Frischer Ingwer

Young skin needs no peeling, so it pickles pale pink and stays crisp instead of going limp.

Belly braised with it in chunks; there is no fibre to pick out of the sauce afterwards.

Steamed with the shell open, it seasons the meat without the rasp the mature root leaves.

Both cut into matchsticks raw. Nothing is cooked here and the dish is over in four minutes.

Roasted fat wants something green and hot against it, and this brings heat without dust.

Candied while still tender, which is the only window it takes syrup without turning woody.

Steam the bird over slices of it: the perfume goes up, and the slices are worth eating after.

Blanched for seconds and tossed with it raw. Sharp against sweet rubber, no marinade.

Raw, one sliver on each. The heat lands and clears before the sweetness has finished.

Both are floral before they are anything else. Slice it into the fruit and leave it an hour.

Stewed together the burn reads as a spice you cannot name, and the fruit stops being flat.

Brine and a young rhizome, with no lemon anywhere. Uncomfortable, then suddenly obvious.

Cold, with slivers dropped in. Rice sweetness turns the burn into something closer to a flower.