I seem to have an affinity for vegetable markets with good-looking young male clerks. There is a definite trend here. (I am referring to my previous article on squash.)

            My latest adventure in produce occurred several weeks ago, when I went to one of my organic hangouts to purchase some sunchokes. Now, I know that until recently, the more common name for this tuber was Jerusalem artichoke, but apparently, in the great wisdom of the marketing boards of chokes, it was felt that they would sell better under an assumed name.

            I wasn’t deterred by the sign reading “sunchoke”, and picked up a baggie of these lovely golden roots, walked them over to the counter where the young lad said with pride that “these are native of Alberta, you know?” Well, frankly, I didn’t know that because I knew that the Jerusalem artichoke could be found growing around the foundation of many an Eastern Ontario farmhouse. I remember my Aunt, who is quite fond of native roots and berries and stuff like that, has dug them up from the side of her house and served them in salads and as a steamed vegetable.

            I just couldn’t let this alone, and had to ask if he was aware that the true name for the root was the Jerusalem artichoke. He gave me an “are you kooky” kind of look, which mellowed into a just plain patronizing one (because, you have to picture me dressed for a long walk, with toque, steamed glasses and likely something unattractive hanging from my nose). But, no, he was sincerely certain that the sunchoke had originated in Alberta and he was quite excited about this fact and the fact that he even knew this.

            I think that this misguided (but cute) grocer should be sent back to veggie school! Aside from making this root easier to market, it is certainly easier to type “sunchoke” than “Jerusalem artichoke”. But I had been familiar with this potato-like root long before this whippersnapper was even born. That should mean something in this world.

            The sunchoke (another pseudonym/marketing ploy is “sunroot”) is indigenous to the Eastern Seaboard of North America and around the Great Lakes. It was a staple of the North American Indian, particularly the Hurons and early settlers quickly adopted it as one of their own staples. It grew easily in temperate climates and was a crop that could be left in the ground until after the frost, providing much needed nutrition through the winter months.

Champlain observed early settlers growing and eating this root, and brought it back with him to Europe, where its cultivation spread and it achieved a brief popularity. Champlain had at one time been heard to liken the flavour and texture of this “Canada potato” to the artichoke, which is the most likely source of the name it adopted. The designation “Jerusalem” likely came about as an English mispronunciation of the Italian word for sunflower, Girasola. The sunchoke is actually a member of the same family as the sunflower, and has a yellow aster-like bloom.

            The flavour of the root is far more like that of a water chestnut or jicama or even a new potato while its appearance is closer to fresh ginger. The best way to prepare sunchoke is not to try and peel them. You will just lose half of the knobby root and perhaps a knuckle in the attempt. As with many other roots, most of the nutrients are in the skin, so use a potato scrubber to get off the dirt. It can be added raw to salads, or sautéed in stir-fries. It can also be boiled or baked or used in many of the ways that you might use a new potato.

            The sunchoke is a recommended substitute for potatoes for those on a diabetic diet because its carbohydrates are stored in the form of inulin, a sugar that can be tolerated by diabetics. And it is also a particularly good source of iron. I like it for its crunchy texture and mild nutty flavour; that’s enough reason for me.

            I probably won’t ever go back and tell the clerk at that store the truth about sunchokes. He was so blissful in his ignorance.