Braised Celery: Turning The Worst Vegetable Into The Best

For most of my life, I didn’t understand celery. As a child, I watched my peers happily crunch on ants on a log and felt a deep sense of alienation. Why could I not enjoy this classic American treat? Later, when I was learning how to cook, I thought of celery as the weakest component of the traditional European flavor base, mirepoix (onion, celery and carrot). The celery seemed to contribute nothing to cooked dishes, and I found its fibrous crunch unappealing in its raw state. The sad celery sticks beside my chicken wings always languished uneaten, and my stocks were seasoned with onion and garlic instead of the classic mirepoix.

I have lately had my Road to Damascus moment with celery, and it is now one of the most popular vegetables in my house. Celery’s superpower lies in its high nitrate content. Nitrates are the chemicals that help cure and preserve meats like bacon and ham. Concentrated celery juice is actually used as the curing agent in the so-called “uncured” or “nitrate-free” versions of these products. 

Nitrates have a savory flavor somewhat reminiscent of MSG. That savoriness is celery’s contribution to the stocks and sauces of old-fashioned European cuisine. It’s what gives Thanksgiving stuffing its addictive quality. I have noticed that if I season with celery too aggressively, dishes can actually start to taste cured, almost like hot dogs.

This recipe, my ultimate recipe for cooked celery, is an attempt to capture the vibe of the celery strained out of a batch of chicken stock, while retaining a little more texture and a slightly fresher flavor. The super overcooked, mushy vegetables left over from a stock or a braise have always tasted really delicious to me. They have a luxurious savoriness, and I enjoy really soft vegetables. This dish is intensely flavorful, and you can eat a ton since celery is basically air. Quoth Kristen, “I hated celery my whole entire life, and this dish turned me into an addict.” Speaks for itself folks!

Braised Celery

• One bunch celery

• One cup good chicken broth, or mushroom broth if vegetarian

• Half an onion, diced small

• One clove of garlic, minced or crushed

• A few sticks of fresh thyme

• One bay leaf

• One tbsp olive oil

• One tbsp butter

• Salt, pepper, and bouillon or msg, to taste

Appropriate celery length, with hand for scale (hand sizes may vary)

Cut celery into spears around 3 inches in length. Don’t use the smallest inner ribs for this. You want the big, sturdy outer spears. If you want a very soft, refined texture, shave off the fibrous outer layer of the celery with a vegetable peeler (I normally don’t bother, but if you want to spend the time, go for it. It does make a difference).

Demonstrating peeling technique

A bunch of crispy, peeled celery (gross!)

Heat your oil and butter over medium heat in a large, high sided skillet and add the onion with a pinch of salt, sautéing until translucent but not brown. Toss in the garlic and herbs and sauté for about a minute until fragrant. Add in the celery and chicken broth, cover, and set your pan to low. At this point season with salt, pepper, and bouillon if using. Be conservative with the salt here, because most of the liquid in the pan is going to evaporate, concentrating the sodium.  Cook until the celery is as soft as you like it. I usually do about 45 minutes, which gives me a melting but not quite falling-apart texture. When it’s done, fish out the thyme stems and bay leaves.

Celery is mushy, but still too wet! If this happens to you, take the lid off and crank the heat for a few minutes to reduce and thicken your stock

Depending on your stove and how tight your skillet’s lid is, you may need to add a little extra liquid during the cooking time. Don’t add too much, though. The goal is for the stock to thicken and concentrate over the cooking time, becoming a glaze that you can spoon over the celery to serve. I like this dish as a side for roast chicken, since its flavor reminds me of stuffing, but it would also be good with fish or pork. Or, you know, on its own, if you’re not a flesh eater living in sin.

Perfect! As you can see, the thyme leaves have fallen off the stems during the cooking process. That’s why I almost always cook with whole thyme and just pick out the stems later. Picking the leaves off of fresh thyme is soul-sucking.