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Fennel polpette

Time1 hour
YieldsServes 4 to 6
Fennel polpette
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I’m standing on a bluff overlooking the ocean, soaking up the afternoon sunshine. It’s that delicious warm part of a fall day when the chill of the morning fog has burned off but before it can creep back for the evening. Below me, the sea cracks against a rocky beach. Catalina looks like it’s about a block away. In my hand, I hold a brown paper bag full of just-picked fennel pods. Their warm perfume mingles with the fresh salt air. And all I can think about is dinner.

What about heating some of the seeds in olive oil and drizzling it over grilled fish? I think. About one-fourth to one-half teaspoon for a cup of oil would be just about right.

Or I could warm them in honey and spoon them over sliced pears and shards of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Same proportions will work.

Hey, what about mixing the seeds into little pork-and-veal meatballs and cooking them in tomato sauce? Or poaching the seeds with some fish in white wine so when the liquid cools it will form a beautifully perfumed jelly? Oh, I know, I’ll stew them quickly with anchovies, golden raisins and pine nuts to make a sauce for chewy bucatini pasta.

Give me another couple of hours to stand here and I’ll come up with more.

I know a spot where the wild fennel grows, and I’ll bet you do too. In fact, if you’ll open your eyes, it’s almost everywhere in Southern California. It’s found up and down the state, from San Diego to Humboldt County. A Mediterranean plant introduced by farmers, it propagates like mad and can be found wherever the climate is right. Though it seems to have adopted California as a second home, fennel is also found in states from Florida to Wisconsin.

Unlike the stuff you buy in the grocery stores, the bulb of the wild fennel is beside the point. It’s thin, stringy and mean. But in the spring, fennel sends up vibrant green sprays of fronds that are almost impossibly fragrant when stuffed into the belly of a baked fish, or when strewn across a hot bowl of boiled favas.

And at this time of year, even after the fronds have died back to nothing and the stalks have turned brown and crackly, fennel plants are laden with starbursts of tiny, explosively pungent seeds that add a green, anise-flavored exclamation point to all kinds of dishes.

These fennel seeds are different from the ones you buy in the grocery store. In the first place, they’re smaller. But they’re more tender too; they pop rather than crunch.

And the flavor ... the only thing to compare it to is those little spoonfuls of candied fennel seeds you get after dinner at Indian restaurants. They’re impossibly sweet with a mouth-filling anise flavor. (Remember this when cooking with them: a little bit goes a long way. In a pinch, you can use regular fennel seeds but the flavor won’t be as dramatic.)

When you’re cooking with wild fennel, you’ll almost invariably wind up with something that seems to be at least vaguely Italian. Though wild fennel is found all over Italy, oddly enough the seeds are little used. Italians seem to favor the green fronds, which show up in such things as pasta chi sardi, the signature Sicilian dish of spaghetti, fresh sardines and fresh fennel. There is also a pretty wonderful pesto made with wild fennel fronds.

The pollen of wild fennel, which must be gathered in the spring, is one of the ingredients of the moment in restaurant cooking. If you’re feeling really ambitious along about May or June, collect the flowers, then sort and screen them to separate the pollen. Do it once and you’ll understand the $25-per-ounce price.

Wild fennel grows almost everywhere. I remember walking through a particularly bleak part of downtown L.A. and catching a familiar scent. There, on a rocky patch of ground just above a parking lot was a magnificent stand of fennel. Of course, I wouldn’t advise collecting seeds from street fennel. You’ll want to gather them from plants that grow off the beaten track, away from chemical sprays, auto exhaust, walking dogs and other pollutants.

It may be my imagination, but I find the most fragrant fennel seems to grow within sight of the water. This place I was telling you about, for example -- I have to lean clear out over the fence to get to the seeds.

Though they may look unpromising, search for plants that have died back so that just the stalks remain. This isn’t hard; we’re not talking about ankle-high dandelions here. Fully grown fennel stalks can be taller than a man. The seed clusters will be at the tops of the stalks, looking like connect-the-dots versions of tiny umbrellas (fennel belongs to the family Umbelliferae, so named because of this pattern).

Choose clusters with seeds that are fully formed but not yet hardened. Pull them off and stick the clusters in a paper bag. When you’ve got enough, take them home to sort. The back of a knife works well to separate the seeds from the pods and tiny stems. You can use them right away. Whatever’s left over (and there will be a bunch -- one trip is usually enough to supply a winter), set out to dry. They’ll keep forever in a tightly sealed container.

I’ve found it always pays to taste a couple of seeds before investing much effort in picking. Just last week, I was picking seeds in what seemed to be a long-vacant parking lot near the ocean. When I sampled a couple of seeds, my mouth went numb. Chemical herbicidal sprays are used in the oddest places.

Some misguided souls, it seems, are out to eradicate fennel. One of my favorite spring fennel stands is always gone by late summer -- mowed down as a fire hazard. In fact, fennel is officially classified as an invasive pest.

Actually, that’s about as good a definition as I can imagine of the magic of California -- a state where even the weeds are delicious.

Harvesting fennel

Wild fennel can be found all over California. Here’s what to look for:

Fully grown plants have the best seeds. They’ll look almost dead, like a collection of tall, dried stalks. Choose plants that have grown away from well-traveled paths. Taste a few seeds before harvesting.

To collect seeds, pull whole clusters from the tops of the stalks. Separate seeds from stems and husks at home. Seeds can be used immediately or dried overnight in a cool oven. Stored in a jar, they’ll last forever.

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1

Combine the pork, veal, fennel seeds, egg, bread crumbs, salt and minced onion in a large mixing bowl. Stir or work with your hands until the mixture is homogenous. It will be very wet.

2

Heat the olive oil over medium-high heat in a large skillet until it is hot enough to sizzle when a bit of meat is added to it. Pinch off portions of the meat mixture and roll them into balls about the size of walnuts (much bigger and they begin to fall apart as they cook). As you make each one, add it to the olive oil.

3

Cook the meatballs until they are browned on one side, 2 to 3 minutes. Do not move them around too much or they won’t brown well. As each meatball browns, flip it to brown another part. The fennel seeds will pop out of the skillet; use a splatter guard or be very careful. When all the meatballs are well-browned, remove them with a slotted spoon and reserve them on a platter.

4

Pour off all but 1 teaspoon of the fat in the skillet, being careful to reserve all of the bits of browned meat. Add the onion and stir, scraping the bottom. As the onion cooks, it will release moisture, which will loosen the browned bits sticking to the pan. When the onion is soft, after about 5 minutes, add the garlic and cook until it is fragrant, about 1 minute. Add the white wine and cook just until it loses its raw smell, about 1 minute. Add the tomato pulp and stir to mix well.

5

Gently slide the meatballs back into the tomato sauce, cover and cook over medium-low heat until the meatballs are firm and the sauce has thickened slightly and reduced, gently stirring occasionally to coat the meatballs with the sauce. This will take about 45 minutes.

6

Taste the sauce about 5 minutes before serving. Add more salt if needed, then sprinkle the chopped fennel fronds over the top, if you’re using them, replace the lid and finish the cooking.

Serve with polenta, spaghetti or by itself.