So much thyme

My mom took this picture on Thanksgiving weekend, just before I got into the car to drive home. I am crouched on the soft carpet of thymus praecox that creeps between the flagstones and down the gravel driveway at my parents’ house.

We had spent the weekend eating turkey, playing 45’s, walking through the woods, making pumpkin pie and cold plunging in the river. The icing on the cake, I thought, would be to help myself to some thyme before I drove away. The flagstones are in full sun and are bathed in full brackish air from the river at the bottom of the hill. Thyme loves this location. Feet, deer hooves, tires, ice and snow crush its leaves, but still, it thrives, wafting puffs of sweet thyme clouds with every step. I wanted this aromatic carpet between the flagstones in my back garden too.

I like the bossiness of creeping thyme. I want it to take over the cracks between my flagstones and bulldoze the dandelions and goutweed. If it creeps where it isn’t welcome, I’ll peel it back like an old carpet and marvel at the gorgeous flooring underneath. I never marvel when I pull weeds; there’s nothing to discover. 

So before I left my parents’ house, I found a pair of scissors in my dad’s shed and began snipping and pulling until I had a bag full of thyme. A few days later, on a warm fall day, I sat down on my flagstones in the city with scissors and my tiniest spade (a screwdriver). It’s different here at my house. Traffic is humming, horns are honking and I can hear children playing in the school yard two doors down. The air smells like decaying leaves mingled with woodsmoke and pot from the neighbour who smokes every morning. It’s all here in my city garden, and now there’s thyme too. 

I snipped the sods into smaller, manageable pieces, pulled the weeds between the flagstones, then stuffed the thyme in their place. there’s already thyme creeping on the edge of the garden, where my friend Laura swept in several years ago and planted thyme with me before the weeds crept in. I remember her slicing the plants into small pieces with a bread knife and carefully tucking them between the flagstones. Her plants are in good shape, spreading like lacy fronds where the sun hits hard all day. But I needed more thyme - more bossiness, more aromatic presence. Who knows if the transplant will work. Thyme will tell. 

And now I can’t stop:

Take thyme. 

Make thyme.

Enough thyme. 

Sweet thyme. 

Borrow thyme. 

Before I go inside I snip a handful for myself. I’ll use the edible leaves in a stew I’m making for lunch. There’s so much thyme; why not. 

Tuscan Kale and Bean Stew (with a touch of thyme)

Serves 4

This soupy stew could easily be turned into a soup that feeds a few more by adding another cup or two of stock. Or whizz it up and turn it into a purée to spoon alongside meat or fish, or in our case after I took this picture, a flavourful bed for garlic and thyme sausages. 

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 tablespoon butter

3 leeks, white part thinly sliced into rounds and washed well

Small fennel bulb, chopped (stems removed and fronds reserved)

1 teaspoon sea salt

3 cloves garlic, chopped

1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves

1 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves, chopped

Parmesan rind¹ (optional)

1 teaspoon red pepper flakes

500ml vegetable stock (or bone broth)

540ml (19oz) can cannellini beans, (or any white bean) drained and rinsed

1 bunch Tuscan kale, sliced into ribbons (any kale will work here, but remove tough stems if thick)

Black pepper to taste

Good olive oil, to serve

Heat oil and butter in a large soup pot. Add leeks, chopped fennel and salt and cook gently over low heat, stirring occasionally until softened, about 8 minutes. Add garlic, thyme, rosemary, parmesan rind and red pepper flakes, stir and cook for a few minutes more. Stir in stock and beans and simmer over low heat for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. There should be enough liquid to keep it gently bubbling away. If not, top it up with a splash of water. Five minutes before eating, add the sliced kale, stir, them leave to simmer until kale has wilted. Discard parmesan rind. Serve beans with fronds from fennel bulb, black pepper to taste and a swirl of good olive oil, if you have it. 

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PS I can’t stop listening to Rose Cousins, Jill Barber and Jenn Grant’s hauntingly beautiful cover of Blue Rodeo’s Dark Angel. It’s playing now, three voices melding together like twisted caramel. Fat snowflakes are coming down outside, the first of the season. I can see the purple smoke bush laden under piles of white and snow building on the tufts of thyme between the flagstones. Inside I am slicing radicchio and tossing the purple leaves in a bowl with arugula. Under the tangle of colour is a pool of vinaigrette² and a handful of chopped walnuts marinating in the dressing. I add a pile of sauerkraut, a teaspoon of hemp seeds and I toss it all together.

Dark Angel, I offer you this salad. Maybe you too are fifty and in need of protein, healthy fat, fibre and a sprinkle of fermented food.

1. I keep parmesan rinds in a container in the fridge and use them to flavour soups, stews and sauces. Just before serving, like a bayleaf, I scoop out the rind and discard.

2. A quick vinaigrette for two/ three servings - a teaspoon of Dijon, a generous teaspoon of apple cider vinegar, half a teaspoon of maple syrup, a tablespoon of olive oil and a pinch of sea salt. Whisk together in the bottom of the salad bowl.