. If plants could fill out job applications, Good King Henry would list extreme reliability as its top skill. The nutritional value would impress modern health experts. It contains more iron than spinach and high levels of vitamin C, critical nutrients often missing in medieval diets. During spring food shortages, its early leaves provided life-saving nutrition. Medieval cooks used the young shoots like asparagus, mature leaves like spinach, and flower buds like tiny broccoli. It was the medieval version of a three-in-one kitchen gadget, except it actually worked. Folk medicine valued Good King Henry too. Its leaves treated wounds, while root tea served as a gentle laxative. In some regions, it was called "all good" because of its many uses. As agriculture became more commercial, this humble but hearty plant fell out of favor.
Is it a root? Is it an oyster? Medieval farmers weren't quite sure what to make of salsify. This strange root vegetable has one of the most peculiar flavors in the plant kingdom. Salsify is the vegetable equivalent of someone showing up at a costume party dressed as seafood only to win the most convincing costume award. When cooked properly, salsify genuinely tastes like oysters. This strange quality made it incredibly valuable during medieval times, especially for religious folks who couldn't eat meat or fish on certain days. Monastery records from the 1400s show it was grown specifically as a fish substitute during Lent. Two types existed in medieval gardens: white salsify and black salsify. Both have long, thin roots with dark skin that must be peeled before cooking. The vegetable world's version of "don't judge a book by its cover," beneath that ugly exterior hides a gourmet treat. Winter made salsify truly shine. It was one of the few fresh vegetables available during the coldest months, staying in the ground through freezing temperatures. Medieval people would simply dig it up as needed throughout winter. Once harvested, it could be stored for months without spoiling. In a world without refrigeration, this made it extremely valuable. Modern farming moved away from salsify because it grows slowly and looks unusual.
Speaking of unusual looks, medieval people had another favorite that modern folks would find truly bizarre. If someone served a wrinkled, mushy fruit today, most people would politely decline. But medieval folks considered it a delicacy worth waiting for. The medlar looks like a small, brown apple with an open bottom showing its five seeds. Fresh off the tree, it's rock hard and so bitter it's completely inedible. But medieval gardeners knew its secret: medlars need to blet before eating. Bletting is basically controlled rotting, where the fruit sits for weeks until it turns soft and brown. Medieval dessert menus were apparently created by people with extremely low standards and incredible patience. Once properly bletted, the medlar's flesh turns to a sweet cinnamon applesauce consistency that medieval people absolutely loved. Cookbooks from the 1200s contain dozens of recipes for medlar tarts, jellies, and wines. Unlike salsify, which hid its value beneath an ugly exterior, medlars proudly displayed their oddness. The fruit's unusual open bottom shape earned it some colorful nicknames in medieval times, many too crude to mention here. Let's just say medieval farmers had a particular anatomical comparison in mind and leave it at that. What made medlars special was their timing. They ripen in late autumn and were one of the last fresh fruits before winter. After bletting, they could be stored for several more weeks, providing rare sweet treats during the darkest days of the year. Modern agriculture abandoned medlars for faster crops with longer shelf lives. Today's consumers want produce that looks perfect immediately, not fruit that needs weeks to become edible.
While medlars demanded patience, our next forgotten vegetable was almost too eager to please. Unlike the picky medlar with its need for special treatment, chickweed had no grand history of cultivation. It was simply everywhere. This tiny leaved plant with delicate white flowers popped up in every garden, field, and pathway across medieval Europe. Chickweed is like that uninvited guest who shows up at every party but brings enough food to make everyone happy about it. Medieval gardeners couldn't send out "no chickweed" invitations that worked. Medieval farmers didn't plant chickweed; they couldn't have stopped it if they tried. It grows in any soil, sprouts in any season above freezing, and produces thousands of seeds from each plant. Instead of just pulling it as a weed, medieval people recognized its value and harvested it for free food. The tender leaves could be gathered year-round in most places. Fresh chickweed contains about seven times more vitamin C than an equal weight of oranges. If vegetables had medieval job titles, chickweed would have been royal provider of vitamin C when nothing else is growing. Peasants gathered it for everyday meals, but records show that noble households also served it during winter months when green vegetables were scarce. Beyond the dinner table, chickweed had medicinal uses too. Its cooling properties made it useful for skin irritations, and chickweed tea was given for fever and inflammation. Modern agriculture declared war on chickweed with herbicides, labeling this nutritious plant as a nuisance.
While chickweed fought for respect, another medieval vegetable suffered from its unfortunate name. No one wants to eat something called scorzonera. It sounds like a disease, doesn't it? Yet, this unfortunately named vegetable was a medieval garden staple. The name actually comes from the Italian word "scorzone," meaning venomous snake. Early herbalists believed this black-skinned root could cure snake bites. While that medical claim proved false, medieval people discovered something more valuable: scorzonera was delicious and incredibly nutritious. Often confused with black salsify, their close relatives, scorzonera has a longer, straighter root with black skin and white flesh inside. The taste is milder and sweeter than salsify, with subtle hints of asparagus and nuts. What made scorzonera remarkable was its storage abilities. Harvested in autumn, these roots could be buried in sand in a cool cellar and would stay fresh until the following summer. Few other vegetables offered this kind of food security in medieval times. Cultivation records from the 1500s show scorzonera was especially popular in monastery gardens. The monks valued it for its flavor during fasting periods and its medicinal properties. Medieval doctors prescribed scorzonera tea for purifying blood and calming stomach problems. The best part about growing scorzonera? You can impress your neighbors by casually mentioning, "I'm just heading out to harvest my scorzonera," which makes you sound like you either own an exotic sports car or are about to perform a magic spell. The decline of scorzonera came with modern grocery stores and refrigeration. When fresh produce became available year-round, vegetables that required long storage periods lost their appeal. From magical snake cure to forgotten roots, scorzonera gave way to more familiar vegetables.
Oddly enough, Welsh onions are neither from Wales nor are they true onions. They're the medieval vegetable version of those fake designer products that somehow work better than the real thing. The actual origin of Welsh onions is East Asia, likely reaching Europe through trade routes around the 1200s. Medieval farmers appreciated this versatile plant that provided fresh greens year after year. What made them special? They're perennial, meaning once planted, they return year after year without replanting. Each plant gradually multiplies, forming clumps that can be divided. One medieval gardening text claims a single Welsh onion plant could feed a family for 10 years through constant division. Welsh onions served a purely practical purpose, providing a steady supply of fresh green onion tops when other vegetables were scarce. Medieval cooks used the hollow green shoots to flavor soups, stews, and salads. The most valuable feature was their winter hardiness. In many regions of Europe, Welsh onions stayed green through all but the harshest winters, providing crucial vitamins during the leanest months. Welsh onions might be the only food that solved an identity crisis by having an identity crisis of its own: not Welsh, not a true onion, yet perfectly comfortable being exactly what it is. Medieval farmers treasured these reliable plants, but modern agriculture favored true onions for their larger bulbs.
Meanwhile, another misunderstood plant was fighting for recognition. Unlike Welsh onions that medieval farmers deliberately planted, fat hen just showed up. This wild green volunteered in fields, gardens, and waste places throughout Europe, and medieval people were smart enough to eat it instead of just pulling it out. Fat hen is basically the uninvited dinner guest who turns out to be a master chef. It crashed the medieval garden party but brought enough nutritional gifts that everyone forgave the intrusion. Recent studies have revealed just how nutritious this weed truly is. Fat hen contains more protein than cabbage, more iron than spinach, and more calcium than kale. Had medieval nutritionists existed, they would have classified fat hen as a superfood. The name comes from its effectiveness as poultry feed. Chickens that eat fat hen produce more eggs and grow plumper. If medieval vegetables had marketing slogans, fat hen's would be, "Good enough for your chickens, even better for you." Archaeological digs have uncovered countless fat hen seeds in food waste pits, showing it was regularly eaten. During famines, this wild plant often meant the difference between starvation and survival. Cooking methods varied across Europe. The leaves were boiled like spinach or added to salads, while the seeds were ground into flour during hard times. Modern farming declared war on fat hen, considering it a competitor to crops. We essentially kicked a superfood out of our diet because it didn't fill out the proper application to be considered a vegetable.
While fat hen struggled for recognition, another herb was fighting to maintain its culinary status. Why did a herb that could flavor everything just disappear from our kitchen gardens? Unlike fat hen, which never got proper recognition, lovage was a culinary superstar that mysteriously faded away. Roman soldiers carried lovage seeds as they conquered Europe, planting this powerful herb wherever they settled. Medieval monks continued the tradition, ensuring every monastery garden had a lovage plant. The flavor is intense. Imagine celery mixed with parsley but multiplied by 10. Lovage is basically celery with superpowers. It's what celery would be if it started working out and got really serious about flavor. Medieval cooks used lovage extensively. One sprig could flavor an entire pot of soup. The dried leaves were sprinkled on meat dishes, the seeds were crushed for bread, and even the roots were boiled and eaten like parsnips. Most impressively, the hollow stems were candied as sweet treats. What made lovage truly valuable in medieval times was its medicinal uses. The entire plant contains oils that aid digestion, reduce bloating, and act as a mild diuretic. Monastery records from the 13th century describe lovage tea as a remedy for troubles of the stomach and kidney complaints. A lovage plant can live for 20 years and grow over six feet tall, providing a tremendous amount of flavor from very little garden space. It's also incredibly hearty, surviving harsh winters and returning vigorously each spring. Medieval gardeners must have thought modern gardeners lost their minds. "You're telling me you stopped growing a plant that flavors everything, lives for decades, and helps with digestion? Did you replace your brains with turnips?" As international trade brought new spices to Europe, lovage gradually lost its prominence.
While lovage faded away, another forgotten green faced its own challenges with a very confusing name. No, it has nothing to do with corn. This unfortunate naming confusion has plagued corn salad for centuries. While lovage suffered from being forgotten, corn salad suffered from being misunderstood. Corn salad gets its strange name from where it typically grows: in fields of grain, which Europeans called "corn" long before maize arrived from America. These small, tender greens pop up naturally in autumn after grain harvests and stay green through winter. It's like the quiet kid in class who gets overlooked because of a weird nickname but turns out to be the most interesting person there. Medieval farmers discovered these wild winter greens were not only edible but delicious. Corn salad has a mild, slightly nutty flavor with none of the bitterness found in many wild greens. The leaves can be harvested throughout the coldest months when nothing else is growing. The nutritional profile would impress modern health experts. It contains three times more omega-3 fatty acids than iceberg lettuce and significant amounts of iron and vitamin C. Medieval people recognized its value as a fresh winter vegetable. Corn salad has to be the only vegetable that suffered from both an identity crisis and a public relations problem. It needed a medieval marketing team to clarify, "Contains absolutely no corn." Modern agriculture favored lettuce varieties with longer shelf lives and easier harvesting as corn salad faded from gardens.
Another bold-flavored medieval plant faced rejection for being simply too intense for modern tastes. That's the story of tansy, a plant that medieval cooks couldn't live without but modern people have almost completely abandoned. Tansy grows as a bushy perennial with fern-like leaves and bright yellow button flowers. Every part of the plant packs a powerful aromatic punch, a complex mix of bitter, spicy, and slightly sweet flavors that medieval taste buds craved. Modern chemical analysis has identified over 40 different flavor compounds in tansy leaves. If herbs were rock bands, tansy would be the one that plays so loud the neighbors called the police. Medieval cookbooks feature tansy in everything from savory dishes to desserts. The Easter specialty, tansy pudding, combined the chopped leaves with eggs, cream, breadcrumbs, and sugar, then fried the mixture into a cake. Tansy-flavored cheese was popular in spring celebrations, and even ale was infused with tansy for special occasions. Beyond its bold flavor, tansy served a practical purpose in medieval cuisine. Its powerful compounds work as a natural preservative, extending the shelf life of meats and baked goods. This was invaluable in an era without refrigeration. The plant also played a crucial role in medieval medicine. Tansy tea was used to treat intestinal worms, digestive issues, and fever. Monastery gardens always included tansy for both culinary and medicinal purposes, often planting it near doorways where its strong scent could repel flies and other insects. Modern chefs would probably describe tansy as "aggressively aromatic," the medieval equivalent of using all caps in your seasoning. As milder herbs like parsley became more popular, tansy gradually lost its place in kitchens.
While tansy fell out of favor for being too bold, another forgotten vegetable suffered the opposite fate. It grows wild, it requires zero maintenance, and yet we somehow forgot all about it. While tansy was too bold, sea kale was too easy to overlook. Growing along coastal areas of northern Europe, sea kale was a valuable food source for medieval communities. This hearty plant thrives in sandy, salty soil where few other edible plants can survive. Sea kale is like that friend who brings food to every gathering without being asked, yet somehow never gets invited to the cool parties. Medieval people harvested it two ways: blanched young shoots in spring, similar to asparagus, and mature leaves later, cooked like cabbage. Unlike many wild foods, sea kale is mild and sweet tasting. What made it especially valuable was its vitamin C content, six times higher than lemons by weight. For fishing communities with limited access to fresh produce, sea kale prevented scurvy. The disappearance of sea kale from our diet is like forgetting how to accept free money. It's literally sitting there on beaches, being delicious and nutritious, while we ignore it.
As sea kale faded into obscurity, another unusual plant was struggling with its dual identity. This one is truly weird: woad was primarily grown for making blue dye, but medieval people also ate it. Unlike sea kale, which was purely for nutrition, woad lived a double life. The blue pigment from woad leaves colored everything from clothing to warrior paint. Before woad, trying to find blue clothing was like trying to find a quiet moment at a toddler's birthday party: theoretically possible but highly unlikely. What's strange is that young woad leaves are perfectly edible before they develop their dying compounds. Medieval farmers harvested these tender first leaves for spring salads and soups. The flavor is mild with a slight peppery kick, similar to young mustard greens. Growing woad was a smelly business. The process of extracting blue dye involved fermenting the leaves, creating such a terrible stench that royal decrees banned woad processing near important residences. It was the medieval equivalent of that one weird food that makes your whole kitchen smell for days. While woad struggled with its identity as both food and dye, another humble vegetable part was being overlooked.
While woad struggled with its split personality, turnips suffered from people ignoring half their goodness. Everyone knows turnips, those humble root vegetables that fed countless medieval peasants. What most people don't realize is that medieval farmers valued the leafy green tops just as much as the roots below. It's like buying a smartphone and only using it to tell time: you're missing out on the best features. Turnip greens contain four times more calcium, three times more vitamin A, and twice the protein of the roots. Medieval peasants carefully harvested the outer leaves throughout the growing season without damaging the developing root. These greens were a staple in medieval soups, stews, and salads, adding their slightly peppery flavor to otherwise bland winter meals. Turnip greens deserve a comeback tour; they've been backstage too long. From skirret to turnip greens, these 15 forgotten vegetables show how much knowledge we've lost about food that once sustained our ancestors.
