This year's redcurrants, all three of 'em

This time last year, I was awash with redcurrants. It was all redcurrant shortbread bars, redcurrant and lemon drizzle cake, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with redcurrants, not to mention redcurrant chutney, redcurrant jam and redcurrant and port jelly.

This year, however, I am without my prolific redcurrant bush and slew of redcurrant treats, having moved house and, sadly, left my garden behind. I did bring cuttings with me though, and these, still in their infancy, have produced a small but perfectly formed crop of three. Alas, ’tis not exactly enough to be making cakes with, but no doubt the plants will get into their fruiting stride in years to come. Meanwhile, thanks to the ancient art of pickling, I still have some of last year’s redcurrants to enjoy.

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Pickled Redcurrants

These are slightly sweet pickles, but still with the inherent tartness of redcurrants. I like to have them ploughman’s style with some mature cheddar, though you could also try adding a few of these to mashed potato or even (as I did last year) make them part of an epic Irish-themed meal. The quantities here can easily be doubled or more if you are blessed with a wealth of redcurrants.

You’ll need:

• 150ml rice vinegar
• 75g sugar
• 2 allspice berries
• 3-4cm piece cinnamon stick
• 1 clove
• 275g redcurrants, washed

You’ll also need:

• One or more jars, enough to hold 300ml of pickle, plus non-corrosive, screw-top lids

The Steps:

• First, prepare your jar(s). Turn your oven on to 140C. Wash the jar(s) in hot soapy water, rinse thoroughly, and sterilise, either by boiling in water for 10 minutes and then drying in the oven or just by keeping the jar(s) in the oven for at least 30 minutes. Allow the jar(s) to cool before using. To sterilise the lid(s), dip in boiling water and leave to dry.
• Prepare the pickling liquid by placing the rice vinegar, sugar, allspice, cinnamon and clove in a small, non-reactive saucepan over a medium heat. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat slightly and boil for about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and allow to cool.
• When the pickling liquid had cooled, pack the redcurrants into your jar(s) and strain the liquid over them, to within about 3mm of the top of the jar(s). Seal and store in a cool, dark place for about 4 weeks. Properly sealed, they should keep for up to a year. Enjoy ploughman’s style with mature cheeses or try adding to mashed potato. I suspect these would also be a nice complement to pork or ham.

The Variations:

• You could perhaps try adding some ginger to the pickling spices.

The Results:

• Enough to fill one 300ml capacity jar

In fact, I could get all biblical about it and accuse Nidal Rayess of having saved the best jam ’til last, but the truth is I am just thankful for what I can honestly say was a higher jam experience.

We visited Nidal’s dairy in Jdita a couple of weeks ago, as part of the Taste Lebanon tour, where, among other things, they make labneh (or strained yoghurt) and halloumi cheese from their own cow’s and goat’s milk, as well as making a range of preserves.

Nidal Rayess: one man and his cheese

As we toured the small dairy and watched a batch of halloumi in the making, we learned that Nidal’s grandfather was the first person to make this particular kind of cheese in Lebanon, having learned the process during World War 1. They still make it here using traditional methods, while a ricotta-like cheese is made from the whey that’s left over.

Cooking, folding, pressing and branding halloumi cheese at the Rayess Dairy

There were many satisfied nods of approval as we proceeded to sample a range of their dairy goodies. In a country that loves its labneh, this was some of the best we had tasted, and the fresh halloumi had us returning for seconds, thirds and more. It didn’t come as a great surprise to hear that products from this dairy feature on the royal Jordanian family’s shopping list. If I lived anywhere even remotely nearby, I’d be filling my basket too.

Making and branding the blocks of pressed ricotta-like cheese

However, it was only after our mini dairy feast that Nidal produced, first, a jar of mulberry jam, and then a jar of apricot. The mulberry was magnificent, but the apricot, with its glorious perfume of sun-ripened fruit, and always my most favourite of jams, was perfection.

When I was growing up, the jar of apricot jam that resided in the larder was not what we kids got on our toast, but was reserved by my mother for almond slices or sponge cake fillings. It was right up there with Rose’s lime marmalade as a rare and lovely treat. If there was ever an occasion for a jam-induced swoon, this apricot jam of Nidal’s was it.

I was still in a state of jam nirvana when Nidal said “I’ll tell you the secret.” That, needless to remark, focused everyone’s attention. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know how this jar of sunshine had come to be?

And the secret to the jam wasn’t a sprinkling of fairy dust (which I would have believed), but a level of effort, care and attention that was humbling. The fruit in the jam was clearly exceptional, but what made it even more so was that it was only the half of each apricot that had faced outward towards the sun that was used in its making.

Few people, I imagined, would go to such trouble for their preserves. I am just glad that somebody in the world does, and that I have a jar of such jam to prove it.

Bringing a little bit of heaven back home: toasted Irish soda bread and Lebanese apricot jam

For me, there is a reassurance and a comfort that comes with Christmas dinner traditions.

You know that, like them or loathe them, brussels sprouts will be served (and I, for the record, love them), while you will always clear a special spot on your plate for the yuletide favourite that are roasties.

My Da, though, couldn’t help but ask the question as he saw the spuds being peeled yesterday:

“Are ye making roast potatoes?” says he.

As if it would be Christmas dinner without.

But things change, too. In little ways. Every year.

This past summer, as I cooked my way through a bumper redcurrant crop, I made a chutney that seemed destined for the Christmas table. It might have usurped the cranberry sauce, though, in true Christmas spirit, there was room at the inn for both.

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Redcurrant Chutney

This is really a kind of spiced jam, with definite savoury applications – good with the likes of a Christmas ham, but also excellent served ploughman-style with some mature cheddar, goat’s cheese or stilton. I realise that it’s not exactly the season for redcurrants, though you could certainly consider making this if you had a frozen stash of same. Otherwise, file it away for use with next summer’s bounty.

It’s based somewhat on a recipe for pickled redcurrants which I found here, though the spicing is a little different. The amounts I’ve used are small, but you can easily make double or more if you have a lot of redcurrants to use and it will, of course, keep for months.

You’ll need:

• 400g redcurrants
• 200g sugar
• 2 tblsp red wine vinegar
• 0.5 tsp gnd ginger
• 0.5 tsp gnd allspice

You’ll also need:

• Jars, wax seals and lids for approx. 250ml chutney

The Steps:

• Start by preparing the jars. Turn your oven on to 140C. Wash the jars in hot soapy water, rinse thoroughly, and sterilise, either by boiling in water for 10 minutes and then drying in the oven or just by keeping the jars in the oven for at least 30 minutes before using.
• In a large saucepan, combine the redcurrants and sugar. Bring to the boil over a medium heat, then reduce the heat and simmer gently for about 10 minutes, until the sugar has dissolved and the redcurrants are starting to burst.
• Add the red wine vinegar, ginger and allspice. Simmer for around another 30 minutes, the mixture should reduce by about half.
• Pour the chutney into the hot, sterilised jars, to within 3mm of the tops. Seal with a wax disc and cover with lids which have been dipped in boiling water. Store for at least a couple of weeks in a cool, dark place before using and do set some aside for Christmas use.

The Variations:

• Vary the spices according to your taste – you can try other warm spices like cinnamon and/or cloves here.

The Results:

• 250ml chutney

Exotic: (adjective)

1. From another part of the world; foreign;
2. Intriguingly unusual or different; excitingly strange;

There will, no doubt, be much that fits those descriptions at this weekend’s Festival of World Cultures in Dun Laoghaire. A gloriously bubbling stew of music, dance, crafts and food from the far flung reaches of the globe. Even if food were your only interest – and who would I be to judge you for that – the festival’s International Food Traders would surely warrant a visit, as would the Global Village and the South Asian Mela Market.

All told, not a bad way to spend a few days. However, as luck and my projected geographical location for the weekend would have it, I will miss the entire thing. Clearly I will have to compensate by cooking something with a suitably international pedigree. Like ketchup. And if you suppose that such a ubiquitous sauce is too familiar to be exotic, you might have to revise your thinking when you meet the variety made from rhubarb.

Rhubarb ketchup - yes, such a thing exists

See, the first thing you need to know is that, while tomato ketchup might hold a rather dominant position in the global condiment market, it isn’t even the original of the ketchup species.

What were called catsups originated in China and were discovered there by East India merchants sometime in the 17th century, who then introduced them to other parts of Asia and thence to Britain and beyond. Most early catsups were based on mushrooms and it was only when the tomato become more popular in the 19th century that tomato catsup start to emerge.

The chief virtue of early catsups was that they kept for a very long time and were thus popular on long sea voyages. In her book Curry, Lizzie Collingham reports on a recipe that Hannah Glasse provided in the 1748 edition of The Art of Cookery. The recipe, addressed to the “Captains of Ships”, called for stale beer, anchovies, mace, cloves, pepper, ginger and mushrooms in order to make a “Catchup to keep Twenty Years”.

Now, while I do expect this rhubarb ketchup to mature nicely over time, I can’t really guarantee that it will keep for 20 years. I, for one, could not restrain myself from eating such a tangy, fruity concoction for anything like that long.

I don’t know why that should be – I mean, tomatoes and potatoes are family. Be that as it may, the tomato branch of the clan comes in for the poor relation treatment in my garden. I never pinch out the tomatoey side shoots as they develop, even though I know I should. As a result, my tomato plants invariably end up an unruly mess, largely neglected and, because I grow them out of doors in an Irish summer, the harvest is, at best, decidedly green in colour.

Spud's green tomatoes

Still, I redeem my poor farming ways by making the likes of green tomato chutney and mustard pickle with green tomatoes. And, who knows, with any luck, some of the harvest will eventually turn its proper colour after a few weeks indoors. The tomatoes won’t be anything like as sweet as those fully ripened on the vine, but they will still be better than what often passes for tomatoes in Irish supermarkets. As anybody who lives here knows, the tomatoes offered for sale in this country are very often a pale imitation of the real thing, which makes growing your own a particularly satisfying endeavour, even if, like me, you’re not exactly top of the tomato-farming class.

Currants, of the red variety

Get a load of those redcurrant berries.

You wouldn’t think it, but beneath those shiny exteriors lurks a tale of survival against the odds.

It starts with a family of redcurrant cuttings, happily taking root in the soil. Then, life as the cuttings know it is turned upside-down (literally) following an unfortunate incident involving some over-zealous and less-than-careful hired garden help. One lone redcurrant stick survives.

As if to prove it is indeed made of sterner stuff, that hardy little cutting has, in subsequent years, laughed in the face of a distinct lack of pruning, general neglect and attack by dastardly aphids, to produce great heaving mounds of berries. Not only that, but it has now become parent to cuttings of its own. Future years look bright for those red and shiny currants.

Meanwhile, the no less red and shiny spoils of this year’s currant harvest are stashed in the freezer, awaiting their final assignments. Do not be fooled by their colour, though – sweet they are not. They are sharp and tangy and usually make good friends with sugar. So, there will be jelly. There will be jam. But first, there will be curd.

It’s not that I want to take sides or anything, but my onions are putting in the kind of show that would make a parent proud, while those low-yield spuds seem to be hanging out with the slackers at the back of the class. Those spuds will be made to stay late and work extra hard, I can assure you, but that’s a post for another day. Today, it’s all about the red winter onions, which have been doing their slow, steady growing thing for about 9 months now and are finally at the kitchen-ready stage.

While the onions were gestating, the fate of at least some of their number was sealed when I discovered Laragh Stuart’s sweet onion relish. It was one of the many tasty things that I picked up at the food market in Bloom last month. I devoured the little container of same in fairly short order, taking only as much time are it required to (a) spoon the relish onto crackers along with some Bluebell Falls goat’s cheese and (b) shove the entire crackery package into my mouth.

The ingredients list on the container of relish was pretty short – red onions, vinegar, sugar, salt and caraway – so I knew that the first task for my own red onions upon graduating from the garden would be a round of post-graduate relish work. And the report-card comments? Based on the research so far, this is what we got:

Homemade onion relish: May not be exactly the Laragh Stuart version, but very nice on goat's cheese all the same

And now for something completely different (or at least something that is unconnected in any way to onions or the relishing thereof). For any of you loitering about the Kinsale area this weekend, you may be interested to know that I’ll be taking part in a panel discussion on blogging this coming Saturday, the 18th, as part of the Kinsale Arts Week. Rumour has it that I know something about the subject. Fact is I’m going to be watching my Ps & Qs (and probably some other letters as well) around the Sweary Lady, who’s also participating, as are Claire Mulvany and Fiona McCann. Come along and make of us what you will!

]]> http://www.thedailyspud.com/2009/07/15/onion-relish-sweet/feed/ 20 http://www.thedailyspud.com/2009/06/24/stilts-gooseberries-and-a-spud-for-all-seasons/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=stilts-gooseberries-and-a-spud-for-all-seasons http://www.thedailyspud.com/2009/06/24/stilts-gooseberries-and-a-spud-for-all-seasons/#comments Wed, 24 Jun 2009 20:02:14 +0000 Daily Spud http://www.thedailyspud.com/?p=6948 Ah, summer in Ireland. Where you’re just as likely to be bathed in rain as in sunshine and where the organisers of outdoor events play a game of Russian roulette with the weather and hope that they are hit, if not with sunshine, then at least not with a fatal shot of precipitation.

As I made ready to head to the Midsummer Fair in Temple Bar on Sunday last, I peered out at grey skies and a persistent drizzle. It didn’t look good for folks wanting to picnic and be entertained while lounging on the faux-grass in Meeting House Square.

Still, I donned my rain gear and arrived to find a few other hardy souls enjoying the trad music on offer, some even be-seated on the I-can-believe-it’s-not-grass patch. More importantly, I was able to satisfy my morning’s need for caffeine at the coffee angel stand, my portable coffee of choice. The day was looking up.

Sure enough, by mid-afternoon, the weather had taken a decided turn for the better and there was little space left on the artificial green, with families being entertained by Punch and Judy, face-painting, magic tricks and periodic encounters with a man on stilts (equipped with stilt welly boots, de riguer for stilting in the Irish climate), and another fellow on a unicycle. Good family fun and, better again, all for free.

Meet the entertainers

The market stalls surrounding the square combined food, crafts and books, representing a mix of the regular weekly Temple Bar markets. I, of course, was really there for the food and, while the number of food stalls was relatively small, I still managed to while away a goodly amount of time doing a tour of what was on offer.

Hungry?

I was delighted to see gooseberries for sale from Malone’s Fruit Farms and much discussion of the berry ensued with the delightful Bernie. I was on a promise to make some gooseberry curd, having mentioned the possibility to Gastroanthropologist and, given that my Ma’s gooseberries are not quite ready yet, I secured some from Malone’s instead. I also nabbed some of the excellent sprouted chickpea hummus from Natasha’s Living Foods and some fabulous apple ice cream from Llewellyn’s.

There were, in addition, farmhouse cheeses on the double from Knockdrinna and from Corleggy, there were oysters, there were goods that were roasted and goods that were baked. And then there was Roy and his mobile potato-baking oven.

I checked it out and read that it has room for 230 potatoes. Colour me impressed. My baked potato came complete with the story of the Vivaldi potato, a UK variety favoured for baking and so-called because, yes, it is a spud for all 4 seasons. Meanwhile Roy is on the hunt for a regular vending spot for his baked spuds, so I wish him luck with that.

Finally, it was time to take my leave. I could have lingered, enjoying the temporarily grassed Temple Bar, but my gooseberries were, by then, demanding my attention and some gooseberry curd ensued.

I had every reason to ponder this mighty vegetable today because I spent the afternoon excavating the roots of my one over-large rhubarb plant, splitting it into 4 and replanting the newly separated roots. In time, this will mean a lot more rhubarb in my garden, though it may take 15 months or so before the rhubarb recovers fully from the split. Knowing that I will have less rhubarb next year has made me all nostalgic for the rhubarb treats we were able to whip up during this years long season: stewed rhubarb with ginger, rhubarb crumble, rhubarb polenta cake, rhubarb almond torte. All but memories now.

Luckily, though, I also have something more substantial than memories in my cupboard in the form of rhubarb jam (though see where I almost ruined that here) plus a few jars of rhubarb chutney. This was my first year to make this darkly sweet and spicy chutney and it has been a big hit. If my small supply survives ’til Christmas, it will no doubt get paired with the family’s Christmas ham. Meanwhile it’s getting used, ploughman-style, on sharp cheddar and was a fine accompaniment to this weekend’s indian-style chickpea cakes. I’ll continue to savour it for as long as it lasts and then dream of the vats of this self-same chutney that will be possible from my garden supply in just a few years time.

It was all in the name of a recipe for apple jellies, which caught my eye as it passed through my inbox the other day via TasteSpotting: homemade sweeties that would apparently keep for up to a year but looked like they’d only last for about as long as it would take to open the tin. I was sold. As soon as I could get myself to my mothers apple tree, I was out (in spite of the dark, cold, uninviting nature of the evening) gathering some of the few remaining fruit still hanging about on the branches. It was going to take 2 days, more or less, to get to the final jellied stage (as the recipe involved overnight stints of cooling and drying) so, really, there was no time to waste.

Unfortunately, after the initial flurry of torchlit harvesting, followed by much stewing and reducing, the outcome has been somewhat less gelatinous than I’d like. The puree of apple, sugar and lemon was simmered ’til it was good and thick but apparently not reduced enough. A long sojourn in the oven to dry things out got the mixture closer to something solid but still with liquid tendencies. Things were not looking good, but…

…that didn’t mean that they weren’t tasting good. Quite the contrary. All through the process (and having tasted an early sample), big sis #1 kept remarking that the thick, pulpy apple mixture would be lovely spread on bread or toast (and I really couldn’t argue with her on that one). Ma said it was like a fruit butter. The Da – an apple fiend if ever there was one – just kept asking when it would be ready to eat.

So right now we’re having toast slathered with what, in a masterstroke of marketing, I have rebranded as apple butter, and I’m having absolutely no regrets about the jellies that weren’t…

Wannabe Jellies on Toast