The Unlit Shelf: Forcing Chicory Roots for Bitter, Bright November Leaves

By mid-November, the plot has a particular look about it: wet soil, collapsed stems, and roots sitting where the summer vegetables used to be. Chicory is one of those roots that can feel like an afterthought. You grow it for the leaves, or perhaps for the heads, and then the plants sit there looking woody and unbothered. But those roots are not finished. Given a box, some damp compost and a genuinely dark corner, they will push out pale, tight chicons — the sort of bitter, crunchy leaves that make a November salad feel purposeful.

This is not a complicated project. It is more of a waiting game with a useful payoff. And it suits the mood of the season: less digging, more shuffling things into cupboards and checking on them with a torch.

Why chicory is worth the dark corner

Forcing chicory is one of the quiet garden tricks. The root has spent the season building up energy, and when you lift it and bring it somewhere warm-ish and dark, it uses that energy to produce a new head of leaves. You are not growing a whole new plant. You are persuading an existing one to give you a second crop.

That appeals to anyone who dislikes the idea of sending perfectly good roots to the compost heap. It also fills a gap. By late November, the lettuce is a memory, the winter salads are often shop-bought, and the idea of something fresh and sharp from your own plot is genuinely cheering. Chicory chicons are bitter, yes, but that bitterness is the point. Paired with something sweet, something salty and something crunchy, they wake up a plate.

Start with roots that are worth forcing

Not every chicory is a good candidate for forcing. The reliable ones are the witloof types — the Belgian endive sorts that form those neat, pale, oval chicons. In a UK garden, look for varieties such as 'Zoom', 'Virtus' or 'Normato' if you can find them. Radicchio and sugarloaf types are lovely in their own way, but they are less predictable under cover, and some will simply sulk rather than make a tight forced head.

Sow witloof chicory in late spring or early summer, roughly May to June, so the plants have time to build decent roots before the days shorten. By November, the roots should be about the thickness of a thumb, maybe a little more. If you sowed late or the plants had a rough summer, the roots will be smaller, and the chicons will be smaller too. That is fine. They will still work, just don't expect chip-shop-sized specimens.

Lift the roots now, before the ground gets properly frozen. If a frost is forecast, wait for it to pass and lift when the soil is workable. Use a fork rather than a spade, and keep your distance so you don't spear the roots. Shake off the worst of the soil, then trim the leaves back to about 2cm above the crown. Don't wash the roots. You want them damp but not dripping.

Sort through what you have lifted. Firm, unblemished roots are the ones to box. Any that are soft, split, slug-damaged or rotten can go on the compost heap — forcing won't rescue them, and a rotting root in a closed box is a quick way to lose the lot.

Box them, water once, then leave them alone

A wooden crate, a deep seed tray or even a sturdy cardboard box lined with a plastic bag will do. The important thing is depth and drainage. Stand the roots upright, close together but not jammed, and fill around them with damp compost, sand or a mix of both. A wringed-out sponge is the texture you are after: moist enough to keep the roots alive, dry enough that water doesn't pool around the crown.

Set the box somewhere dark and cool. A cupboard under the stairs, a shed shelf, a spare room with the curtain drawn — anywhere that stays around 12–18°C is about right. Warmer speeds things up but can produce loose, floppy chicons. Cooler slows them down, which is no bad thing if you want a staggered harvest.

Give the box one good water at the start, then resist the urge to keep topping it up. This is where most failures happen. Soggy compost plus poor airflow equals rot, and rot smells exactly as unpleasant as it sounds. If your box has no drainage holes, make some. If you are covering the roots with another box or a black bin bag, leave a small gap for air rather than sealing everything tight.

The green-tip problem

Chicons need complete darkness. Even a little light creeping in will turn the tips green and make the leaves bitter in a harsh, rather than pleasant, way. If you are using a cupboard, don't open it for a nosy look every day. If you are using a box, make sure the lid actually covers the whole thing. A black plastic bag over the top is useful, but check it isn't touching the growing tips and creating a damp, airless pocket.

Check progress after about three weeks. You are looking for tight, pale heads around 10–15cm tall. Lift one out gently to see how things are going. If the chicons are still small and loose, tuck them back in and give them another week. If they are ready, cut them at the base with a sharp knife. Most roots will give you a second, smaller chicon if you leave them in the box and keep the compost just damp. It won't be as neat as the first, but it is still worth eating.

If the chicons come out green at the tips, trim those bits off before serving. If they are slimy or smell off, bin the root — don't try to salvage it. And if the compost has gone sour, start again with fresh roots rather than persevering with a box that is quietly turning into a science experiment.

A sharp salad for a dark evening

Chicory chicons are at their best when they are treated simply. Separate the leaves, rinse them, and dry them properly — wet leaves will water down the dressing. For two people, take a couple of heads, a handful of toasted walnuts, a segmented orange or a good squeeze of lemon, and a crumble of blue cheese. Stilton is the obvious choice, but a softer blue like Dorset Blue Vinny works nicely too.

Make a quick dressing with a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a teaspoon of honey, a tablespoon of cider vinegar and three tablespoons of rapeseed oil. Season it, whisk it, and taste it. It should be sharp but not aggressive. Toss the leaves lightly in the dressing, then scatter over the citrus, walnuts and cheese. Serve it with bread and butter, or alongside a baked potato, or as a bright little side to whatever else is coming out of the oven.

The bitterness of the chicory cuts through the cheese and the sweetness of the citrus, and the walnuts give it enough grip to feel like a proper supper component rather than a token leaf. It is the kind of salad that makes sense in November: not summery, not delicate, just sharp and useful.

The loop that keeps giving

What I like most about forcing chicory is the loop of it. You lift roots that would otherwise be composted, box them, forget about them for a few weeks, and then harvest fresh leaves from what looked like a dead patch of ground. It is a small act of kitchen gardening that fits neatly into the lean weeks, when the plot is quiet and the supermarket salad aisle is doing all the talking.

Start with a few roots if this is your first go. Learn how damp your compost needs to be, how dark your cupboard really is, and how long your particular roots take. Next year, you can sow a dedicated row for forcing and keep the loop going properly. For now, though, a box, a dark shelf and a bit of patience will do nicely.