Turnip green tart with a ham hock

Though I am a full-blooded American, with both sides of my family in this country before it even was a country, there are some words I learned in French before I knew their English counterparts existed.  Most of them have to do with food.  Bay leaves to me will always be laurier.  ‘Bay’ means tons of things in English anyway; why should it refer to little inedible leaves as well?  A rack of lamb can be raccourci before it can possibly be “Frenched” or, more literally, “shortened.”  A “China cap” or “fine-meshed strainer” will ever be in quotes because it really is a chinois, on account of its looking like that stereotypical Chinese farmer’s sun hat, not cap.  Why the poor Chinese guy has synecdochic equivalence to his hat I’m not quite sure, but it still makes a lot more sense to me than ‘China cap’ ever will.  A fish called “skate” has nothing to do with wheels on shoes, but is actually a raie (again, more literally, a sting ray).  And so forth.  Words and things and their relations can be confusing sometimes.  If you’re the type of person who gets worked up about these things, that is, which, clearly, I am.

None of which is to say that I am a linguist.  There is one food word, or one set of words, that I never quite learned in French.  This is the navet, or the navette, or whatever.  If you are French, you are probably laughing at me now, for navet is a turnip and navette is a truck, with the former also meaning something along the lines of “idiot.”  I believe that in the heat of some argument about nothing in particular, I once called someone a little truck.

And as for turnips (not to mention idiots), I don’t really know what gets done with them anyway.  They’re roasted with other root vegetables and are sometimes a little bitter, even more often tasting like nothing whatsoever.  I love the idea of making a puréed turnip soup deep in winter, but admit to never having tried it.  In the American South, however, this isn’t such a problem anyway, as turnip greens are more popular than the roots themselves.  That said, there is no word for ‘turnip greens’ in French, so mistakenly calling them little green truck leaves remains, unfortunately, a distinct possibility.  If you’re me, that is.

All of this aside, any very dark green is fabulous for health, of course, and making a tart of it somehow seemed, well, tart.  In a good way.  As turnip greens are a Southern ingredient indeed and as I don’t particularly like bitter greens all by themselves, a bit of smoked ham seemed to be fitting here.  Though I have used a smoked ham hock below, and will adamantly recommend it if you can get hold of one, I realize that the finding might be difficult.  Dicing up an ordinary bit of smoked ham and then stirring it in to the purée before baking will impart a similar result, though perhaps not as deeply porky.  A vegetarian-friendly option would be to use a rind or two of parmesan cheese when you simmer the greens.  Alternatively, if you know your butcher or think the butcher you don’t know might be in a good mood that day, tell him what you are looking for and he may be willing to give you some end piece of some kind of ham lying around somewhere.  Most anything will do.  But even if he won’t, do be sure not to call him a navette, or navet.  Whatever.

Turnip green tart with a ham hock

The recipe for this crust is adapted from that fantastic food blog Chocolate & Zucchini.  I have already cited it here before, and cannot recommend it more highly.  In keeping with the Southern theme, try some honey-roasted sweet potatoes to go with this tart for a very hearty plant-based meal.

For the crust: 250 g wheat flour  |  1 tsp dried herbs like thyme or rosemary (optional)  |  ½ tsp kosher salt  | 60 ml/¼ cup olive or neutral-flavored oil (like grapeseed)  | 120 ml/½ cup water

For the tart:  1 lb/500 g turnip greens (no joke)  |  1 small ham hock, preferably smoked  |  1 tbsp butter  |  ½ onion, diced  |  salt + pepper  |  ½ lemon  |  2 eggs

Special tools:  9 in/20 cm tart mold with a removable bottom

Heat the oven to 400 F/200 C.

For the crust:  Mix ingredients together with a fork in the order listed above.  Use your hands to bring the mixture together, knead a couple of times if necessary, and roll it out. If, like me, you do not have or want a rolling pin, use an old wine bottle, but do wash the thing first.  Slide the crust into the tart mold (buttered and floured if necessary), clean up the edges and patch up holes or thin bits.  You will not need the entire quantity for a 9″ or 10″ mold.  The leftover can be cut into squares or cute shapes and used for snacks as crackers.  If you have 30 minutes during which you can let the dough rest, do so.

For the filling:  While the dough is resting, fill a very large pot with water and add the ham hock.  Bring to a hard boil, add the turnip greens a handful at a time, and then simmer for about 10 minutes.  While you are waiting, sauté the onion in a bit of butter, seasoning with salt and pepper.  When they are translucent, turn off the heat and set aside.

When the greens are finished, remove them from the broth, pressing out most of the liquid, and transfer to a food processor.  Discard the ham hock but save the broth for another use.

Run greens through a food processor, adding additional broth as necessary to get a proper purée.  ¼ to ½ cup should be about right.  Add the sautéed onion, season with additional salt and pepper, and squeeze in a bit of lemon juice.  Process, taste, and repeat until you are happy.  Lightly beat the eggs in a large mixing bowl, then add the turnip green purée, and mix well.

To assemble the tart:  Prick the bottom of the crust many times with a fork and bake for about 7 minutes while it is empty.  Be sure to set the tart mold on a baking sheet first.  Then remove the contraption from the oven, scrape in all of the turnip greens, and place back in the oven.  It is done when it is set, after about 20 minutes.  Let cool for at least 10 minutes before serving.  May also be served at room temperature.

Serves 6-8 as part of a larger meal