The herb’s hardiness means it’s tough to kill — and a challenge to use up
We’re all probably guilty of buying a bunch of mint for a drink that calls for just a sprig or two, only for the rest of it to end up a week later in the kitchen garbage bin, that graveyard of well-intentioned food purchases.
After years of tossing out decomposing mint and coriander, I have finally embraced the South Asian kitchen ethos, where you batch-cook, freeze, pickle, preserve, or transform — in other words, do anything to avoid food waste. And mint is one ingredient that encourages this approach. Its versatility and hardiness allow you to use it across life stages and forms, which means you can preserve it with as much or as little effort as your lifestyle allows. Your mint storage can be done several ways (or you can skip straight to the part about my favorite desi condiment — chutney).
Mint is suspiciously hard to kill. I speak from experience, as the herb once overran the backyard of one of my London house shares to the point where it felt less like an abundance and more like an invasion. When I lived in Istanbul several years ago, it was the only plant in my garden that survived a summer hailstorm. So it follows that you don’t need any special skills or tools to easily replant potted mint in your garden.
For those of us living in flats, I suggest you avoid the temptation to toss mint into the fridge with its original packaging, which can lead to slimy leaves and eventually mold. Instead, find a narrow tumbler — I use an old plastic protein shaker — fill it less than halfway with water (so that the leaves won’t get wet), add the mint, and leave it in the fridge. Stored this way, the mint can last for weeks, so long as you replace the water every few days so it doesn’t grow too rank. Alternately, you can loosely wrap the mint in a damp, wrung-out paper towel and store it in a food-grade wax, silicone, or plastic bag in the fridge; this method will also give you fresh mint for weeks.
When you’re prepping the mint for the fridge, I highly encourage grabbing a dozen leaves and rinsing and patting them dry for mint ice cubes. Just add a leaf, and maybe a lemon slice for a twist, to each ice cube mold before filling it with water. Ice trays are also an excellent way to preportion and store blended mint (or coriander).
Frozen blended mint or coriander cubes are very easy to prep — you just have to power through the tedium of plucking, washing, and drying leaves before blending them with as little water as possible. Add some oil to help keep them fresh and portion the blend into an ice cube tray. Think of these as flavor bombs: You can add them to the blender for a frozen marg or for ayran, a salty Turkish yogurt drink. I frequently add them to raita, the queen of condiments, which goes rather brilliantly with biryani, chili, samosas, and wings. I let the cube soften as I whip some yogurt with salt and garlic and then add it to taste.
But my favorite use for mint is green chutney. Together with fresh coriander (aka cilantro), it makes up the power couple that goes into the staple desi condiment. When I was growing up, there was always a jar of homemade green chutney right next to the mustard and ketchup in our fridge, and more in the freezer. There are a hundred ways to make it and no one correct recipe; instead, you use your taste buds as your guide. As such, I suggest following basic tips:
- A 1:1 ratio of mint and coriander, leaves and tender stems washed and dried
- As many peeled garlic cloves as you can take, erring on the side of excess
- As many washed and chopped green chiles as you can handle, but they should be the kind that make you cry, usually found in South Asian or East Asian stores, or on Weee!
- Some dried pomegranate seeds for tartness; amchur also works in a pinch
- A dash or two of oil to prolong the chutney’s life — coconut gives it a subtle perfume, olive blends into the pepperiness, and mustard is for the brave who savor bitter notes
- Some salt, of course
Work the ingredients in batches in the blender, adding the minimum amount of water required to make the blades function. Taste, adjust ratios to the desired heat, salt, and pungency levels, then continue blending and tasting throughout. The next time I make chutney, I plan to add some grated fresh coconut and see where that takes me. Some people lean heavier on mint for more freshness, while others prefer a more coriander-heavy flavor profile. There is no one way to do it.
Decant the chutney into a jar and refrigerate. Chutney will last for weeks, so long as you never use a dirty or wet spoon to serve it. You can also freeze it; if you do so, my move is to usually add olive oil or vinegar or lemon before freezing as a low-key preservative.
One of my chutney endeavors this summer was inspired by Lapis, an Afghan restaurant in Washington, D.C., and a craving for a chutney sandwich. Much like pesto, the restaurant’s green chutney relied on nuts for texture, and it got me thinking: Why not transform chutney into pesto for... focaccia?
If you deconstruct a good chutney sandwich, it’s chutney, a layer of something rich and fatty, and really good bread. So I took half of my chutney mise en place, swapped the pomegranate seeds for sunflower seeds, and added generous glugs of Palestinian olive oil to make a chutney pesto. I then incorporated the pesto into my focaccia dough, and prayed to my oven not to fail me. The result? My less-than-perfectly baked focaccia is now the bread for my new, more intense chutney sandwich; plus it makes a mean Bombay toastie.
Weeks after I used, prepped, and stored the mint I got for the chutney focaccia, I discovered some wrapped in paper towels in a wax bag. It was dried out but still alive. I sprinkled it over some harissa chickpeas, smug as hell in the knowledge that I was not just embracing the Pakistani kitchen no-waste ethos, but also evolving the desi legacy of stretching and preserving ingredients by adding new ways to make the most of humble, everlasting mint.
Halima Mansoor is a breaking news editor who sees the kitchen as a revolutionary space. In addition to documenting food, she is on a mission to trace her food heritage, explore immigrant cuisine, and initiate more people into the Marmite club.
Dilek Baykara is a Turkish American illustrator, print designer, and adventurous gastronome living in Brooklyn, New York.
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