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Archive for the ‘Preserves’ Category

Back in May, when I wrote about dinners I’d had in Lyon, I mentioned a sweet-sharp condiment that was served alongside foie gras at Brasserie Le Nord. It was an odd, nubbly relish, with a flavor like nothing I’d ever had before, and made an interesting foil for the luscious, silky foie gras. Here’s what it looked like:
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When I asked our server what was in it, she had to go into the kitchen to find out. Returning, she said that, today, it was red onion, apple, pineapple, and celery. I’d never have guessed those! (Hmm: only today? Possibly different yesterday and tomorrow? Interesting.)

Back home, culinary curiosity demanded that I try recreating it for myself. I started with an internet search for “fruit condiments for foie gras.” Very instructive: There seem to be many such recipes, often quite complex, that I haven’t known about. However, none of them seemed as if they’d produce the texture I wanted.

Next I looked in my cookbooks for chutney recipes. That was more encouraging, because the basic approach to chutney is simply to chop the main ingredients, put them all in a pot, and cook them with some liquid and the desired seasonings until the mixture is as thick as you want it. So I assembled my four ingredients:
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Now, what proportion of each should I use? One onion gave me 2/3 cup, minced. Two stalks of celery, also 2/3 cup. One apple (quickly turning brown) gave me 1½ cups. And I took a whole cup of pureed pineapple, so there’d be plenty of juice in the mix.
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Wondering if it would be wise to cook the two vegetables by themselves at first to soften them a little, I divided each ingredient into halves and briefly sauteed half the onion and celery in butter. Then in two separate pots I combined the ingredients, the cooked vegetables and half the fruits in one, the raw vegetables and the remaining fruits in another.

What else should go in? I knew that Le Nord’s version didn’t have any Indian spices, but I had no idea what others there might have been. I decided to add only a pinch of salt and two tablespoons of apple vinegar to each pot – no other sweetener.
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Then I cooked both mixtures, covered, stirring occasionally, until they thickened enough to hold their shape, which took about 45 minutes. They came out looking very similar: the one with uncooked vegetables a little darker. (I do wonder what Le Nord used to make its version so red.) Both tasted fairly interesting, with almost no difference between them.
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Then came the fun part. We had a block of foie gras in the refrigerator (a gastronomical souvenir of the Lyon trip) just waiting for a chance to try the new condiment with. And we did.
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You can hardly see any difference in the two little heaps of – I still don’t know what to call it: relish, chutney, preserve, conserve, confiture? – but the slightly darker one is on the right. Both made a nice enough flavor and texture contrast with the foie gras, sweet and the merest touch piquant, soft and nubbly. I can’t say they provided any major enhancement, though. Foie gras is gorgeous enough on its own.

We tried some again another day with some good cheeses: same mixed result. The simple fact is, this little condiment is a lot of work, especially for the small quantity I could use while it was fresh enough: a restaurant’s dish rather than one to make at home. Still, it was an interesting experiment.

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It seemed like a good idea at the time.

We had many opened-and-recorked bottles of red wine in the house, because Tom was preparing an article about Chianti Classico for publication in QRW. He’d received a lot of sample bottles, of which we’d tasted only a few ounces from each. Much as we both love Chianti, there’s a limit to how many consecutive dinners we want to drink it with. And though recorked, it wouldn’t keep the way never-opened bottles do.

tasting lineup 2

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And those are only the tip of the iceberg.

So, after I’d filled the vinegar making crock up to the brim, I began musing about ways to cook with some of that wine. In stews, sauces, marinades . . . . But there’s also a limit to how many dishes of that sort one wants to eat in close succession. Aha! What about some wine jelly? That would be an interesting experiment: I’d never made jelly before. I’m a jam person. But it looked easy enough, I had the equipment, and I had one envelope of pectin left from the strawberry, peach, and pineapple jams I’d made in the summer and fall.

So off I went, following a recipe from the Internet that used a whole bottle of wine to make four cups of jelly. I liked it because, instead of briefly boiling all the wine with sugar, as most recipes do, it called for taking some of the wine and separately boiling it way down, to intensify the flavor, before adding it to the standard wine-sugar mix. So I did that while the rest of the wine was simmering with sugar and the jelly jars were sterilizing in a big pot of water.

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The cooking didn’t take long, and I quickly ladled the mixture of sugared wine, pectin, lemon juice, a speck of butter (for anti-foaming), and the reduced wine into one-cup jelly jars

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and set them into my steam processor, so they’d be preserved for long-term storage in the pantry.

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After 10 minutes under the steam dome I took the jars out and left them to cool on a rack and sit undisturbed for 24 hours. The recipe assured me that, though the jelly would still be fluid at first, it would gel properly after that much time.

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Well, it didn’t.

The next day the syrup in each jar was just as thin as when it came off the stove. So my jelly failed. I don’t feel entitled to blame the recipe, though. I confess that the envelope of pectin I used had been in my freezer for months. When I’d put it in there I had no idea whether pectin could survive defrosting, but I thought I’d take a chance with it. Now I rather strongly suspect that it can’t. We live and learn.

Anyway, the wine wasn’t entirely wasted. After tasting the syrup, I poached pears in it.

poaching pears

For that, it was just fine.

 

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An especially nice, easy dessert came my way this week.

On her return from a trip to Alsace, my friend Michele brought me a jar of raspberry jam made by the famous artisanal pastry chef Christine Ferber. This was an extraordinary fruit essence – smooth, rich, bursting with pure berry flavor. It glorified our morning toast and English muffins. But the label carried a strict notice to consume the jam within a week of opening the jar, and we just don’t eat that many breakfast breads.

Ferber raspberry jamSo after the jam had spent a bit more time than that in the refrigerator I decided I’d better think of something significant to do with the rest of it. Of course: a jam tart! My initial thought was a French-style jalousie tart with puff pastry, à la Julia Child. But I didn’t have any puff pastry dough in the freezer and making a batch would be a lot of work for what would be a very small tart. When I expressed my reluctance to Beloved Spouse, he quickly replied, “Why don’t you use your simple jam tart recipe from our first cookbook?”

Golly, I’d forgotten all about that recipe! So I pulled out my copy of La Tavola Italiana again (after making the caponata recipe from it just last week) and there was the dish. The Italian name is crostata, and LTI’s version uses orange marmalade, but of course it works with any kind of jam or preserve. The dough is pasta frolla, a tender, sweet Italian type that makes a very tasty crust.

Pasta frolla is not as easy to work as typical American or French short-crust pastry: It likes to break apart the moment you try to lift it off the rolling surface. But you can learn how to handle it so that you control it, not it you. The first thing is to roll it out between sheets of wax paper or plastic wrap. But then, when you’re ready to place it in the tart pan, it will try to glue itself onto the paper and refuse to come off at all.

So, after each major thinning of the dough with the rolling pin, I gently peel off the top paper, dust the dough with flour, set the paper back on, turn the whole thing over, and repeat the peeling and flouring before rolling the dough to the next stage of thinness. That usually relaxes it enough to let me transfer it intact to the pan.

pasta frolla

This day, I had only enough jam to fill a small, seven-inch tart, which left me plenty of extra dough to make a lattice top. Confession: I have neither the patience nor the skill to braid a lattice properly, weaving the strips over and under each other at the intersections. Whenever I’ve tried, I’ve made a mess of it. So I just lay on the strips however is convenient and brush them with egg glaze before baking the tart for about 40 minutes at 375°. It comes out looking good enough for me.

jam tart

The Christine Ferber jam made a splendid little tart, its intense raspberry flavor beautifully set off by the lightly sweet, crunchy crust. Beloved Spouse thinks it one of the tastiest jam tarts he’s ever had. So Michele, if you’re reading this, thank you again!

 

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Toward the end of every summer, Tom and I buy a 25-pound box of San Marzano plum tomatoes at our Greenmarket and spend most of a day processing them to store for use through the winter. We’re lucky enough to have a local grower of these, the most prized sauce tomatoes in Italy: Cherry Lane Farms from southern New Jersey.

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This year, we made about half of the box’s tomatoes into a simple sauce that can either be used as is or elaborated in just about any way we like.

First we washed and halved them, then cooked them with a little bit of water, just long enough to soften.

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We put them through the coarse blade of a food mill and cooked that puree into a sauce. The sauce pot had been heated with olive oil seasoned with garlic cloves and peperoncini before the tomatoes went in.

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It took quite a while to thicken. We ended up with about a gallon of a light, fresh-tasting sauce. We filled seven pint jars with the finished sauce and processed them in our steam canner for 35 minutes. (The extra sauce we just stuck in the refrigerator for current use.)

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Then we turned to the other half of the tomatoes.

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These we simply peeled. I crammed as many as I could, whole, into six quart jars. The rest we slurried in the food processor, adding some of that puree to the jars, along with enough hot water to fill.

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Once closed, those jars were processed in the steam canner for 45 minutes. Then both batches of jars had to sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter for 24 hours.

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At the end of that time we tested the lids. All had sealed properly, so off to the pantry they went, joining the bread-and-butter pickles, corn relish, strawberry jam, and peach jam that we’d put up earlier this year. It gives me a warm feeling of satisfaction just to look at them all, and to anticipate how welcome they will be in the depths of the winter to come!

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My husband is a world-class sandwich maker. Like Dagwood Bumstead in the old Sunday funny papers, Tom assembles exquisitely complex, delicious sandwiches from things he finds in the refrigerator. He claims sandwich making is the most important branch of architecture.

Though Tom’s constructions aren’t quite the skyscrapers that Dagwood’s were, the demands of art require us to keep a lot of ingredients available for inspiration to work on. The foundations are most often either White Bread Plus, the wonderful sandwich bread I make from a recipe in Joy of Cooking, or a good baguette. The fillings can be fish, flesh, or fowl; any number of cheeses; lettuce, arugula, watercress, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños. And the crowning glory of the sandwich: the condiments.

That means mustards and mayonnaises, often homemade, Tom’s own doctored ketchup (Heinz, dosed with various zingy additions), Indian chutneys, Mexican hot sauces, Japanese pickled ginger, Greek pickled peppers, French cornichons; and – you knew I’d get around to the topic eventually! – my own bread and butter pickles, made from fresh Kirby cucumbers.

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We’ve never cared for store-bought bread-and-butter pickles. All the brands we tried were much too sweet for our taste. When I started making my own, we didn’t care for the results of the recipes that I tried, either – also too sweet. I didn’t want a really sour pickle – I could buy good ones of those – but I also didn’t want something that tasted as if it should be topping a dish of ice cream.

The recipe I finally evolved is more work than most, but it produces exactly the kind of pickles we like. I make them every summer, and when I’ve processed the jars in my steam canner, they sit happily in the pantry for use throughout the year.

I start a day in advance by blanching small, firm Kirby cukes in boiling water. I slice them on the 2-mm blade of the food processor, along with some onions and a little bell pepper. I salt the mixture, weight it, and leave it in the refrigerator overnight. The next day I begin by sterilizing mason jars and lids in boiling water. I drain the cukes, rinse them, and thoroughly drain them again.

Then I prepare vinegar, sugar, and spices for the pickling mixture. For each pound of cukes I use ⅓ cup of dark brown sugar and ½ cup of my own red wine vinegar, plus mustard seed, celery seed, and ground allspice. (Many other recipes I’ve seen call for as much as twice to three times the amount of sugar. Ugh!) I bring the mixture to the boiling point, stir in the sliced cucumbers, and bring it just to the boil again.

I put one little dried hot pepper in the bottom of each jar, ladle in pickles and their liquid, close the jars and set them up in my steam canner, and process 15 minutes. When they come out of their steambath, each jar gives a satisfying little klonk, which means it has formed the vacuum necessary to preserve its contents without refrigeration.

I get a lot of pleasure out of making these pickles. The only really hard thing about this whole procedure is that we need to wait six weeks before they’re ready to eat. That’s particularly bad right now, because we finished the last jar of last year’s pickles a while back, and my culinary master architect is deeply distressed to be without this key ingredient for his extravagant sandwiches. We may have to cheat a little and open one jar early.

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Scones have come a long way from their origin as humble oatcakes baked at the hearth on an iron griddle. A clue to their long ancestry is the buttermilk and baking soda still used as their leavening – dating from the days before modern baking powder. Oatmeal scones are still the most traditional version of these small quick breads, but fancier (and much sweeter) varieties have proliferated on bakery shelves.

Tom and I don’t care for breakfast cereals, so my pantry doesn’t provide oatmeal for a spur-of-the-moment decision to make scones for breakfast. I do have a favorite scone recipe, however, and I’ve found a way to get them to the table even more quickly of a morning.

My recipe comes from Baking with Julia, a handsome volume based on Child’s Master Chef television series, with recipes from many well-known bakers. Its buttermilk scone recipe is attributed to Marion Cunningham. I’m being particular about the source because this exact recipe, word for word, can be found in quite a few places on the Internet, with no credit given to the book. I was astonished to see such blatant plagiarism! You can read an honest posting of the recipe here.

I vary the recipe from time to time, using honey for sugar, yogurt for buttermilk; kneading in some raisins, chopped apricots, or blueberries; and always cutting back on the melted butter and sugar topping, which is too much sweetness for me. This week for the first time I decided to try two new things: making the dough partially the day before, and shaping it into the recipe’s option for rolled scones with a jam filling, rather than plain triangular ones. I had some excellent Maine wild blueberry jam that I thought would be very nice in them.

But I’d never seen a rolled scone before, and I wasn’t sure I was reading the shaping instructions correctly. So, also the day before, I’d googled “rolled scones” for images (which is how I happened upon the plagiarizations of the recipe). What I saw were round buns, each with a pinwheel pattern made by several spirals of jam within the dough. OK, we can try that.

The advance steps went fine. I put together the dry ingredients, cut in the cold butter, and put the whole bowl in the refrigerator overnight. In the morning, I stirred in the buttermilk and kneaded the dough briefly. Then it was time for the rolling.

Here’s where things went iffy. The recipe said to roll each half of the dough into a strip 12 inches long and ½ inch thick. Parenthetically, it concedes that the strip won’t be very wide. I’ll say it wasn’t – mine barely reached 4 inches. Then it said to spread on 2 tablespoons of jam, leaving a narrow border bare on one of the long sides, roll it up like a jelly roll, and slice it. Well, since my jam was more like a preserve, containing many tiny whole wild blueberries, it couldn’t be just painted smoothly onto the dough. It made a lumpy line of filling.

It was a struggle to wrap the dough around those berries far enough to enclose the filling at all, with no hope of rolling it up far enough to make a spiral pattern. It sliced more cleanly than I’d feared it might, but the slices came out lopsidedly circular, with a single puddle of jam in the center.

I suspected those jam puddles would ooze out all over the pan the moment it hit the oven. But they didn’t. The scones weren’t exactly neat looking when baked, and they were quite small: Each half of the recipe, which would have made 6 triangular scones, made 12 rolled ones. But they tasted perfectly good. No problem: just eat two instead of one. Two are already gone from this next picture – Tom and I couldn’t wait to sample them.

I must admit that, interesting as the rolled scones were for an experiment, the effect on the palate was really no different than if you’d just spread jam on a baked plain scone, which are a lot quicker and easier to make. I know this because, fearing that I might mess up the rolled ones, I used only one half of the recipe for them. Here are the six plain scones I made from the other half, modestly awaiting their own acquaintance with the wild blueberry jam.

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If you live in Manhattan, you have to be a little crazy to go to the trouble of making your own strawberry jam. I do it every year.

It’s not about cost – though jars of premium jam can cost anywhere from $5 to $15 in stores hereabouts. It just pleases me to make my own. It may be pure subjectivity, but I think my homemade jam tastes better – fresher, more like the original fruit – than any of the commercial products. Plus, I like occasionally to imagine myself a frugal, omni-talented pioneer housewife. So early every June, I start my atavistic jam project by buying a batch of the best-looking, best-smelling berries my Greenmarket is offering. Here’s where I bought two quarts this year:

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For making jam, the trouble with strawberries is that they’re very low in natural pectin, which is what makes fruit jell. If you don’t use commercial pectin, you wind up either with something the consistency of fruit sauce or – if you keep resolutely cooking it down – with a leathery gumminess. If you do use commercial pectin, the recipes call for more than 3 parts of sugar to 2 parts of fruit, which produces an intensely sweet jam that barely tastes of strawberry.

I solved that problem for myself four years ago, by donning my pioneer-woman-meets-mad-scientist identity and spending most of a day doing a variety of strawberry jam experiments. I discovered that you can make jam of a good consistency using only equal parts of sugar and fruit, and only one-third of the amount of pectin the recipes call for. I love the bright, fresh fruit flavor that gives me.

Nevertheless, no matter how much I may enjoy it, jam making is a lot of work. So, heads up: The rest of this post is going to be a sort of illustrated “How I spent my summer vacation making strawberry jam.”  If that doesn’t interest you, feel free to click away now.

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First I put one-cup Ball jars, with their metal lids and rims, into a big pot of water and sterilized them by boiling for 10 minutes.

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While that was happening, I washed and hulled the berries, examining each one and cutting out any spoiled bits. Then I crushed them.

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I put them in a large, heavy pot, stirred in the sugar, and brought it to a boil. Kept boiling briskly and stirring steadily until the juice registered 221 degrees F. on a candy thermometer. This is very tedious: The mixture gets up to 200 degrees quite rapidly; then it takes much longer to rise to 220; and that last little degree can take up to 15 more hot, steamy minutes. I don’t know why.

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When it finally got there this time, I stirred in the pectin (4 tablespoons for 4 cups of berries and 4 cups of sugar), boiled for one more minute, turned off the heat and, as soon as the bubbling stopped, skimmed off all the pale pink froth.

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I took my jars out of the pot of water they’d been sitting in, briefly drained them, filled them with the molten jam, and set the lids on, not too tight. The jars are hot, the lids are hot, the jam is hot. Easy to burn your fingers. I get Tom (poor sap) to help me with this step.

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Now comes the clever part. I don’t want to have my freezer filled with jam jars all year long, so they have to be treated so they’ll keep well at room temperature. This used to mean totally submerging the newly filled jars in boiling water, processing them for some time (hoping they don’t explode), and lifting them out to drain (hoping not to scald yourself or flood the kitchen). I was never brave enough to try this.

Then, one year, Tom bought me a steam processor (not entirely a sap: he loves strawberry jam). It changed my life, making preserving ever so much easier. You put a few cups (not gallons) of water in the broad base of the pan, bring it to a boil, set the filled jars on its rack.

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Set the dome on top of the base, keep the heat high, and as soon as an 8-inch column of steam comes out of the vent holes on the side of the dome, count 15 minutes. You can just barely see the steam coming out, on the right of this photo:

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As you take out the jars and they cool, you can hear each lid going “clonk” as it creates the vacuum that seals the jam against decay.

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After 24 hours you tighten the lids, write the date on them, and – feeling like an intrepid and totally fulfilled pioneer woman putting up essential food for her family – tuck them in the pantry for a year’s worth of delicious eating.

And in July or August, you do it all again with peaches, except that they have pectin of their own and don’t need the commercial stuff. Then you also make some pineapple jam with the pectin you didn’t use for the strawberry jam. It’s crazy, maybe – but there’s something intensely satisfying about a pantry shelf lined with your own homemade goodies. (If I’ve really gone overboard, jam makes nice little hostess gifts.)

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