Jammy Chicken

Black Pepper, Oat & Pumpkin Seed Barley Biscuit/Cracker.

Small, grain-based snacks are a minefield of confusion.

Take your average biscuit.

To those of us in the US, this conjures up images of fluffy white mounds of bread- or scone-like baked goods, made with leavening of some kind and usually with significant vertical relief. Flaky is generally a positive. These often come smothered in gravy of some kind, or piled high with strawberries and whipped cream. Butter, jelly, honey, all can be applied to great effect.

The British biscuit, or biccie [British person says this should be bickie], as it is endearingly referred to, is closer to what we call a cracker in its savory form, but also often resembles what may be called a cookie when sweet. Its defining attributes are that it is flat, and usually has some bit of crunch to it, separating it from other flat, sweet and generally softer cookie-type edibles.

Complex, no?

I skittered down this rabbit hole via a short but intense fling with crackers over the last week, brought on by the presence of both hummus and flavored cream cheese: feta, kalamata olives, roasted red peppers. Love.

I required some vehicle to transfer to the mouth. Something sturdy, with a bit of a bite, but not so intense that it overpowers. Something portable, for packed lunches. Something tasty.

You'd be surprised at how few cracker recipes I came across delving into my cookbooks. Or maybe not. Buying crackers is ordinary, not may people have the time or interest to make them, probably.

Making them yourself accomplishes a lot of good things, though.

It lets you decide exactly what goes into them.

Want to use healthy grains?

Want lots of spice? Want no spice?

You decide.

They're really not that hard to make, and they don't take a lot of time.

Plus, as with many things, they're much tastier when you make them yourself.

These biscuits are from Gary Rhodes' The Complete Rhodes Around Britian, an interesting mix of classic British dishes and new interpretations. Despite the fact that his haircut makes him look like Sonic the Hedgehog, don't let that fool you - this is good stuff.

Promises, promises.

And what exactly is a flower if not a promise?

A promise of good things to come, with some patience and a little luck.

The Ozark Beauty strawberries are growing like gangbusters - so pretty as groundcover and with a berry bonus, if we can beat the chipmunks and birds to them.

 

Cucumber - bush pickle - is a new one for me this year. The furry little spines covering the leaves and tendrils are quite endearing.

Tomatillo plants are another first this year and have also started flowering - these will be purple rather than the more standard green.

Early Bird Garden peas - experimental variety - sound ominous but were freebies with my seed order. I'll be pinching off some of the tender shoots to add to salads - for a remarkable pea-like flavor - and to encourage the plants to grow more robustly. I tried these last year, but a combination of neglect and shadow from the tomato plants did them in.

It's hard to imagine this glossy green nub will become a nectarine - Hardired dwarf variety. 

And my pride this year rests in this fuzzy beauty, one of the few frost survivors on the Goldcot Apricot tree. It may not be more than a nibble or two, but it will be worth the wait.

White Grapefruit and Bay Marmalade.

 

The weather's sunny and warm, everything is fresh and dewy, growing like gangbusters, but it's still not quite time to dive into fresh and local fruits yet.

That doesn't stop me from itching to make something, though.

I restlessly roam around the kitchen, taking stock of last year's preserves. Still some strawberry, some blueberry. I overshot the tomato jam and have an embarassment of varieties - basil, yellow cherry tomato, pepper. One lone jar of peach, waiting to be snarfled.

The apricot, long gone. 

Any promise of home-grown apricot jam this year was quickly put to rest with the freeze that hit our tree last week. Three small, green, fuzzy pre-apricots managed to survive, and I check on them each morning as I walk past on my way to work. The nectarine has a few glossy green nubbins, the peach has four. They swell just a little each day, and it's hard to imagine that they will one day soon be ripe and juicy.

The apple tree, only four blossoms this year. Still, better than the one blossom from last year.

The plum, still a stick and definitely not coming close to pulling its own weight yet.

We must have a serious talk, that apple and plum and I. I expect more from you both.

I have high hopes for you, fueled by the timely arrival of Nigel Slater's Ripe.

Lucky for me, the rhubarb plants I put in last year are growing like gangbusters. Six might have been a bit excessive, given that the husband can't stand the stuff. Pretty soon each of them will have enough hearty red stems that I won't feel I am asking too much by cutting one or two from each plant. Maybe I will try Nigel's recipe for rhubarb custard fool. Maybe I will try Paul Virant's recipe from The Preservation Kitchen for Rhubarb-Beer Jam. Soon I will have so much rhubarb that it will seem like a curse, rather than a gift.

I look forward to that day.

Until then, I scratch the must-make-something itch with some fine-looking citrus. A fresh leaf from my bay plant, bought at the landscaping store and now gracing a pot in my living room, satisfies the need for home-grown and local, if only just barely.

In the interest of diversity in future jam making endeavors, I lean towards a smaller batch this time. I am trying to aim for modest volumes of preserves, to facilitate variety per available shelf space and number of jars. Easy to say until I fall into 10 pounds of perfectly ripe strawberries just crying out to be made into jam. That day seems so very far away, I know, but will be here in an instant.

Until then, there's always marmalade.

White Grapefruit and Bay Marmalade.
Makes 2 cups and a little extra of marmalade. 

1 medium (or 2 small) white grapefruit, about 600 grams
4 fresh bay leaves, bruised
2 3/4 cups white sugar

You will also need sterilized jars to hold the marmalade.

Juice the grapefruit and reserve the juice.

Scrape out the pith from the inside of the grapefruit shells and slice as thin as you prefer. Put the bay leaves, grapefruit juice (should be about 1 1/4 cups) and 2 1/2 cups cool water in a medium sized, non-reactive glass or plastic bowl and add the sliced grapefruit rind. Soak overnight.

When ready to make the marmalade, put the grapefruit juice and rind mixture in a large pot and add the sugar. Stir well on low heat until the sugar is fully dissolved, then turn the heat up and bring to a boil. Process until the marmalade reaches a set, according to your favorite method of checking: plate or spoon in freezer, thermometer. I always check for temperature, 220 degrees F.

Put the marmalade in the sterilized jars and process in a water bath for 10 minutes.

Store in a cool, dark place. Keeps for up to a year.