Unloved, unassuming and wan as dirt-stained alabaster, parsnips are the quarter-pound weaklings of the winter produce world. They have neither carrots' obvious (or as some might say, easy) sweetness, or potatoes' mashable, butter-loving, fryolator-friendly mass appeal. Even rutabagas are more popular than parsnips – Canada produced $19-million worth of turnips and rutabagas in 2008, according to Statistics Canada. This compared to just $2.6-million in parsnips the same year.
"They're not worth a lot of money, and they're not fully appreciated," said Kris Vester, who grows parsnips at Blue Mountain Biodynamic Farm, near Carstairs, Alta. "People think they're just another bland, tasteless vegetable."
What's worse, parsnip leaves are dangerous when wet – they can cause blistery burns that are often referred to as "parsnip rash." Gary Eichhorn, who farms about 500,000 pounds of parsnips on Ontario's Holland Marsh, calls them a "difficult" vegetable. (He does admit, however, that with a little hand cream, parsnip rash disappears in a couple of days.) "We make more money off of onions and carrots," he said. "We just grow them as a rotation crop."
But there's another, prouder way of looking at them: Parsnips make up 0.1 of Canada's fresh fruit and vegetable sales. They're the 0.1 per cent! And if you know how to handle them, they're sweet, mellow and complex-flavoured (the taste is reminiscent of hazelnuts, cardamom and gently peppery spice).
Besides, Brussels sprouts, which once were not merely unloved, but actively, passionately detested (except by British people, of course), have been rehabilitated in the past few years. They're on every second menu these days: dark roasted, sautéed with butter, bacon and bourbon, and even tossed with cheese and white balsamic – everything but boiled. If Brussels sprouts can stage a comeback, parsnips can't be far behind.
At the Gallery Grill, in Toronto, the root vegetable comes roasted and then mashed, just a little chunky, as a warming, soulful base for milky-white rabbit meatballs and woodsy porcini and tomato ragu. It's hard to think of a more comforting winter dish. They're fantastic when roasted with a little butter or nut oil, too, although they're also excellent when simmered with autumn fruit and then pureed, the way Anne Yarymowich, executive chef at Frank restaurant, in the Art Gallery of Ontario, does them.
"The good ones are things of beauty," said Mr. Vester, who plants parsnip seed as soon as the ground thaws each spring.
Like most parsnip farmers, Mr. Vester waits for the first few autumn frosts, which convert the tuber's starches into sugar, before harvesting. The best ones of all, he says, are parsnips that are left in the ground over winter and then picked at the first sign of spring. They're nearly as sweet as carrots (but without the ego issues). Spring-harvest parsnips are also rare: Big producers like Mr. Eichhorn don't bother because they have to be harvested by hand. But honestly, even the ones you find bagged in the grocery store can be pretty great.
In England, where parsnips are a shown a little more love than here (most parsnip seed used in Canada comes from the U.K.), baking writer Dan Lepard turns them into pork and parsnip pies, and adds them, coarsely grated, to breads and spice cakes. "Making cakes with vegetables used to be a necessary economy, while today we use it as a way to improve the keeping quality of the cake and add a range of flavours we'd forgotten about," he writes in his most recent (and indispensable) new book, called Short & Sweet: The Best of Home Baking.
Parsnip cake? Really? That's the respect the parsnip deserves.