RECIPE: Those are My Juniper Bushes

Reminiscing and Recipes with an Old Evergreen Friend

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This week, I share a couple of experimental recipes that I recently cooked up thanks to the bounty from my juniper bushes at the cabin. Alas, this is another paid post, and only paid subscribers will be able to access the recipes. But never fear, if you aren’t able to pay, the referral option gives you the same benefits as paid subscribers. Just refer three friends, and if they subscribe (free or paid) you get a complimentary one-month paid subscription.

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It’s seldom I get to appreciate the foraging opportunities at the cabin, but this year I was blessed with a bumper crop of juniper berries. The season started early. Normally the juniper berries ripen in late fall, but this summer has been a weird one in the Mojave, and the trees now think it’s autumn, bursting with blue fruits. 

My first experience with juniper berries was Monty Python’s Life of Brian when the naked and bearded hermit jumped out of his hole to save his coniferous shrubbery.

“Those are my juniper bushes!” 

For the rest of junior high, I would randomly shout that phrase in the halls, applauded by high fives from friends and eye rolls from unimpressed girls.  

It wasn’t until I moved back to California in 2006, that junipers made their second appearance. This time on the weekend excursions into the Mojave, and they were everywhere. Junipers appear in transition zones where ecosystems are turning from desert to montane, desert to grassland, grassland to woodland, mediterranean to chaparral. They’re in some of the most extreme and inhospitable spots; arid, rocky slopes and ridges where few other plants can find the means to survive. In other words, much of the California backcountry. In fact, there are at least four species of these courageous conifers found in California. The Juniperus californica is so common that it’s one of the few plants without a protected status in the Mojave Desert.  

I love the smell of Juniper when it burns in my fireplace. It reminds me of Christmas with its incense-like pininess. The Native Americans even thought juniper smoke could connect the physical and spiritual worlds, purifying and protecting folks from evil spirits and malevolent energies.  

Native peoples of the California desert relied upon the Juniper, along with the honey mesquite, scrub oak, and pinon pines for food, fuel, and building materials. But desert trees are fickle, and rare, and the Juniper made the locals work hard to gain sustenance and straight lumber from its gnarled and tannic timbers. The Chemehuevi and the Paiute gathered its branches for firewood and ceremonial practice. The more ornery and entrepreneurial Mojave people used the skinnier sticks to make their bows and clubs to protect their trade routes that criss-crossed the Southwest from the Pacific to the Pueblos of New Mexico.

The dirty little botanical secret is that juniper berries aren’t even berries. Instead, they are tiny round pine cones, home to up to three seeds inside. The outer husk is a moist and sweet wrapper that takes two years to ripen from green to blue on the California varieties, and three years to ripen from green to blue to purple and brown on the more epicurean and common cousin, Juniperus communis. The communis berry was made famous for its gin making in Europe. The word "gin" itself is derived from "genièvre," the French word for the plant. And although the tea-tottling California varietal is also edible, even without the tonic water, it’s just a bit more bitter, maybe due to its sobriety. 

Although the berries of the California junipers were probably always appreciated for their caloric value, I’d think they were a desert fruit last resort. Pinon nuts and mesquite pods are sweeter, acorns a bit hardier. To me, Juniper tastes more like medicine than food, and so I wasn’t surprised to learn that they’ve been a staple pharmaceutical in traditional medicine bags not just in the Native Southwest, but around the world. 

The Navajo and Lakota use juniper berries to treat colds and sore throats, digestive issues and urinary tract infections, chewed or brewed into teas to harness their medicinal properties. The Egyptians used them in anointing oils during mummification, believing they aided in safe passage to the underworld. In ancient Greece, they were prescribed as a stimulant to give naked athletes an Olympic edge. In Medieval Europe, juniper berries could ward off witches and evil spirits. They were burned as incense, and people carried them as talismans. Folks even attempted to purify people from the Plague. Juniper has even been suggested as an aphrodisiac, but then what doesn’t get that accusation at some point in history. Everyone has their herbal kink.  

I have to admit, there is something exciting and magical in the scent. Several fragrances mingle together. In addition to pine and citrus, there is a general herbaceous woodsiness, with some lingering spice and resin. It’s like if rosemary, yuzu, and coriander had a throuple. The resulting bouquet is equal parts palatable and antiseptic. 

And that’s where things get interesting. 

This week, I found I was experimenting with the juniper berries I’d brought home in every recipe imaginable. I added them to fats, acids, and broths. Sometimes the inherent bitterness added a perfect counterpoint, and other times the dissonance was unpleasant. The strong, resinous flavors do best in marinades, rubs, and sauces, adding depth and complexity to braises and stews, but soften and mellow thanks to persistent heat and moisture. I found that Juniper pairs well with lamb or pork, or even salmon. Traditionally, it appears alongside game meats like venison, boar, or rabbit. Dove season starts this Sunday, and I’ve been dreaming how juniper and garlic might pair with those bite-sized, reddish-purple lobes of poultry. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

In German cuisine, juniper berries are a key ingredient in sauerkraut and sausage. In Scandinavia, they lend well to pickling and gravlax, which is where I got the idea to cook them with salmon in the first place. I threw some in a bottle of olive oil to see what flavor they may impart. In baking, they appear in breads and pastries, but I’d think they must benefit from extra sugar to counter that bitter aftertaste.

As I continue to experiment with my juniper berry bumper crop, I realize that their versatility is both a blessing and a challenge. Their bold, complex flavors can transform a dish, but they demand respect and a delicate balance. Too much, and they overwhelm; too little, and their unique essence is lost. It's a dance, really—a culinary exploration that makes me smile at the thought that these unassuming little "berries" have once again found their way into my life, connecting the ruggedness of the Mojave with the warmth of my kitchen. Maybe that’s the true magic of juniper—it's a reminder of the bleak landscapes, ancient traditions, natural healing, and intense flavors that keep us all a little wild at heart.

Cooking with Juniper Berries: Two Recipes