Jammy Chicken

Fresh Apricot Jam.

I read cookbooks like they are novels, for the romance, suspense and intrigue.

New techniques are as good as dramatic plot twists in detective stories, inventive combinations of ingredients the surprise cliffhanger I never see coming. Favorite ingredients or dishes, described lovingly and tenderly, become even more special to me when seen through someone else's words and the meaning they have in their life.

And that's really the heart of it, isn't it?

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to learn - how to use new [and sometimes scary] ingredients, how to employ new techniques. I want to bring something new and exciting into my cooking and my life that other people can teach me.

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to be the kind of person who uses those ingredients, makes those kinds of dishes. I want to throw breezy dinner parties, have friends over for drinks and cocktails, or whip up a delicious, fantastic meal based on nothing other than sheer celebration of perfect ingredients. I want those occasions to happen in my life, even though they don't, really.

Some cookbooks inspire me because I want to have the life itself. Living with the seasons on a farm in the countryside. Raising chickens and grabbing a fresh egg or two from a straw nest for breakfast. Walking the Parisian cobblestone streets cruising the best pastry shops for dessert. There are people who make a living out of living the lives we want, and while I don't necessarily want that as a job, I do want that as a life.

The problem is, I think, that it is a job, and like any job, you have to work really hard and be really good at it to make it look easy to casual gawkers like me.

That's quite apparent, both the coveting of the life and the hard work it takes behind the scenes to actually make it happen, in my new favorite fantasy escape represented by Orlando Murrin's cookbook A Table in the Tarn. Who doesn't have even a tiny stab of wistful longing to buy a ramshackle old stone house in France and lovingly restore it, then spend your days cooking delicious food for people who pay you to do so?

I know I did, through almost every page of this book.

Except, of course, I don't speak French.

And renovations are a nightmare, and trying to organize one in a different country, in a different language?

Shoot me now.

Plus, the whole cooking breakfast for a table full of strangers early in the morning, when I am not my best?

Yeah, right.

But hey, that's why it's a fantasy, right?

And for now, I get to pick and choose the best parts of this fantasy life to add to mine. Temptingly, though, the gorgeous house is for sale, making the fantasy just a little more tangible, if still completely unattainable.

If you do decide to cash it all in and go for it, invite us over, would you?

This fresh apricot jam is extremely quick to make and very easy, the perfect way to use those gorgeous fresh summer apricots coming to market right now. I love to stir this into a little yogurt for breakfast, in order to pretend, even just for a moment, that I am basking in the southern French sun on a gravel patio, with nothing but a day of leisurely strolls and coffee drinking to accomplish.

Sadly, that is not the case, but for a few seconds every morning it feels like it just possibly could be.

Fresh Apricot Jam.
From Orlando Murrin's A Table in the Tarn.
Makes about 2 1/4 cups.

2 1/4 pounds of ripe apricots - about 12 apricots
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons raw sugar

Cut each apricot in half, remove the pit, and then cut each half into quarters. Stir the apricot pieces with the sugar and cover, then allow to sit on the counter overnight.

The next day, when the apricots have yielded lovely juice, pour into a large pot and slowly bring to a simmer over medium heat. Stir regularly. There should be bubbles across the entire pan, not just the edges. Continue to simmer for about 10 minutes, as the apricots move towards soft while the juice moves towards thick. Some apricot pieces will start to break down and thicken the jam. The apricots will look glossy and jammy, with thick syrup. If you have a thermometer, aim for 205 to 210 degrees F (about 95 degrees C).

Transfer to jars, cover and refrigerate until used. Eat within 10 days.

Strawberry Jam helped along with added Pectin.

The fourth of an ongoing series of experiment with strawberry jam. See the first part here, the second here, and the third here. A much needed expedition for strawberry recharge happened here.

I've made strawberry jam with black currants from my garden. A whole bottle of wine. Dehydrated strawberries.

All are tasty. All are special. Fancy, even.

There's some level of expectation inherent in fancy jam. You have to make an effort. Try harder, somehow, to be worthy of the jam. There's nothing wrong with that, but it is a different class of jam.

High-maintenance jam.

I need some low-maintneance jam.

An everyday, go-to kinda jam. Something that will be happy smeared on toast.

I want a stash of jam that I can feel good about eating while wearing wrinkly pjs and slippers...at noon.

This is that jam.

Sweet, fresh strawberry shines through here. It holds up to a spoon well. It has the required spreadable texture to create an evenly thick, jammy layer over a butter-soaked crispy slab of toasty bread.

It is unpretentiously strawberry jam. Because sometimes you just want plain old strawberry jam, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Nothing at all.

I have worked poor Mr. Virant and Ms. Ferber quite hard over the last few days with the frenzy of strawberry jam making, plus my other cookbooks were feeling neglected and starting to sulk. For this one I moved on to The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook by Rachel Saunders and River Cottage Handbook No. 2: Preserves, by Pam Corbin.

They call her Pam the Jam. Ingrid the Jam doesn't have nearly the same ring to it, unfortunately. I am anxiously awaiting delivery of her Cakes book, which will be carried over by The British Guy's sister's son (that's James the Nephew to us) in a few weeks when he visits.

I used the volumes (more or less) from Blue Chair's Children's Strawberry Jam, but the method (more or less) from River Cottage Strawberry Jam. I made my own jam sugar, which is an absolutely ingenious British product that has the pectin in the sugar already.

Let's pause a moment to truly appreciate the genius of this: in the sugar already.

Only in a country where jam and jelly making is so near to people's hearts would they sell something like this.

We need some, people. Somebody make this.

You can make your own by adding powdered pectin to white sugar with a ratio of 13 grams pectin per kilo of sugar. My conversion to imperial units was sloppy but satisfyingly easy to achieve: 2 tablespoons per 5 cups.

Since I added some sugar early for macerating, I saved all the pectin for the end.

You know what? It worked a treat.

Wibbly wobbly strawberry jam with a perfect set.

How I heart you, pectin.

Below, British Guy practices his modeling skills by expertly holding the spoon. He wants you to know that he was the official (hard-working, long-suffering) strawberry jam taste-tester, and he likes this one best.

 

SUMMARY, Jam #4:

Time: 3 days, mostly hands-off.

Volume of berries: 4.2 lbs or 2 kg

Volume of Product: 8 to 9, 1/2 pint jars

 Flavor: Sweetly strawberry.

Color: Red.

Set: Spoonable and spreadable.

Thoughts: Good eatin' every day preserve. Toast longs for this jam.

 Continue on for the jam recipe.

Bagge Strawberries, Independence, Iowa.

I am in the midst of a jam canning frenzy, and the 12 pounds of strawberries I got at the farmer's market just isn't enough. This is compounded by the fact that my strawberry guy didn't come to the farmer's market after my first big score, and batches two and three cleaned me out.

What's a girl to do?

Well. If the strawberries won't come to you, you have to go to the strawberries.

Independence, Iowa. America's fame is in their name.

Bagge has pick your own strawberries with names like Honeyoye, L'Amour, Cavendish, Mesabi, Jewel and Eros. The British Guy and I made an afternoon outing of it, and spent a lovely breezy hour picking berries.

Berry picking is very zen when you get into the rhythm: sweep leaves aside, find ripe berries, pop off from stems and deposit into basket, shuffle down row, sweep leaves aside. I think I would make a pretty good farm worker, I searched long and hard for all the ripe berries and nabbed each and every one, except that my toes went numb from too much crouching. So maybe not a farm worker afterall. Or different footwear.

The berry frenzy takes over after a while. You are picking from one plant and glance down the row to stretch your neck, and a brilliant red flash catches your eye. There, just out of arm's reach...the perfect berry. So  ripe and luscious and delicious looking. It must be picked! You pick it, and gloat. But now it looks just like all the other berries piled in your basket. Then you glance down the row and a brilliant red flash catches your eye...

When all was said and done, we left with 29.7 pounds of strawberries at a buck fifty a pound.

The British Guy: 14.3 pounds

Jammy Chick: 15.4 pounds

Not that I'm keeping score or anything.

Dehydrated Strawberry Jam.

The third of an ongoing series of experiment with strawberry jam. See the first part here, and the second part here.

My starting point for this version was a mash-up of bits of Paul Virant's recipe for Dehydrated Strawberry Jam from his cookbook The Preservation Kitchen, and Christine Ferber's basic fresh strawberry jam.

Mr. Virant uses homemade green apple pectin and guess what I didn't have? I could have added 5 teaspoons of powdered pectin instead, but I thought I could slide through with Ms. Ferber's recipe that relies on just strawberry, sugar and lemon. I wanted to use fresh strawberries but swipe the technique of dehydrating strawberries from Mr. Virant to add a hit of super-strawberry flavor.

I settled on half fresh strawberries and half dehydrated. I discuss dehydrating strawberries in more detail here. Dehydrating the strawberries takes time and adds another layer of work, but delivers on giant strawberry flavor. If you want a strawberry explosion in your mouth, this is the way to go.

SUMMARY, Jam #3:

Time: 3 days, most of that hands-off

Volume of berries: 3 pounds

Volume of Product: 5, 1/2 pint jars, plus some extra

 Flavor: Intensely fresh and fruity strawberry. This doesn't just scream strawberry, this takes a giant strawberry-shaped club and knocks you over the top of the head with it.

Color: Red. Strawberry red.

Set: Softly set. Spoonable, not spreadable.

Thoughts: Holy wow, if you're looking for the meaning of strawberry in a jar, you just found it.

Skip to part 4.

Dehydrated Strawberry Jam.
Makes 5, 1/2 pint jars. Yields may vary depending on produce.

3 1/4 pounds strawberries to yield 3 pounds stemmed (1.5 kg to yield about 1.4 kg)
4 cups white sugar (760 g, at 190 g per cup)
1 lemon, juiced

You will also need a food dehydrator or low oven, a large non-reactive glass or metal bowl, a large pot and a strainer, plus 4-5 sterilized 1/2 pint canning jars, lids and bands.

Day 1:
Gently rinse the strawberries and allow to air dry. Remove the stem and hull from each berry. Quarter berries larger than 1 1/2 inches (ca. 4 cm), and halve berries larger than 3/4 inch (2 cm). For berries smaller than 1/2 inch (1.25 cm), leave whole.

Take half of the berries (1.5 lbs or 0.7 kg) and arrange cut sides up on dehydrator racks or cookie sheets lined with nonstick paper. Set the dehydrator or oven to 135 degrees F, and dry the strawberries until they have shrunk to about half their original size but are still pliable - this will take about 8 hours in a dehydrator and 4 in an oven.

Take the remaining 1.5 lbs (0.7 kg) of strawberries and mix with the sugar (4 cups or 850 g) and lemon juice. Leave to macerate for 12 hours or overnight. If it is cool, you can leave them on the counter. If it is warm, refrigerate.

Day 2:
Pour the now juicy strawberry-sugar mixture into a large pot and add the dehydrated strawberries. Bring to a simmer and allow to simmer for a minute. Cool for a few minutes in the pan, then carefully pour into a large heat-proof bowl and refrigerate overnight. When cold, cover with a sheet of waxed paper, making sure that the berries are all fully submerged in the juice. The berries can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 4 days at this stage.

Day 3:
Strain the strawberry syrup from the strawberry solids and transfer the syrup to a large pot. Bring to a boil and continue to boil until the syrup reaches 221 degrees F. This will happen very fast, within 5 to 10 minutes. Add the strawberries back in and bring back to a boil. Continue boiling until the jam reaches 221 degrees F again, which will take 5 minutes or less.

Remove from the heat and allow to cool for 2 to 3 minutes.

Fill up the canning jars according to proper canning protocols, making sure that the strawberries are distributed evenly. Process according to your favorite method.

Store in a cool, dark place. Lasts up to  year.

Dehydrated Strawberries.

I got a dehydrator last year to preserve some of the lovely herbs I was growing in the garden. It seemed frivolous at the time, but fun.

I like fun frivolity.

However, it has proven to be incredibly useful and unexpectedly practical. You need the right tool for the job, my mom always says, and this is the tool for drying stuff out.

Buckets of tomatoes went through last year. Basil. Mint.

Kale.

Kale dries like a dream but absolutely reeks. That whiff of funky kale-y smell you get when cooking it? Times a hundred. No, times a million.

Ick.

We woke up after leaving kale to dry overnight and wondered who had attacked our kitchen with chemical warfare.

No more dried kale.

This year, I'm busting out the dehydrator for strawberries.

Mountains of strawberries are reduced to intense strawberry essence.

The last batch started off with 1530 g and came out of the dehydrator weighing in at 370 g: a net weight reduction of  75 %.

These are not crispy crackly, but still soft and pliable.

Dry but squidgy. They will not make that halo of pink mush in your baked goods like fresh strawberries do.

I am thinking scones. Muffins. Cakes.

Granola.

Eating out of hand like popcorn.

Because they are not completely dried, they are not shelf-stable and do need to be kept in the refrigerator or freezer for long-term storage. Since they reduce in volume so dramatically, this is easy to accomplish. I pack a large mason jar full, but plastic bags or containers would work just as well.

Dehydrated Strawberries.
Make as many as you want.

You will need a food dehydrator or a low oven. (Full disclosure: I have not tried the oven version, but Paul Virant lists it as an alternative to the dehydrator in his book The Preservation Kitchen.)

Gently rinse the strawberries and allow to air dry. Remove the stem and hull from each berry. Quarter berries larger than 1 1/2 inches (ca. 4 cm), and halve berries larger than 3/4 inch (2 cm). For berries smaller than 1/2 inch (1.25 cm), leave whole.

Arrange the berries cut sides up on dehydrator racks or cookie sheets lined with nonstick baking liners. Set the dehydrator or oven to 135 degrees F, and dry the strawberries until they have shrunk to about half their original size but are still pliable - this will take about 8 hours in a dehydrator and 4 in an oven.

Store the berries in the refrigerator for a week or in the freezer for up to a year.

Strawberry and Red Wine Jam.

The second of an ongoing series of experiment with strawberry jam. See the first part here.

My starting point for this version was Paul Virant's recipe for Strawberry and Pinot Noir Jam from his cookbook The Preservation Kitchen, with a touch of Christine Ferber's methodology thrown in for good measure. Mr. Virant cites Ms. Ferber as an inspiration for his jams, so it makes a nice little circle of jammy happiness. Mr. Virant's exact recipe can be found here.

While I philosophically object to sharing an article that starts out with 'let's be honest, jam making is tedious...' this is the only site that has this recipe as far as I can find. Seriously, people, if you feel this way, just go buy some jam. Life's too short to make yourself do something you think is tedious for fun.

And, if you're interested in the Beer Jam (and who's not, really?), I found a correction here. Apparently, the first printing missed out on when to add  pectin in the directions.

This strawberry jam recipe uses an entire bottle of wine.

Cooking with an entire bottle of wine at a time seemed a little intimidating, to tell you the truth. I don't usually fling around those quantities of alcohol with such wild abandon. It takes a moment to get comfortable with the idea.

I like wine. I like strawberries. And really, what's the worst that could happen? It turns out bad and I've wasted some strawberries and some wine and some time. Not such a tragedy, right?

So why not go for it? Why not, indeed.

I used a wine that my co-op was pushing as the end-all and be-all of summer-drinkin' reds: Tamas Double Decker Red 2009. They're not lying, folks. It's good - very berry, with a really nice smooth spicy finish and not a lot of tannins. Both Mr. Virant and Ms. Ferber suggest a light and fruity pinot noir, but the key criteria is really just fruit flavor that compliments strawberry and avoiding that mouth-pucker of a lot of tannin. This one was on sale (less than a tenner a bottle), and it was so good, I sent the British Guy back to snag me a case, so we got a case discount, too. Score!

I've taken Mr. Virant's recipe and used Ms. Ferber's methodology, so this takes 3 days. Most of this is totally hands-off, though, or you could use Mr. Virant's method and make this in two.

This is not your children's jam. In fact, it's hard to even compare this with jello-like strawberry jams that are over-sugared and rubbery, it is such a different experience. It is a  sophisticated and grown-up preserve to use on special treats to make them phenomenal.

I bet it would go great with cheese and wine. In fact, that's my evening sorted.

SUMMARY, Jam #2:

Time: 3 days, most of that hands-off

Volume of berries: 4 pounds strawberries

Volume of Product: 6, 1/2 pint jars

 Flavor: Very adult, deep complexity. Tangy, not sweet. Definitely not for PB & J.

Color: Ruby red.

Set: Very soft set. Basically loads of fruit suspended in thick syrup. The tremendous volume of fruit saves this from falling into the runny category, but it ain't spreadable, if that's what you're after.

Thoughts: This is a special-purpose jam - drizzled on ice cream, served with some fine cheese, used as an accompaniment to a roast, paired with a deep flourless chocolate cake or pound cake. Stirred into some bubbly. All those would be divine. Everyday uses, not so much. Don't even think about putting this on your morning breakfast toast...it needs to be paired with a little richness to shine.

Jump to part 3, or continue on for the recipe.

Strawberry and Black Currant Jam.

The first of an ongoing series of experiments on making strawberry jam.

It begins with 8 quarts of strawberries.

I got a deal.

I can't resist a deal.

The guy at the Bagge Strawberries stall at our local farmer's market didn't have to work all that hard to talk me into taking home roughly 12 pounds of strawberries.

To that, I added the remainder of my harvest: 12 berries.

Don't laugh, those are very special berries - last year the crop totaled 2.

Not two pounds. Or two quarts. Or even two cups. Just two berries. 

The year before, it was just one. And a chipmunk got it before I could. I found the half-eaten remains discarded on the ground with little teethy nibble marks all over it. Little bastard.

We're ramping up production (slowly), but nowhere near self-sustaining, berry-wise. 

So I jumped for joy when I saw the Bagge Strawberry guy, with a table laden with red and shiny berries.

Let's admit it: I may have even squealed a little. 

I asked for a flat, he offered 8 quarts.

That, my friends, is a lot of berries...I stood in the stream of foot traffic and debated with myself:

Should I get all that all at once? Should I wait? Should I get some now and some later?

The British Guy chimed in, saying if I wanted 12 pounds of berries, I should just get them, and get them now. I can't tell if that was because he was being super supportive of the imminent prospect of strawberry nirvana, or just wanted to move me along.

Maybe both.

When he offered to carry them back to the car, I was sold.

Money changed hands in one direction, berries changed hands in the other.

I was puttering around the back yard the other day, and noticed that our black currant shrub, now in year 3, is covered in shiny black spheres, and I was just dying to use them in something. The currants hang in clusters of 1 or 2 to 5 or 6, tucked up under tri-lobed leaves, sometimes hard to see unless you're on the ground looking up into the plant. Some of them are attached pretty tightly, and shake the long stem as you pull them off with an assertive tug. Each time I heard a little plop as a berry fell off and hit the ground, I went scrabbling around in the grass trying to rescue it. This was the first harvest of the black currant, and every single one was special. One small picked-over shrub later, and I had a little over a pound of black currants.

Now we're at the part where we're back to the jam. Twelve pounds relieves me of the burden of committing to just one jam recipe. We have enough to eat, and plenty to play with, too. I decided to really go for it and try 3 different batches.

Never one to be daunted by complexity, the first recipe I attempted was a 3-day affair, a currant and strawberry combo.

My starting point for this preserve was the recipe for Strawberry and Red Currant Jelly with Whole Strawberries and Pepper, in Christine Ferber's Mes Confitures. Since it's got bits, I consider it a jam, but I was wondering on what side of the line a jelly with whole berries would fall - jam-like with a bit more squidge, or jelly-like with suspended berry orbs.

Now, those of you who make your way around jam-making have probably heard of Christine Ferber. There are several notable homages floating around out there: Chocolate and Zucchini, David Lebovitz. The Wednesday Chef calls her the jam fairy of Alsace.

So the woman has some skills. Clearly.

Let's dive in, fingers crossed, and give it a go, shall we?

SUMMARY, Jam #1

Time: 3 days, mostly hands-off.

Volume of berries: 2 1/2 pounds, plus 1 pound currants.

Volume of Product: 7, 1/2 pint jars

Flavor: Superbly deep, tart and complex. 'Gorgeous' was one taste tester's response.

Color: Deepest purple red.

Set: Spot-on. Lovely and wobbly, not overly firm.

Thoughts: This falls on the jelly side with suspended berries, so making sure each jar has an equal amount is important during canning. Otherwise, the last jar may wind up with no berries...which would make it jelly (and there's nothing wrong with that).

Jump to part 2, or continue on for the recipe.

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.

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.

Let's be completely honest here, shall we?

This is not a looker of a cake.

If it were a she, and she were walking down the street, no-one would wolf-whistle.

I doubt she'd really even get a second look.

She's not a glamazon, sugar-bomb, over-the-top confectionary flight-of-fancy.

But don't discount her for that, because it's a feature, not a flaw.

She's an honest, approachable kind of cake. Suitable for all occasions, not just super-fancy frosting-laden affairs. Not that she can't handle a super-fancy, frosting-laden affair, mind you.

She's just understated, that's all.

If she were your friend, she'd be the one you call first with good news, and bad. The one who volunteers to drive you to the airport at 4 am. The one who makes you laugh so hard you can't breathe.

She's just a really good cake, she is. So don't hold her lack of exotic looks against her, because she makes up for it with character. Lots of orange marmaladey character.

For those of us who make jam, we're always on the quest for recipes to use that jam. And jelly. And preserves. And marmalade. Because, you see, our goal in life is to make more jam. And in order to make more jam, we need to use the current jam up, to make more space, free up more jars. So we can make more jam.

It's a vicious, never-ending circle of obsessive-compulsive preserving.

I am sure there's a self-help group out there somewhere. But I can stop any time. Really, I can.

This cake is a holy grail of using the preserves - three-quarters of a cup of marmalade in it, more on it. That's a whole jar gone. Plus you get a really great cake out of it.

So, bust this baby out for an afternoon snack. She's great with tea or coffee. After dinner, as a not overly sweet nibble. Breakfast, even. I mean, it's got orange marmalade in it, and that uses oranges, and so does orange juice, and orange juice is for breakfast, so there you go. Am I right or am I right?

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.
Based on a recipe from the incomparable Darina Allen's Forgotten Skills of Cooking.

350 g self-rising flour
150 g butter, plus more for greasing the tin
150 g sugar
generous 3/4 cup orange marmalade* 
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
hearty pinch of salt
powdered sugar for dusting (optional) 

You will need a 6 inch diameter, 3 inch high cake tin or springform pan, and a scale. 

* If the marmalade has coarse shreds, pop it in a food processor and give it a whiz, or chop by hand.

Note: I measured dry ingredients by weight, which I find faster and more accurate. There are internet sites that offer conversions based on ingredient, but I find them infuriatingly inconsistent. That truly irks the scientist in me. If you have the option, go for the scale. I can't guarantee success with a dodgy conversion.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F, and grease the tin (or use cooking spray).

Rub the butter into the flour and salt until the mixture is crumbly and the butter is incorporated, then add the sugar and mix. 

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and marmalade until combined, then stir in the milk. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients, and mix until just combined. This will make a robust, spoonable batter.

Scrape into the cake tin, smooth the top, and bake in the oven for 75 minutes until the top is browned and a cake tester comes out with only a few crumbs.

Leave to cool on a wire tray, and when ready to serve, dust the top with powdered sugar and eat with a generous slather of marmalade.

Keeps well for several days in an airtight container. Can be frozen for longer storage.

Devilled Heart.

V-Day.

I refuse to affirm this particular upcoming calendar event as an Actual Holiday by acknowledging it with a full and proper name.

I realized late last night that my post on Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Sandwich Cookies (OFCCHSC), while delicious and lovely, might be generating a false impression of me out there in cyberspace.

You should know, I am neither cutesy nor overly sentimental.

Nevertheless, this holiday that glorifies cute sentimentality with pink sparkly cards and chocolates and flowers is out there looming. I thought I'd try to make something that captures my take on the whole ridiculously overblown yet culturally ingrained thing it has become in a more realistic way than heart sandwich cookies.

I should warn you that this post is not suitable for vegans, vegetarians, or those with a delicate temperament. It is definitely carnivorous, and deals with some of the inside bits that most people never, ever see, let alone cook, or eat.

Offal.

No, not awful, but offal.

Heart.

To be more precise, Lamb Heart.

Devilled.

See there, how we've arrived at an ironically relevant and and yet vaguely inappropriate topic? 

A much more accurate reflection of me, I think, and now I feel better about applications to this whole V-Day theme.

So, if you are still reading after the offal heart thing - and thanks for sticking around, all three of you - let me say that I was expecting it to be, well, gross. Like slasher movie gross.

But you know what?

It looks like meat (but, well, heart-shaped, obviously).

It feels like meat.

It tastes like meat -  really, really good steak, actually.

Most applications of devilled meat are for kidneys, and everybody's got their own: Nigel, Hugh, the Hairy Bikers, Rick Stein.

Funnily enough, or perhaps rather predictably, the closest Nigella gets is Devil's Food Cake.

The traditional devilling method is to quickly cook the offal and make a sauce of mustard, heavy cream, and Worchester Sauce. Traditionally, Devilled Kidneys were a Victorian breakfast food. This version is not traditional, in that I gently simmer the heart in red wine and tomato sauce for 2 hours to make it meltingly tender, then add the traditional ingredients.

Also, I suggest you have this for dinner, but if you really have your heart set on eating it for breakfast, who am I to stop you.

I'll wait while you tissue up those tears of laughter.

This version is more of a Red Devilled Heart, I suppose, but it is still rich and meaty and tasty.

If you're already an offal-eating fan, or merely want to give it a try, this Devilled Heart is a delicious way to transition into some nose-to-tail eating.  

Devilled Heart.
One heart serves 2 as a light dinner. 

1 lamb heart

1 tablespoon butter
1/2 cup red wine
1/2 cup tomato passata or sauce 
1 bay leaf
generous grind of black pepper

1/2 tablespoon grainy mustard
1/2 tablespoon paradise jelly or currant jelly
1/2 tablespoon Worchester Sauce

2 tablespoons heavy cream

parsley for garnish
toast to serve

You will also need a small pot with a lid.

Clean the heart and cut away any white connective tissue. Cut the heart in half, and each half into 4 slices.

Melt the butter in a pot and brown the heart pieces, then add the wine, passata, bay leaf and pepper.

Bring to a simmer, then pop on the lid and turn to the lowest setting and very gently bubble for 2 hours, until the heart is tender and yielding. Allow to cool slightly. Remove the heart from the sauce and slice thinly.

Return the pot with the sauce back to the stove and add the mustard, jelly, and Worchester Sauce. Turn the heat to medium and simmer for 5 to 10 minutes to melt the jelly and thicken the sauce. Add the heart slices, simmer for a minute or two until warmed, and remove from the heat.

Add the cream, stir, and spoon over toast to help sop up the rich and flavorful sauce.

Garnish with a generous sprinkle of chopped parsley for color and fresh green flavor, and accompany with a robust red wine and a spicy salad such as arugula.

(almost) Paradise Jelly.

This may well and truly date me, but Guns N' Roses were a big thing at the start of my formative years, and for the last 2 days week I have had the misfortune of finding this lyric firmly lodged in my head:

'...take me down to the Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty, ooooh, won't you please take me hoooomeeeee...' 

[And, just as a side-note, Good God, look at that hair! With all that hairspray, no wonder we have a hole in the ozone.]

Not really the appropriate leitmotif for such a glimmering jewel of a preserve, based on quince, apple and cranberry, but undeniably stuck, nonetheless.

It all started because I've been having a little crush on quince lately and have lots of them. I threw in some lemon, because I think lemon is a highly under-rated flavor, hence the (almost) part of the (almost) Paradise Jelly.

If the G 'N R isn't your thing, you could slide into another mid '80's classic with Almost Paradise, the love theme from Footloose.

The original.

It kills me a little, deep down inside, that I have to specify the original, because now there's a remake, and if I'm old enough to have the cultural touchstones of my formative years remade, then I am, indeed, old.

But anyway. 

The foundational constituents of Paradise Jelly remain the same from recipe to recipe, while the relative proportions can vary wildly. There's a marmalade riff in the Blue Chair Jam cookbook. One of 579 recipes from Beryl Wood's Let's Preserve It is a straight-up, no fuss, classic version of Paradise Jelly.

The exception that proves the rule is an oddball with pineapple.

Best we forget I even mentioned it, alright?

If you're anxious about jelly-making, the uber volume of pectin oozing out of these fruits makes this a stonking great way to start jellying, because the stuff practically sets right in front of your eyes. In fact, if you stare at it a little too sternly, it really will set right in front of your eyes. So go easy with it.

This jelly has a  tart green apple and spicy cranberry pucker, honey and floral quince, with just a touch of zesty lemon. It will make a spectacular glaze on a fresh fruit tart, or a particularly classy jelly thumbprint cookie. The tart yet rich honey flavor would work very well as a glaze for pork, perhaps mixed with some mustard. Or, stir a little into herbal tea for a flavorsome sweetener. And that's in addition to all the traditional jelly applications.

Plus, it's beautiful. Just look at that gorgeous ruby red glimmer emanating from within each jar. 

Good looking and tasty. Phwoar!

Paradise Jelly.
Makes about 13 cups of jelly.

2 large quince, or a total of 650 grams (about 1 pound 7 ounces)
3 large tart green apples, or a total of 620 grams (about 1 pound 6 ounces)
1 bag cranberries, 450 grams (1 pound)
half a lemon, sliced into wedges 

10 cups white sugar, or 2 kilos (about 4 pounds 8 ounces)
juice of 1 lemon, about 1/2 cup
2 ounces quince rum

You will also need sterilized canning jars to hold a total of 13 cups, a jelly bag or fine meshed strainer, a large heat-proof bowl and a large pot.

Quarter and peel the apples, removing seeds and stem. Peel the quince and cut into eighths, removing seeds and stem. Pick over the cranberries to remove any bruised fruit. Place the fruit in a large pot with the lemon wedges and cover with enough cold water that the fruit can move about quite freely.

Save the peel to make quince syrup or leftovers jelly.

Bring to a boil over high heat, then simmer on moderate heat for an hour. Stir every 20 minutes. Keep the water level topped up if it begins to evaporate too much. The cranberries will emit small snaps as they burst their skin, and after an hour is finished the quince will be pink and tender and the apples will be disintegrating. The liquid will be a deep ruby color and slightly syrupy.

Arrange your straining set-up over a large heat-proof bowl. If MacGyver made jam his strainer would look a lot like this. I get bonus points for creative use of chopsticks and masking tape, I think.

Ladle the apple-quince-cranberry juice and fruit pulp into the strainer and let it drip for several hours or overnight. If you've jerry-rigged something like me, then it is pretty much immobile. If your set-up is a bit more professional, you can put it in the refrigerator. Or not.

When the fruit is done dripping, reserve the pulp for another use (such as chutney or fruit leather), or discard. Strain the juice through a fine-meshed strainer to remove any last cloudy particles. Measure the juice, and you should have about 10 cups. You will use 1 cup of sugar for every cup of juice. If you have significantly more or less juice, you need to adjust the sugar accordingly.

Put the quince-apple-cranberry juice, lemon juice, quince rum, and sugar in a large pot and bring to the boil. Stir constantly until the sugar dissolves. Continue to boil over high heat, stirring occasionally. Some cooks suggest you skim off the foam, but I find it dissolves back in with stirring, so I don't bother.

When the jelly becomes darker ruby and looks viscous, with smaller bubbles, begin to test for doneness using your favorite method (spoon in freezer, plate, thermometer, etc.). I boil until the jelly reaches 220 degrees F.

You must be fast when jarring this up as it starts to set immediately, so have everything ready to go as soon as it reaches temperature. Fill your sterilized jars, then process according to USDA guidelines.

Keeps, when stored in a cool, dark place, for up to 2 years.