Jammy Chicken

Glutney, and November already.

Yikes. November already.

I had this whole list of things to do in October, and I got none of them done.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Nuffin.

That's just the way it is sometimes, and it is one of those times.

I am slowly working my way through the very alluring salt sugar smoke by Diana Henry. The British cover is here, and the American here - I like the plump and mouth-wateringly tart cherries burst open and strewn across the page of the rumtopf or bachelor's jam recipe featured on the American version best.

I got a lovely email from Ms. Henry, who aptly surmised that I like a little tipple now and again, and directed me to head straight to the booze section of her book.

She was not mistaken.

I have apricots in muscat and pear ratafia lined up for some much anticipated kitchen dabbling this weekend.

I made up a batch of chutney before I headed out to New Jersey in a race with Sandy to see who would arrive first. Hugh's affectionately named glutney recipe is a lifesaver when the garden is heaving with veg, or in this case, lots of tomatoes rescued before the first killing frost sitting on the counter threatening to turn to slime before they get even remotely ripe. Add in one butternut squash, bits and bobs of dried fruits (sultanas a.k.a. golden raisins, regular old raisins, dried currants), some cider vinegar and a gigantic pot to hold it all, and 4 hours of slow simmering later I had 5 pints of glorious tart, sharp chutney. I am keenly observing the jars as they sit and mellow on the shelf.

I am making the last tweaks on gluten-free chocolate cupcakes and almond flour carrot muffins, which will be ready to share soon. Until then, the chutney in action.

Garlic Confit.

Cupcake Mary, a knitterly friend, just gave me  some of the most beautiful garlic I have ever seen in my life. She grew this hard-necked garlic herself, in her garden.

Clearly, she has skills.

This garlic has heft, it has volume. It has a physical presence in the room.

Each generously-sized bulb is almost bigger than the obnoxious small yappy dog that lives next door and occasionally escapes into our yard through a gap under the fence.

This garlic is also completely and entirely mine, since the British Guy does not eat garlic. At all.

So sad, poor guy... more for me.

Dave the Garlic Guy, my go-to source for all things garlicky, suggests that you store cloves in the freezer until ready to use, and then they are 1. really easy to peel, and 2. never ever going to sprout and send out those small, bitter green shoots.

I've done this with my regular garlic supply, and it works a charm, but these charismatic beauties deserve something special.

I was eyeing The Preservation Kitchen's Garlic Conserva longingly, but don't have a pressure canner (...yet).

There are lots of ways to achieve something similar with just a pot and a stove, so I chose a garlic confit recipe from Food and Wine that had a few extras thrown in for more flavor.

Peeling the cloves was the most complicated part, and as an added bonus the herby, garlicky oil is almost more delicious than the meltingly creamy garlic cloves are after their long, slow warm bath.

I drizzled - ok, sloshed - a large slick of this oil over some leftover cold grilled squash and eggplant, some sliced tomato, and a few torn hunks of buffalo mozzarella, and it was an absolutely divine dinner.

The cloves themselves are smooth and silky, spread like butter, and are great mashed into butter or mayonaise as a flavored spread, or used in any dish that needs a little garlic love.

If you want to keep the vampires away, a mayo made from some of the garlicky oil with a few cloves blended in would do the trick quite nicely.

Garlic Confit.
From Grace Parisi at Food and Wine, more or less as written, except accounting for my giant garlic.

About 300 grams of cloves from 3 extra-large or 6 regular sized heads
2 cups of olive oil
6 sprigs of lemon thyme or regular thyme
2 small dried chiles
1 bay leaf

Peel the cloves, making sure to remove the thin membrane on the outside of the clove.

Put all the ingredients into a small pot, making sure the oil completely covers the garlic cloves.

Bring to a gentle simmer on medium-low heat, and simmer for 30 minutes or until the cloves are soft and a knife slides through with no resistance.

The oil should be very softly bubbling, not boiling, and the cloves should not brown at all.

As my mom says - 'It should be smiling, not laughing...'

Transfer to a clean container and store in the refrigerator. Keeps for up to 4 months.

When you want to use the cloves or the oil, remove from the refrigerator and let it warm up so the oil softens, or warm gently in a pan.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwiches.

Scandinavian open-faced sandwiches, or smørrebrød, are not just a means of getting nosh into your gob, they represent a way of thinking about food that reflects restraint, simplicity and clarity.

It's not all that surprising, considering that those also seem to be the hallmarks of Scandinavian design.

Simple, functional, and useful.

Also, fast, easy and tasty.

I spent some time in Denmark, so I've eaten my fair share of smørrebrød, and the trick to creating one is to focus on a single ingredient and allow all the parts to highlight that one thing.

The bread is a pedestal, providing support and structure to hold up the filling, and adding texture and flavor contrast. Typical choices are rye (German-style with whole rye grains), white (sometimes toasted), or sourdough. The bread may or may not be buttered. Mayonaise is sometimes used as a garnish on top of the sandwich, but never smeared on the bread. These are usually eaten with a knife and fork.

Sometimes, the open-faced sandwich may consist of only one perfect thing.

How about an open-faced sandwich of plain white sourdough bread, generously buttered, with an artfully arranged row of tiny, impossibly fresh, cooked and peeled fjord shrimp?

Contrast this with a typical American deli sandwich - sometimes with an entire deli's worth of filling.

Now, I am not saying they're not good, those American sandwiches you need two hands to pick up.

I'm just saying, sometimes, something lighter is called for.

This is a hot-weather lunch, one that shows off prefectly fresh fruit. It's simple, fast and you can make it from whatever you want, and make it into whatever you want.

Use what you have, and embrace the open-faced sandwich.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwich.

For each person, you will need:

Two small or one large piece of fruit: I used one each of a small peach and a nectarine.
Two slices of bread: I used crispbread.
1/4 cup spreadable soft cheese: I used a local handmade soft goat's milk cheese.
Some runny honey, to taste.
Some fresh herbs, to taste: I used English thyme and orange mint.

Spread the cheese onto each of the pieces of bread.

Cut the fruit into 4 good thick slices and lay on top of the cheese. I put nectarine on one and peach on the other.

Drizzle the honey onto the fruit open-faced sandwiches, and any extra pieces of fruit.

Wash and dry the herbs, and finely chop any with large leaves if you want. I put thyme on the peach open-faced sandwich, and very thinly sliced mint on the nectarine open-faced sandwich.

Eat with a knife and fork for a traditional lunch - or with your fingers if you want, I won't tell.

Grilled garlic scape pesto - vegan.

The name, the crazy every-which-way twistiness - if Doctor Seuss had invented a plant, garlic scapes would be it.

Really, how can you take these things seriously?

 

Jammy Chicken's ode to Garlic Scapes in the manner of Doctor Seuss.

Green and curly, tall and twirly.

Scapes are thin and scapes are long.

Scapes, they sing a garlic song.

Garlic inside and garlic below, the scape is the place for garlic flavor to go!

Cut one down and eat it raw, cut two down and pickle it all.

Cut three down and make a paste.

Do not let them go to waste.

Add nuts and oil for pesto dishes.

You can spread it on some fishes.

Scapes, they are a summer taste.

Soon they'll be gone, don't hesitate!

 - J. Chicken

 

Garlic scapes - I know they look odd and kind of crazy, but they really do taste remarkably like garlic, just not quite as sharp as a real zinger of a clove can be. They are difficult to find unless you grow your own garlic or have a source in a friendly farmer or farmer's market near you.

If you can get your hands on some, it is well worth it.

Scapes are harvested to direct all the garlic plant's energy into the bulb, rather than wasting some making a flower. My garlic guy says when you choose your scapes, you want the ones that are the lightest green possible. This guarantees fresh and delicate scapes. You can eat the entire thing, from the stem right through the bulge that is waiting to be a flower. The thin flower tip may be a little crisp - just snip off any dried parts, and your scape is ready.

Pesto is the obvious choice for big payoff with little work, and I used Dorrie Greenspan's recipe as a starting point. I wanted to add a little more depth with some smoky flavor. Since the British Guy has finally gotten grilling down to an art and a science, we've got the coals fired up every couple days around here. Toss on some scapes for a minute or two just to soften them up and give a little flavor. This is by no means necessary, but it adds a lovely touch. Careful you don't drop any through the rack - they're twisty little things and slip through faster than you can blink.

Many recipes use almonds as the nut of choice, but I think that English Walnuts stand up to the sharp scape heat much better and add a woodsy flavor. Olives provide some salt and some body, and olive oil does the rest.

Grilled Garlic Scape Pesto.
Makes about 2 cups (470 ml).

20 scapes (about 160 g)
11-12 large green pitted olives (60 g)
2/3 cup English Walnuts (75 g)
2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons or more olive oil (186 ml)
pepper to taste

You will also need a food processor and a grill.

Toss half of the garlic scapes in a little oil and grill them until lightly charred, then allow to cool. These can be grilled in advance and kept in the refrigerator for 2-3 days.

Toast the walnuts in a frying pan on medium-high heat for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring often, until warm and just beginning to brown. Allow to cool.

Chop the grilled and fresh scapes into 1-inch (2.5 cm) long pieces, and add to the bowl of a food processor with the olives and walnuts. Process until chopped very finely, about 2 minutes. Scrape down the bowl as necessary.

Add 2/3 cup of olive oil and process until well-combined. Add additional oil as required to achieve the consistency you prefer. I used 2 more tablespoons of oil.

Add pepper to taste.

Store in a covered container in the refrigerator for up to a week, or freeze for up to 6 months.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pear Lambic Thyme Mustard.

Note May 7, 2012. Many of you may have realized my brain fart clearly visible in the photo below - pomme is actually apple, not pear. Oops. I think someone should make pear lambic, though. It sounds great.

Ever since my first dabblings in making mustard a little over a year ago, I have been making all my own mustard.

Except the yellow stuff in a squeezie bottle. I love that too much to ever give it up, and it's so obviously mass-produced that I don't think I could ever match its quirky industrial charms. Plus how cool is a bright yellow squeezie bottle?

The spiffy, grainy stuff, that I make.

Some things like mustard are worth making not because you can't buy a good product (yellow squeezie bottle notwithstanding), but because the pure thrill of making it, and the result, are far greater than the effort required.

Or, to be less long-winded, it's totally cool, dude!

The simplicity of mustard-making always amazes me. As long as you soak the mustard seeds first, you really can't go wrong.

If you don't soak the seeds first, well, it becomes a labor of love, shall we say. A rather traumatic one.

And, in this world of instant, customizable experiences, you can make mustard out of anything you want. (Well, as long as it has mustard in it somewhere.)

Port?

Check.

Brandy?

Check.

Tarragon? Green Pepper? Mint? Paprika?

Check.

Beer?

Of course. Beer makes everything better.

Even mustard.

I have used all kinds of beer - light, dark, strong, mild. Usually whatever's left over and lying around. You can, though, be a little more deliberate, a little more specific, about your approach to pairing flavors.

This combination relies on the intense pear flavor and aroma from a fruity Belgian lambic - dry, cidery, tart and robust. Delicate and sharp, thyme pairs well with the pear.

Feel free to take the basic formula and play with it by substituting any of your favorite liquids and herbs - water, wine, juices, any one herb or more or none, different kinds of vinegar. 

Experiment.

Have fun.

Feel super-smug about your mad kitchen skills, and revel in the glorious mustardy glow.

Pear Lambic Thyme Mustard.
Makes about 1 1/4 cups. 

3/4 cup pear lambic beer
1/4 cup browm mustard seeds
1/4 cup yellow mustard seeds

1 to 2 tablespoons English mustard powder, such as Colman's
1 tablespoon dried thyme

1/2 cup cider vinegar 
1 tablespoon sea salt

You will also need a food processor and a sterilized container to hold the mustard.

Combine the lambic and mustard seeds and soak for 8 to 12 hours.

Stir in the mustard powder and thyme, and let soak for 20 minutes.

Mustard powder looks quite plain but it lends a real kick. Two tablespoons have quite a bite, and if you are unsure about how robust you want your mustard, start with 1 and taste. You can always add more mustard powder later, and it is much more difficult to find tissues as your eyes are watering and your mouth is burning.

Put the soaked seeds, mustard powder and herbs in a food processor with the vinegar and salt. Process until you achieve the graininess you prefer, from a minute or two for chunky mustard, up to about 5 for smoother mustard. Stop the processor to scrape the sides down if necessary.

Store in the refrigerator. Lasts for 6 months.

Babycakes Donuts as Vegan Cocoa-Glazed Mini Cupcakes.

First, my work office flooded and destroyed my computer and everything on my desk.

Then, I was called for jury duty.

Then, I found a plagairized student paper, and his paper gave me a paper cut and I bled all over.

And that was just Monday to Wednesday.

Clearly, this was a week to find me sobbing on the sofa, desperately needing some seriously comforting comfort food. 

Chocolate was required.

No arguments, no compromises, no substitutions.

Absolutely. Positively. Necessary.

Except that the week was already so toxic, I didn't want to pile on more internal poison above and beyond the already pretty highly mounded external catastrophes exploding all around.

What's a poor, traumatized gal to do?

Besides, obviously, sitting and weeping as the smallest violin in the world plays a sad song just for me.

What I needed was action! Something to get my mind off the crappy week and pointed in a more positive direction - a direction that had cupcakes. Lots of cupcakes. Lots of tiny cupcakes. Lots of tiny chocolate coated cupcakes.

But healthy, tiny chocolate coated cupcakes.

By healthy, I mean healthy. H-E-A-L-T-H-Y.

Gluten-free. Grain-free. Processed sugar-free. Dairy-free. Egg-free. And vegan.

Nothing but healthy in these tiny tasty chocolate coated cupcakes.

Yes, that was a good direction to be headed, I think we can all agree.

And you know what?

First, I got a new computer. A super-fast spiffy shiny new computer.

Plus, I was dismissed from the jury. And they paid me a whole whopping $32 for my trouble.

The plagairized paper, that's still an issue. 

But hey, the paper cut healed up nicely.

And I ate lots of tiny chocolate coated cupcakes.

So many I felt kinda sick, actually.

At least now I feel bad for all the right reasons, and that's something.

Vegan Vanilla Mini Cupcakes with Cocoa Glaze.
Modified from Babycakes Covers the Classics by Erin McKenna.
Here's the original donut recipe, and here's a variation for vanilla icing, if you are so inclined.

Makes 30 mini-cupcakes and 1 3/4 cups glaze.

For the cupcakes:
1 cup coconut sugar
3/4 cup brown rice flour
1/3 cup garbanzo and fava bean flour
1/2 cup potato starch
1/4 cup arrowroot
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon xanthan gum
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup canola oil
6 tablespoons applesauce
1/4 cup vanilla extract
1/2 cup hot water 

For the cocoa glaze:
1/2 cup coconut milk
1/3 cup agave nectar
1/3 cup soy milk powder
2 tablespoons cocoa powder: 1 tablespoon black cocoa and 1 tablespoon dutch cocoa
3/4 cup melted refined coconut oil 
1 teaspoon lemon juice

You will also need 3, 12-cupcake mini-cupcake pans and a food processor.

For the cupcakes:

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees F. Use coconut or canola oil spray to grease 3, 12-cup mini-cupcake trays and set aside.

In a medium bowl, mix together the coconut sugar, flours, potato starch, arrowroot, baking powder, baking soda, xanthan gum and salt. Gently break up any lumps in the coconut sugar.

In a small bowl, mix the canola oil, applesauce and vanilla extract until combined. Add the hot water and mix again.

Add the wet ingredients to the bowl of dry ingredients, and mix well with a rubber spatula until thoroughly combined.

Using a small ice cream scoop or spoon, drop a little less than 1 tablespoon of cupcake batter into each cup. There should be enough batter for about 30 mini-cupcakes.

Bake for 7 minutes, then rotate the trays in the oven and bake for an additional 6 to 7 minutes, or until a toothpick tester comes out with few crumbs, and the cupcakes look dry and golden.

Let cool in the cupcake pan for 15 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack and cool completely.

For the cocoa glaze:

Note: All of the ingredients need to be at room temperature.

Combine the coconut milk, agave nectar, soy milk powder, cocoa, and vanilla in a food processor. With the processor running, add 1/2 cup of the coconut oil in a slow, steady stream. Add the lemon juice, then add the remaining coconut oil. Continue to process for another minute until the cocoa glaze is thick and creamy.

If the liquid ingredients are too cold, the coconut oil will solidify instead of blending, and you will have lots of white streaks in your cocoa glaze. Don't panic. Just take about 1/3 cup of the separated glaze and warm it in a microwave for about 10 to 20 seconds until the coconut oil melts, and then pour this warmed cocoa liquid slowly back into the processor while it is running. This should re-homogenize your glaze mixture. Allow the glaze to cool to room temperature for 10 to 15 minutes. Before using, stir gently.

Now, assemble the mini-cupcakes in all their glory by gently dipping the top of each cold cupcake in the cocoa glaze. Allow the glaze to set at room temperature. Store the cupcakes at room temperature. Best within a day.

This recipe makes more glaze than necessary for the mini-cupcakes. The glaze should not be refrigerated or it will solidify like a brick. It will keep at room temperature for 4 or 5 days in a tightly sealed container.

(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.

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.

Aaah, heart-shaped cookies.

Is anything else quite so smarmy and cute?

Especially with you-know-what coming up soon.

I generally avoid V-Day, as a rule. 

I am trying to formulate a really good reason why, but honestly I just don't care about one day a year overflowing with pink and sugary sweet tidings of love.

Give me any excuse to bake a cookie, though, and I will jump at the opportunity.

Last year it was chocolate sugar cookies.

Love. Love. Love playing in decorating sugar and novelty sprinkles.

This year we're going classy and upmarket with a monochromatic theme and an orange flower water and custard cream filling.

They may be hearts, but don't hold it against them, they're tasty cookies any time you want a little cute smarmy lovin'. 

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.
Inspired by Nigella Lawson's recipe from Feast.
Makes 18 custard heart sandwich cookies.

For the Custard Cookies.
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup Bird's Custard Powder*
1 teaspoon baking powder
4 tablespoons butter (1/2 stick)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1/4 cup superfine sugar
1 egg, beaten lightly

For the Orange Flower Custard Cream.
2 tablespoons Bird's Custard Powder*
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1 teaspoon orange flower water

* This is one of those British ingredients that we simply don't have an equivelent for here in the US. You can find Bird's Custard Powder online, and it's so useful to have around for instant gratification when you absolutely need to pour custard over cake or fruit right away...which happens more often than I'd like to admit around here.

You will need a food processor, a 2-inch heart-shaped cookie cutter, a rolling pin, and a cookie sheet lined with baking paper.

Mix the flour, custard powder and baking powder together and put into a food processor with the butter, cut into pieces, and the vegetable shortening, scooped in as spoonfulls. Pulse until combined and the mixture forms a crumbly texture.

Add the sugar and pulse again, and with the processor running drizzle in the egg until the cookie dough comes together and clumps into a ball. You may not need to add all of the egg.

Put the dough onto a piece of plastic wrap and press into a disk, then wrap completely and refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes. The dough can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

When ready to bake, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface until it is approximately 1/4 inch thick. Dip the cookie cutter into flour and cut out a heart. Repeat as necessary to keep the dough from sticking. Make an even number of hearts. You can make about 24 from the first episode of cookie cutting, and an additional 10 to 12 if you re-roll the remaining scraps in a second round. The dough will need to be refrigerated before you roll it out the second time.

Space the cookies about 1/2 inch apart on a baking paper-lined cookie sheet. You should be able to fit the first 24 on a single cookie tray. Bake additional cookies in a later batch.

Bake for 15 minutes, until the cookies are gently puffed and just starting to color.

Cool on the cookie sheet for 15 minutes, then remove gently to a rack to finish cooling.

To make the orange flower custard creme, mix the custard powder and confectioner's sugar and add to a food processor with the vegetable shortening. Process until you get a smooth creme, then add the orange flower water and pulse until combined.

When the cookies are completely cool, gently spread 3 to 4 teaspoons of the custard creme on the bottom side of a cookie, and wiggle a second cookie into place on top, bottom side onto the frosting. The cookies are very delicate, so avoid pressing forcefully or they may break.

Cookies can be stored at room temperature, and last for 2 to 3 days in an airtight container.

Halibut Fish Cakes with Bloody Mary Sauce.

Leftover fish is always a dilema, isn't it? The prospect of having to reheat that once perfectly done fillet conjurs images of dry fishy flakes yearning for better days.

And yet, the leftovers, they must be used.

Instead of just making do, make them into something great, something completely new.

Repurpose, rather than recycle.

Fish cakes are a fantastic way to take those extra fish bits and create a brand-shiny-new dinner worthy of the spotlight all on its own. You could, of course, start out by cooking the fish specifically for these cakes, and they are good enough that you may want to do that, but dragging out the leftovers and classing them up in such a fashion makes you look like you deserve a medal.

Or at least a slightly boozy drinkie.

And a well-deserved drink it is, too.

I've used halibut because that's the leftovers we had, but salmon, cod, or a mix of any firm-fleshed fish would work. If you don't have enough leftovers from one meal, save more than one dinner's worth in the freezer until you cumulatively acquire the necessary amount. Or, if you don't have the exact amount, simply scale the rest of the ingredients up or down accordingly. This is an extremely flexible, forgiving recipe.

The methodology? Toss some bits and bobs in a bowl, mix, fry. That simple.

And the Bloody Mary Sauce?

Why, oh why, didn't I think of this earlier?

Bloody. Mary. Sauce.

I could have been eating Bloody Mary Sauce for years. I have been so deprived. 

Not only is it fun on a plate, it is just the acid bite to really kick those fish cakes into spectacular. Not too boozy, but the bacon vodka adds a meaty, smoky undertone that lifts up the fresh, clean fish.

No one need ever know that this was leftovers.

Shhh... I won't tell if you won't.

Halibut Fish Cakes with Bloody Mary Sauce.
Makes 8 cakes, serves 4 as a light meal or 2 hungry people.
Based on a recipe from Nant Ddu Lodge, Wales (where Jammy Chick honeymooned), from Gilli Davies. 

Bloody Mary Sauce
1 cup passata or tomato sauce
2 tablespoons bacon vodka or plain vodka
1/2 tablespoon worchester sauce
squeeze of lemon
pinch of celery salt or plain salt

Halibut Fish Cakes
2 cups coarsely flaked cooked halibut or other firm fish
1 cup fresh bread crumbs
1/2 cup mayonaise
1 tablespoon dried parsley
generous grind black pepper
generous pinch salt

You will also need the following:
several tablespoons flour 
one egg, beaten well
about 3/4 cup fresh bread crumbs
a few tablespoons olive oil 

Mix all ingredients for the Bloody Mary Sauce. This can be prepared ahead. Refrigerate for up to a week.

Mix all the ingredients for the fish cakes together until well-combined. Scoop out 1/4 cup portions and form into inch-thick patties. Fish patties can be placed in a container and covered, then stored in the refrigerator for up to a day.

Place the flour and additional bread crumbs on a flat, wide plate. Put the beaten egg into a shallow, wide bowl.

Take the first fish cake and dredge in the flour to cover completely. Then, dip in the egg until it is completely covered. Finally, place in the bread crumbs and gently press crumbs onto the sides, top and bottom, until all surfaces are well coated. 

Place the coated fish cake onto a plate. Continue coating each additional fish cake in flour, then egg, then crumbs, until they are all coated.

You can now refrigerate the fish cakes for 20 or 30 minutes if you prefer, or start frying immediately. The cakes are more fragile if not refrigerated, but not dangerously so.

Put a large, flat bottomed frying pan on medium heat. When the pan is hot, put 2 tablespoons of oilve oil in and swirl to coat the pan fully. Place the fish cakes in the pan, leaving about 2 to 3 inches between each cake. You will need to get in there with a spatula to turn them, so do leave some room. You may need to fry the cakes in two separate batches.

Cook for 3 or 4 minutes, until the crust is brown and crisp. Turn, and cook the other side. Add more oil if necessary. Remember, the fish is already cooked, so you are just crisping the patty surface.

Serve the fish cakes hot, with lashings of the Bloody Mary Sauce, and a nice green side salad. Garnish with wedges of lemon.

Celeriac, Caper and Pickled Red Onion Salad.

Celeriac is all over the place right now. I keep coming across it unexpectedly in the veggie aisle and getting a scare, because boy howdy is it ugly.

U.G.L.Y.

Lumpy, hairy, rooty, brown bulbous kinda ugly.

As in, not pretty.

But you chop off all that outside stuff and the inside is an ethereal white, smelling clean and sharp and faintly of anise.

It's what celery wishes it smelled like, if celery weren't so agressively celery-smelling.

And there's this haze of austerity, puritanical cleansing, lurking about right now, brought on by holiday excess and new year re-evaluation, that the clean and calm of celeriac seems to resonate with.

Maybe it's the white, or the crunch of crisp slices, or the subtle palate-cleansing flavor, but raw celeriac just feels like it is supremely good for you. And we'd all like to feel like we're doing good for ourselves, especially right about now, in the long, cold stretch out of winter.

This is a riff on Celeriac Remoulade, which is a French classic, and more often than not uses some combination of mayonaise and mustard in various proportions for a dressing. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall adds red onions for a little acidic bite to compliment the celeriac crunch, and I decided to quick pickle them. This mellows the sharpness and also highlights the remarkable pink color, making this dish a riot of pastels.

Hugh also makes a dressing using creme fraiche instead of mayonaise, which results in what I think is a cleaner-tasting and less sticky finish. The dressing is a gem in and of itself, and can be used on any robust salad or vegetable, or even spread on a sandwich in lieu of mayo. You can make creme fraiche remarkably easily, and it's dead useful in all kinds of things from sauces to baking.

Creme fraiche scones? Delightful! I'll be sharing those soon.

So, whatever cleanse you're on, even if it's just a mental cobweb sweep-out, take the time to apologize to your body for being such a jerk last year and treat it nicely for a while. Ease back into the real world with something light, crisp and healthy.

Then have another glass of wine.

Celeriac, Caper and Pickled Red Onion Salad.
Modified from a recipe by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Guardian column.
Serves 6 to 8 as a side salad.

Celeriac Salad

one head celeriac (about 300 g)
1 small red onion
50 g capers, brine-packed
1/2 cup white wine vinegar
1 to 2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
a squeeze of lemon

Creme Fraiche Dressing 

1/2 cup creme fraiche
2/3 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon roasted garlic, chopped (I use the kind in a jar)
1 tablespoon grainy mustard (more if you're a super fan of mustard)
1 teaspoon sugar

fresh ground black pepper
flaky salt 

You will also need a mandoline or vegetable peeler.

To prepare the dressing, add all of the ingredients except the oil to a food processor and process until you have a thick, well-blended mixture. With the processor running, slowly drizzle in the oil until it is incorporated and the dressing is  a creamy emulsion. Store in the refrigerator until needed. Keeps for up to a week. Bring back to room temperature before using.

Prepare a bowl of water with a squeeze of lemon. Cut off the rooty, fibrous, brown and lumpy skin of the celeriac. Peel the white inner flesh into very thin slices with a vegetable peeler or mandoline. As you peel, drop the slices into the lemon water. Store in the lemon water until ready to serve.

Finely slice the onion into half-moons and rinse, shake a little to dry off, and put into a bowl with the white wine vinegar. Marinate the onions in the vinegar for about 30 minutes.

When ready to serve, strain and dry the celeriac. Strain the onions. Arrange the celeriac on a large, flat plate. Scatter the onions on top.

Drizzle the dressing artistically over the celeriac and onions, then scatter the capers and thyme leaves over. Generously grind over the pepper and sprinkle with flaky salt.

Serve any extra dressing on the side.

The undressed celeriac will keep for a day or two, but once you assemble the salad it's best eaten immediately.

Lime Curd.

Your first job is to get past the name. Curd is so unflattering, conjuring images of  stodgy. Homey. Lumpy, even.

Which is ironic, considering this traditional English namesake is luxurious, creamy and very, very luscious.

Think of it instead as dreamy tangy zesty lime-imbued sunshiney wonderfulness trapped in a jar.

Although I grant you that curd is shorter. 

Your second job is to make some, because it is one of those things that simply don't mass produce or package very well, and when you do see it, it's usually mind-bogglingly expensive. And it really, really never tastes as good as when you make it yourself.

I have to admit, I think things like curd are some of the hidden treasures of do-it-yourself homecraft. Sure, I can make some pretty good jam, but even if I couldn't, there's still a lot of great jam out there, waiting to be bought.

Some things are a commercial rarity, though, and that makes them extra special. Curds are one of those.

It's not because they are difficult.

Can you stir? Do you have a stove and a pot and a bowl?

Then you can make curd.

It uses quite a bit of butter, and eggs, and in lean times this could be a luxury.

I would argue, though, that the joy of spreading a little luxury on your toast, or into your yogurt, is well worth the couple dollars' worth of ingredients you will use.

Plus, my math says that you're totally saving loads by making it yourself, anyway, so that's like earning money, right?

And no, no one's life depends on my math skills. Cause I know you were wondering.

This curd is not at all puckery. It's just smooth and rich, zesty with green ribbons of lime floating in a golden sea. It's rather intriguingly creamy and light at the same time.

It is utterly delightful as a spread on scones, toast, or may I suggest Cornish saffron cakes? Use it as a mix-in for yogurt or ice cream. Use it as a filling in a tart shell, pre-made or otherwise, and garnish with some fresh fruit, for a simple, fast, yet show-stopping dessert. It will last in the fridge, unopened, for 6 to 8 weeks, and freezes beautifully, for up to a year.

Lime Curd.
Modified from William Sonoma's Art of Preserving.
Makes about 2 1/4 cups. Takes approximately 50 minutes.

2 to 3 large limes, more if small*
1 cup white sugar
4 eggs, beaten well**
14 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 3/4 sticks), cut into tablespoon pieces 
a good pinch vanilla salt (optional)

*You need a total of 1/2 cup lime juice. Some limes are juicier than others, so the number needed may vary.

**If you are concerned about having a completely smooth curd, you will want to sieve the eggs before you cook this. Sometimes the stringy part of the egg - hey, it has a name and it's called a chalaza, isn't google great? - gets a little stiff when it is cooked. Whisk the eggs well and push them through a medium sieve with a spoon, and you'll get that stringy bit out.

You will need one or more sterilized jars to hold a total of  2 1/4 cups.  You will also need a pot and a non-reactive heat-proof bowl large enough to fit over the pot with good clearance.

Start with the first lime, and first grate the zest using a wide toothed microplane, then juice the lime. Then, move on to the second lime, collecting zest and juice. Continue until you have accumulated 1/2 cup of lime juice, using additional limes as necessary.

Stir together the sugar, lime juice, lime zest, and eggs in a non-reactive, heat-proof bowl.

When well combined, set the bowl over a pot of simmering water (do not let the bowl bottom touch the water). 

While stirring constantly, add the butter one tablespoon at a time, letting each cube melt before you add the next.  

Stir  thoroughly, scraping the bottom of the bowl well. It will take about 20 minutes to melt the  butter, piece by piece, and you need to stir for all of it.

Once the buter is incorporated, continue to stir while you cook the curd until it thickens enough to well and truly coat the back of a spoon.

Resist the urge to let fear convince you to stop cooking too soon. You want this nice and thick.

If you have a thermometer, continue cooking until the curd reaches a temperature of 160 to 170 F. 

Do not, however, let the curd boil.

When it reaches temperature, transfer the curd to the waiting sterilized container or containers. Leave 1 cm clearance at the top of each jar.

Cover, and allow to cool completely. Store in the refrigerator, unopened, for 6 to 8 weeks.

Curd can be frozen for up to a year.

Tomato chaos.

I was in control of my life, right up until tomato season started.

Since then, it has been a long, slow slide into chaos.

OK, maybe not so slow. But long, definitely long.

Approximately 100 pounds of tomatoes, now suitably contained in jars. Stackable.

Who knew chaos came in red, yellow, and green, sweet or savory?

 

 Some quantification, if you must know:

 

Tomato Butter - (front and center, and cute little jar). 4 1/2 cups. Like ketchup, but surprisingly robust flavor.

A bit of better butter. A little velvety, with a smidge of heat.

I am thinking of adding some cocoa powder to make a faux mole.

Foam-ole. Fo-Mo-Le.

 

Enough of that, now.

 

Yellow Cherry Tomato Basil Jam - (left) 5 cups. Golden jewel tones liberally laced with confetti of basil.

Interestingly enough, it looks completely green to color-blind people.

 

 

Tomato Jam - (right, bottom) 7 cups. More jam, again featuring yellow cherry tomatoes.

This time with some chili flakes.

The avalanche of tomatoes threatened to smother me and I was desperate.

 

Grated Canned Tomatoes - (back right) 4 quarts. Yes, grated. Super-easy.

Who knew?

 

Tomato Sauce - (back left) 16 quarts. Stockpiled for the winter. Maybe several winters.

 

Roasted Tomato Soup - (not shown) 1 1/2 gallons. Frozen. My new favorite thing.

From Basic to Brilliant, Y'all by Virginia Willis. Just waiting for the last pile of almost-ripe garden tomaters to ripen so I can make one more batch and photograph it along the way.

Because, can you ever really have enough tomato soup? I think not.

 

All this tomato talkin' is making me hungry.

 

Green tomato chutney.

I think I have more green tomatoes in the garden right now than I had ripe ones the entire summer.

Especially cherry tomatoes. Yellow currant tomatoes, to be precise. The things grow like weeds.

Correct that, they grow faster than weeds.

And with the weather forecast mentioning (gasp...shudder) frost, I need a plan of action.

An emergency strategy, really.

How to deal with the catastrophic volume of tomato that will never ripen.

This emergency plan has nothing to do with flashlights (tho flashlights are key for any emergency plan).

This here plan involves chutney.

Green tomato chutney.

Lovely with cheese or on sandwiches. How about topping grilled chicken?
Pork? Burgers? Fish tacos?

Anything really (ok, maybe not chocolate cake).

It takes time, but it is not complicated.

And you get the personal satisfaction of cunningly using green tomatoes and making something unique and tasty.

How can you go wrong with that?

Green tomato chutney.
Yields 7 1/2 cups. After a WI recipe.

1.5 kg (3.3 lbs) green tomatoes of any variety
675 grams (1.5 lbs) cooking apples, about 5
675 grams (1.5 lbs) yellow onions, about 2 large
3 tablespoons salt
350 grams (12 ounces, 1 3/4 cups) sugar
1 cup currants or raisins
1 cup chopped pitted dates (or an additional cup currants or raisins)
1 tablespoon chopped raw garlic
1 teaspoon powdered ginger
1/2 teaspoon powdered mace
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
3 cups cider vinegar

Mince the tomatoes, apples and onions to a fine consistency. Aim for pieces of about 1 centimeter in size.

Layer the minced tomato, apple and onion with salt in a large non-reactive bowl. Keep adding layers of minced tomato, apple and onion, another sprinkle of salt, another layer, until you have added all the minced tomato, apple, onion and salt. Sprinkle any remaining salt over the top. Cover and leave overnight.

The next day, pour off the liquid that has been drawn out by the salt - I got over 2 cups - and discard it.

Transfer the tomato, apple and onion to a large, non-reactive pot. Add the vinegar and bring to a boil. Try not to stick your head directly over the pot - hot vaporized cider vinegar up the sinuses is not fun.

Ask me how I know this.

Once boiling, add the sugar, spice, and fruit and turn down to medium to simmer. Continue to cook for 1.5 hours, stirring every 10 or 15 minutes to prevent sticking.

As the chutney thickens, continue to turn the heat down to medium-low or low and stir more frequently.

Maintain a gentle simmer, avoid scorching the bottom of the pot. Trust me on this.

Right in the pot.

30 minutes down.

60 minutes down.

90 minutes down

When the chutney is soft and pulpy, it is done.

How to tell? You can make a parting of the Red Sea diorama with it. Then it's done.

Spoon into sterilized jars and process according to your favorite sterilizing method.

The chutney needs to sit for 6 weeks to let the flavors develop. Then, enjoy!

Mustard throw-down

Joanna Farrow's Sweet Dill Mustard from Seasonal Preserves versus Jim Lahey's Homemade Spicy Mustard from My Bread.

Sweet Dill Mustard takes yellow mustard seeds, salt, turmeric and sugar and blends them, then adds vinegar and soaks overnight. The following day, the mustard is rehydrated and you stir in fresh dill or other herbs.

Homemade spicy mustard takes brown mustard seeds and soaks them in water overnight, then put the drained mustard seeds, water, vinegar and salt in a blender to puree until a paste forms.

Sweet Dill Mustard

Pros: turmeric gives it a beautiful yellow color, and I really like the herb flavor added to mustard.

Cons: Preparation technique is inherently flawed. Dry mustard seeds are the equivalent of tiny little ball bearings and refuse to be processed into anything more than mini-BB shrapnel bouncing around the bowl of the food processor. The overnight soak in vinegar adds a lot of acidity, which I felt was overwhelming. The final product takes on an unusual sticky consistency.

Homemade Spicy Mustard

Pros: The initial soak in water makes the processing step effortless. The texture is perfect and it comes out of the food processor after only a few minutes looking like the most attractive spicy brown mustard you have ever laid eyes on. The spicy flavor takes a few days to fully develop.

Cons: The vinegar is very mild (although this is a pro compared to above). The recipe does specify to add vinegar to taste, so you could kick it up a little.

Mustard Throw-down Winner: Homemade Spicy Mustard.

You can whip this up with your eyes closed and you will feel oh so clever after you make a batch.
Go on, give it a try.

Jim Lahey's Homemade Spicy Mustard.

1/4 cup brown mustard seeds
1/2 cup water (filtered or spring)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons table salt

Put mustard seeds in a bowl and cover with 1/4 cup water. Let this soak overnight - the recipe says in the fridge, but it's so cold here I left it on the counter. I like to live dangerously.

Drain any remaining liquid and put the mustard seeds, vinegar, salt, and remaining water in a food processor or blender. Process until a paste forms. It will be a little grainy, but the longer you process the smoother it will be. I pureed for about 4 minutes.

Store in the refrigerator.