No, these parsnips have not gone to Carlos ‘n Charlies in Cancun to hang upside down from the rafters and have tequila shooters sprayed into their mouths.  (Didn’t you do that on Spring Break?) These parsnips, instead of growing a thick, single root, like what a carrot might look like on steroids, grew a smaller main root with multiple tentacles splaying out from the tops.  Berry Patch Farms, poking fun at their variation from the standard parsnip, labeled them “Octosnips (Parsnips Gone Wild.)”

Parsnips have been on my vegetable bucket list since seeing them at the farmers’ market in my former home of Portland, Oregon.  I was encouraged to try them by the market manager.  He said they were at their peak of sweetness.  But somehow, parsnips and sweet just didn’t seem like two words that went together. 

These are the Oregon parsnips.  Perhaps a bit on the large side, but a more typical shape.

Then, last week, I received an invitation to dinner.  And the host, knowing of my forays into the vegetable world, asked me to bring one of my latest veggie finds. 

“PARSNIPS,” I blurted out. 

And I was thusly committed.  But how was I going to cook them?  Breaking my rule to never bring an experimental dish to someone’s house for dinner, anxiety set in immediately.

I’d heard you could prepare them like mashed potatoes.  But what if a potato dish was already on the menu?  Too risky.  Thankfully, the first parsnip recipe I found in a recently purchased cookbook, The Garden-Fresh Vegetable Cookbook, was called “World’s Best Parsnips.”  My anxiety lessened.  This would be the recipe. 

On the night of the dinner party, a crowd of eight gathered.  Dave, surveying the vegetable dip I happened to be standing next to, asked me if I’d made it.  It was a subtle attempt to determine if it contained artichokes.  I told him I thought it was a broccoli and cheese dip.  

“Good. I don’t like artichokes,” Dave said flatly.

“Do you like PARSNIPS?” I blurted out. 

Although confident in my recipe, I still had some residual nervousness that some diners may have an aversion to vegetables they’d never tried before.  I handed out a few samples of raw parsnips. 

Dave said flatly, “It tastes like a carrot.”  And that was good enough for me.

Dave’s wife, who likes artichokes, demonstrated a more sophisticated palate during the meal, when she asked me how I seasoned the parsnips.  “I taste nutmeg,” she said.  Only having added olive oil, salt, and pepper before roasting them in the oven at 400 degrees for 20 minutes, Laurie was picking up on the nutty nuances of the parsnip. 

Kristin, our host and whiz in the kitchen, cooked an amazing beef tenderloin with chipotle sauce, and was gracious in her enthusiasm for the parsnip.

And my husband now says things that were unthinkable before, like, “when are we having more of those white things?”

Winter is a great time to try parsnips.  The cold brings out the natural sugars, causing parsnips to be at their sweetest.  If not eaten at their peak, parsnips can have a woody center, and bland taste.  They also store well in the fridge for two weeks or more.

The key to roasting them is to cut them into slices approximately the same size.  This proved a bit challenging with my octosnips, but I improvised.

De-tentacled:

I sliced the main root to be about the same thickness as the tentacles.

Post-roast. Just out of the oven.(Previously tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper and roasted at 400 degrees for 20 minutes.) 

They were like eating sweet french fries.  But good for you.  Parsnips will definitely be part of our winter veggie rotation from here on out.

Want more veggies?  Check out last week’s veggie story:   Golden Beets. Better Than Cabbage. New veggie stories every Thursday.

Did you see last week’s market photos?  Click here for Monday Dose of Market: New Vendors at the Denver Indoor Farmers’ Market.  New photos every Monday.

New to The Weekly Veggie? Read how it all began with My Childhood Vegetable Nemesis.