“You grew bok WHAT?” cried Bill Maples. He’s been lurking around the farm lately with the best of intentions. As good a man as I’ve ever met.
But the name, I guess, is actually ‘pak choi’ according to the seed packet, but everyone I’ve ever known calls it bok choy. Whatever the spelling, it’s the Chinese stepchild to that cabbage that many westerners know, but so much better, and sweeter, and prettier.
However you spell it, the stuff is good and green, tender at every size I’ve ever tried (there are awesome mini varieties that you can fold into the palm of your hand). I buy bok choy year round whenever I can — perfect as a braised side-dish, great chopped, lovely raw with pineapple and olive oil.
These are supposed to be the standard bok choys, which grow to form a white bulb at the bottom that the leaves spread from, and you’re supposed to be able to chop them off at the base. But it’s been so hot and I planted a touch late, and they began to bolt before they reached their full adult size.
No worries. They’re were still tasty at breakfast this morning.
Not perfect, but it’s real, and it’s ours.