what is the taste of sage leaves

Long venerated as a potent curative, sage can be a musky, savage herb—but used properly, it is hauntingly aromatic, a familiar taste of fall.

For a brief time last November, I thought sage had it in for me. I was enduring some legal troubles with my landlord, a meticulous autocrat who lived on the first floor of our town house, and as our dispute grew more disputatious, he began stepping up what had been an infrequent (and incongruously New Age) practice: the burning of sage, a centuries-old Native American ritual meant to purify a place and drive out bad spirits. Thick, pungent whiffs of the smoke would curl their way up into my third-floor apartment. Sage, I came to think, was not my friend. Sage wanted me gone.

This period of angst happily ended when, leafing through a book on herbs, I learned that the sage Id known since childhood, the tapered, gray-green leaves that give turkey stuffing and pork sausages their woodsy fragrance and depth of flavor, had little to do with the substance my landlord was obsessively torching. He was burning sagebrush, Artemisia tridentata, commonly called big sage or desert sage. Most culinary sage is Salvia officinalis (also called common sage or garden sage), a member of the mint family native to southern Europe and Asia Minor—and is no relation, taxonomically speaking; it just smells similar.

Sage and I have been back on good terms ever since. I love the texture of its supple leaves, which can be as velvety as rabbits ears. I often find myself rubbing them between my fingers before I start cooking, releasing their oddly savage smell—a sharp, feline, almost feral odor that springs from the oil glands at the base of each leaf hair. Thus, its the fuzziest leaves—the ones Im most tempted to pet—that smell and taste the wildest.

Raw sage is usually too intense to eat; you have to cook this herb to gentle it and bring forth its glory. The Italians, who are geniuses with sage, simmer it with white beans and garlic until the beans are tender and permeated with flavor; and when I eat the Italian classic called saltimbocca, its obvious to me that the sage leaves—so bright in their meaty context of veal scaloppine and prosciutto—are the reason the dish is called “jump in the mouth”. Sage has a bracing effect on rich dishes because its astringency cuts cleanly through fat and makes flavors dance. Chopped and simmered with mushrooms and cream, it makes a lively and succulent topping for thick slices of warm toast. Sage leaves inserted beneath the butter-rubbed skin of a capon before its roasted will crisp themselves as the chicken cooks, adding a savory crunch to the flesh. And no other herb is as delectable as sage when fried, either in extra-virgin olive oil or in brown butter.

The old warning about sage—that too much of it will make food taste bitter or medicinal—holds truer for dried sage, which tends to sit in spice racks for years, growing ever mustier. But in fact sage was long considered a medicine rather than a food. Its very name comes from the Latin salvus, meaning safe or healthy. The ancient Greeks and Romans purportedly used sage to treat an astonishingly wide range of ailments, including snakebite, epilepsy, worms, and memory loss; sage leaves were also applied to wounds as an antiseptic. Others in the ancient world thought it could soothe nervous disorders, heal broken bones, and enhance fertility. There was nothing, it seemed, that sage couldnt cure. In tenth-century Arabia, physicians even believed that sage had the power to extend life. Medieval Italians perhaps felt the same way, judging from a Latin proverb of the era: “Cur moriatur homo, cui salvia crescit in horto?” (“Why should a man die in whose garden sage grows?”)

Sage had emerged as a presence in the kitchen by the time of the Middle Ages, when Europeans began munching sage fritters at the end of banquets to ease their burdened digestive systems. In America, sage was being cultivated as early as the 1630s, and it became so popular that, as recently as 1975, Joy of Cooking judged it to be “perhaps the best known and loved of all American seasonings”. That was before basil and rosemary and other herbs began crowding the field.

But sage, majestic and potent, will always have a place of honor in my kitchen. And, as its turned out, its aroma no longer has competition from below; several months ago, I moved. Im miles from my old landlord, our dispute settled in my favor. These days the only sage that scents my house is the one cooking away on my stove.

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What Does Sage Taste Like? A few words to describe the taste of sage would be: woodsy, earthy, piney, slightly peppery, yet fresh, with notes of eucalyptus and citrusy mint.
what is the taste of sage leaves

Fresh cut sage should be wrapped in kitchen paper, placed in a perforated bag and stored in the fridge. It will last for up to 3 days. Dried sage should be kept in an airtight container and stored in a cool, dark place. It will last from four to six months. Pots of sage will survive well on a protected, sunny window sill.

Look for fresh leaves with good aroma and colour, with no wilting or brown patches. Common sage has a deep, earthy flavour and aroma but you can also buy pineapple sage which, as you might expect, has a sweet pineapple scent (though the flavour is more like common sage); purple sage, which has a milder flavour; and the equally mild tricolour sage, which has a variagated leaf of pink, cream and green. Dried sage is also available.

Popular in both Italian and British cookery, sage has long, grey-green leaves with a slightly furry surface. Its aroma is pungent and it has a strong, slightly minty, musky taste. Traditionally, its used to flavour sausages and as a stuffing for fatty meats such as pork and goose. A little goes a long way – and its never used raw.

Sage had emerged as a presence in the kitchen by the time of the Middle Ages, when Europeans began munching sage fritters at the end of banquets to ease their burdened digestive systems. In America, sage was being cultivated as early as the 1630s, and it became so popular that, as recently as 1975, Joy of Cooking judged it to be “perhaps the best known and loved of all American seasonings”. That was before basil and rosemary and other herbs began crowding the field.

Raw sage is usually too intense to eat; you have to cook this herb to gentle it and bring forth its glory. The Italians, who are geniuses with sage, simmer it with white beans and garlic until the beans are tender and permeated with flavor; and when I eat the Italian classic called saltimbocca, its obvious to me that the sage leaves—so bright in their meaty context of veal scaloppine and prosciutto—are the reason the dish is called “jump in the mouth”. Sage has a bracing effect on rich dishes because its astringency cuts cleanly through fat and makes flavors dance. Chopped and simmered with mushrooms and cream, it makes a lively and succulent topping for thick slices of warm toast. Sage leaves inserted beneath the butter-rubbed skin of a capon before its roasted will crisp themselves as the chicken cooks, adding a savory crunch to the flesh. And no other herb is as delectable as sage when fried, either in extra-virgin olive oil or in brown butter.

The old warning about sage—that too much of it will make food taste bitter or medicinal—holds truer for dried sage, which tends to sit in spice racks for years, growing ever mustier. But in fact sage was long considered a medicine rather than a food. Its very name comes from the Latin salvus, meaning safe or healthy. The ancient Greeks and Romans purportedly used sage to treat an astonishingly wide range of ailments, including snakebite, epilepsy, worms, and memory loss; sage leaves were also applied to wounds as an antiseptic. Others in the ancient world thought it could soothe nervous disorders, heal broken bones, and enhance fertility. There was nothing, it seemed, that sage couldnt cure. In tenth-century Arabia, physicians even believed that sage had the power to extend life. Medieval Italians perhaps felt the same way, judging from a Latin proverb of the era: “Cur moriatur homo, cui salvia crescit in horto?” (“Why should a man die in whose garden sage grows?”)

For a brief time last November, I thought sage had it in for me. I was enduring some legal troubles with my landlord, a meticulous autocrat who lived on the first floor of our town house, and as our dispute grew more disputatious, he began stepping up what had been an infrequent (and incongruously New Age) practice: the burning of sage, a centuries-old Native American ritual meant to purify a place and drive out bad spirits. Thick, pungent whiffs of the smoke would curl their way up into my third-floor apartment. Sage, I came to think, was not my friend. Sage wanted me gone.

This period of angst happily ended when, leafing through a book on herbs, I learned that the sage Id known since childhood, the tapered, gray-green leaves that give turkey stuffing and pork sausages their woodsy fragrance and depth of flavor, had little to do with the substance my landlord was obsessively torching. He was burning sagebrush, Artemisia tridentata, commonly called big sage or desert sage. Most culinary sage is Salvia officinalis (also called common sage or garden sage), a member of the mint family native to southern Europe and Asia Minor—and is no relation, taxonomically speaking; it just smells similar.

The Benefits of Sage | The Frugal Chef

FAQ

What does sage taste similar to?

1. Marjoram. Also, a mint family member, marjoram, is a woodsy, citrusy, and floral herb that closely mimics sage’s distinct aroma. Though very similar in flavor to the herb, marjoram is milder than its counterpart and does not maintain its potency well when cooked for extended periods.

Is sage sweet or bitter?

Its pungent flavor is described as bitter when eaten raw. Uncooked sage should be used sparingly to ensure the right balance of flavor. Like other strong herbs, sage can easily overpower a dish. But once cooked, sage’s velvety soft leaves, which are slightly thicker than most herbs, mellow in flavor.

Can I eat sage leaves raw?

The herb is rarely, if ever, used raw, because its aroma and flavor is best released when cooked (plus the herb is a little bit too pungent to be consumed raw). However, you don’t want to temper its flavor too much, so add fresh sage at the end of cooking.

What tastes the same as sage?

Marjoram. Marjoram is likely a word you’ve seen floating in the spice rack but barely touch. Another part of the mint family, like sage is, marjoram is similarly woodsy and citrusy, with some added floral notes. It does a nice job of mimicking sage’s aroma and flavor, though it is a touch milder.

What does Sage taste like?

Sage has a strong earthy, woody, and grassy taste with bitter and lemon notes, so it should not be combined with other strong spices. Sage flavor goes best with rosemary and garlic. Sage is used in many dishes, from soups and stews to tea, and it does not lose its flavor and aroma properties even when subject to high temperatures.

What are the benefits of having sage tea?

Tea made from Sage leaves, the leaves are rich in ellagic acid which exhibits antioxidant properties. This tea is mostly used in the treatment of loss of appetite, gastritis, indigestion, diarrhea, heart burn. This tea also has anti-bacterial and anti-viral properties. Excess dosage of sage tea will cause nausea, irritability and kidney damage.

Does dried sage taste like fresh?

Sage is an herb that retains much of its flavor once it is dried. However, it will not have the same brightness that is found in fresh sage. Drying concentrates the flavor and can give the herb a slightly bitter taste. Therefore, when cooking, less dried herb is added to the recipe than fresh. There are two forms of dried sage: rubbed and powdered.

How do you know if Sage is fresh?

To select fresh sage, look for leaves that are vibrant in color with no signs of wilting or discoloration. Fresh sage should be aromatic and intact; avoid leaves that are bruised or blemished. For storing: Rinse: Gently rinse the fresh sage under cold water. Dry: Pat the leaves dry with a paper towel.

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