Cherry tomato, variety 'Koralik'

For the first time ever, thanks to a small but very sheltered backyard, I have, despite the vagaries of the Irish summer, outdoor tomatoes that are actually reddening. Much as I am fond of using green tomatoes, little bursts of red do a great deal to brighten up an otherwise dreary day.

Green is good but red is better

Coming to fruition, as it were

Come right this way...

Lacking a full-scale garden of my own these days, I find there’s nothing else for it but to live vicariously through the gardens of others.

Fortunately for me, the National Botanic Gardens are not far away and, apart from being a generally lovely place to while away the time, you’ll find, tucked away in a corner of the grounds, their walled fruit and vegetable garden. It’s my first port of call when I visit.

Indoor and outdoor cultivation in the walled garden

You'll need to get past Mr. Scarecrow first, though

It truly does me a power of good to see just what it is you can grow in a sheltered patch of Irish ground – what you’ll see below is only a small selection. Of course I would love to take some of the bounty home with me, but I dutifully obey the ‘do not pick’ signs (no, really, I do). Besides, it’s good to know that, while some plants are left for display purposes, much of what is grown is harvested and shared out among the staff who have helped to tend to it. Proper order too.

Some lettuce to start

A vision in green: Golden Wonder spuds, peas and tuscan kale

Yellow courgettes

Red onions

Globe artichoke with purple flowers

Pears, apples and not-yet-blackberries

Grapes both red & green

And last, but not least, there are bumble bees -
and every garden should have some of those

Yes, ’tis true. There’s nothing worse than turning up to a potluck empty-handed when everyone else has brought dishes that people would stampede to get to. Yet, despite having had the best part of two months to ponder the latest five star makeover – which called for a little gourmet creativity to be applied to our choice of seasonal farmer’s market produce – I sat there yesterday morning, deadline looming and nary an idea in my head about what to bring to the makeover party.

hosted by 5 Star Foodie & Lazaro Cooks!

I sipped my coffee and considered the options. Deploying the ‘laptop ate my blogpost’ excuse was top of the list, followed closely by a handwritten sicknote from my Ma. Alternatively, I could take my chances, potter down the road to my local vegetable vendor and hope for inspiration to strike (or, failing that, lightning, in which case I would probably have singed hair but an excellent reason for needing an entirely different kind of makeover). Lucky for you (and for my future hairdressing expenses) the lightning stayed away.

My most local source of fruit and veg, after my own backyard, that is

It’s only a small outlet, but this place still manages to sell at least five different kinds of potato, which, as you might expect, gets a big thumbs up from me. Yesterday, though, it was tomatoes which caught my eye, local tomatoes, going for cheap.

This being the only time of year when it makes any sense to buy Irish tomatoes, I filled my bag with the juicy booty. Even at the height of an Irish summer, though, you’re not always assured of getting tomatoes with full, sweet flavour, so, to get the best out my haul, I started to think that a little bit of roasting would be in order (and better, says you, to have roasted tomatoes than frizzled hair).

Down the way, I spied onions and courgettes, which make such a happy threesome when buddied up with tomatoes that I was powerless to resist. By now, I was coming over all Mediterranean-like, so I picked up some spuds for a bit of native Irish balance, while free range eggs, for some reason, seemed like a good idea.

A little while later, and with the addition of some garlic and herbs from the backyard, and a generous glug of olive oil, a tian – or crustless quiche – filled with slow-roasted vegetables, was born. It burst with juicy roasted tomatoes and couldn’t have been more summery if it tried.

Tian of tomatoes, courgettes and sunshine

Now, I’d be the first to say that this dish is altogether more rustic than gourmet and, as you’ll see, its flavours do travel a well-worn Mediterranean route. For all that, though, I was more than happy to have it grace my lunch plate, and ’twas surely a far better thing for me to eat this than for the dog to eat my homework, or my hair for that matter.

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Summer Vegetable Tian

The name tian, as described by Elizabeth David in Is There a Nutmeg in the House?, derives from the Provençal name for the earthenware dish that this kind of vegetable and egg mixture is usually made in.

The dish could not be easier to put together. Layer the vegetables and herbs in an ovenproof dish, douse with olive oil and slow-roast for an hour or so, then mix the lot with beaten egg, some cheese if you like and return to the oven until set. Then eat.

It’s really a dish to build around what you have to hand. I would have added fennel if there had been any available, along with fresh goat’s cheese or perhaps some feta. You can replace the regular yellow onion with red onion if you like, use oregano instead of marjoram, or add parsley or other herbs of your liking to the mix. It’s all good.

The veg:

• 3-4 tblsp olive oil plus extra for greasing your dish
• 1 small-ish courgette, about 250g, cut into 0.5cm rounds
• 2 cloves garlic, slivered
• 400g tomatoes, halved if small, quartered if large
• half a small onion, about 50g, peeled and cut into 1-2cm chunks
• 1 small potato, about 100g, peeled, cut into 1cm dice, rinsed and patted dry
• 2 x approx. 10cm sprigs rosemary
• 2 x approx. 10cm sprigs thyme
• coarse salt
• freshly ground black pepper

The tian:

• 4 large eggs
• 2 tsp freshly chopped marjoram leaves
• 0.5 tsp salt
• freshly ground black pepper
• 50g fresh, soft goat’s cheese (optional)
• 2 tblsp freshly grated parmesan cheese (optional)

You’ll also need:

• An ovenproof dish, mine was around 20cm x 20cm and 5cm deep

The Steps:

• Preheat your oven to 150C
• Brush your baking dish with some olive oil, then cover the base with a layer of courgette slices. Scatter over the slivered garlic, then add a layer of tomatoes, cut side facing up.
• Tuck the chunks of onion and the diced potato around the tomatoes. Break the sprigs of rosemary and thyme into 2-3cm lengths and tuck them in around the dish also.
• Sprinkle with a couple of pinches of coarse salt and a few twists of black pepper. Drizzle over the olive oil and place in the oven for about an hour or until the tomatoes have started to wrinkle and the vegetables are still fairly firm but can be pierced easily with a sharp knife.
• Remove the vegetables from the oven and turn the heat up to 180C.
• In a medium-sized bowl, beat the eggs well and add the marjoram, salt and a few twists of black pepper. Crumble the goat’s cheese into the mixture if using.
• Tip the roasted vegetables into the beaten egg and stir to mix, then pour the entire mixture back into your baking dish. Sprinkle with parmesan if using.
• Return to the oven for around 25 minutes or until set and golden on top. Serve warm or at room temperature with salads and the like.

The Variations:

• If I’d had a small bulb of fennel, I’d certainly have added pieces of that to the vegetable mix

The Results:

• Serve 2-3, along with salads and what have you.

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

Sage a go-go in the backyard

So, what exactly does one do with an excess of sage?

I ponder this question, knowing that – lovely though it is – sage is not usually called for in anything other than fairly small amounts. As I look at my flourishing sage plant, however, it seems a shame not to be using its bounty of leaves in larger quantities.

So, as oft times before, I ask the internet what to do, and the answer returns, dipped deliciously in beer batter and fried. The future of my sage leaves is golden.

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Beer-battered Sage Leaves

While I have fried plain sage leaves before, it had never occurred to me to dip them in batter first. Done this way, they make for a tasty nibble to be enjoyed along with a glass of beer or whatever-you’re-having-yourself.

The recipe I’ve used is adapted slightly from one I found here, which notes that you might find deep-fried sage leaves as part of an Italian fried platter or frittura mista.

The quantity of batter is enough to coat quite a large number of sage leaves which will, in turn, provide nibbles for a large group. Of course you can always make a smaller amount or use leftover batter to coat anything else you might like to deep fry.

You’ll need:

• 100g plain flour
• 0.25 tsp salt
• small pinch of baking soda
• approx. 200ml pale ale
• plenty of olive oil for frying
• 1 egg white
• 60-80 large sage leaves, with stems if possible, washed and patted dry

You’ll also need:

• You can use a deep fat fryer if you have one, otherwise use a deep frying pan or wok for this.

The Steps:

• Whisk together the flour, salt and baking soda in a medium-sized bowl, then add the beer and mix gently to a (fairly runny) batter, taking care to remove any lumps.
• Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.
• When you’re ready to start frying, fill your pan with oil to a depth of about 2-3cm and place over a medium-high heat.
• While the oil is heating, add a pinch of salt to the egg white and whisk until stiff peaks form, then gently fold the egg white into the chilled batter.
• Check to see that the oil is hot enough to start frying: if you have a suitable thermometer, look for a temperature of about 180C, otherwise a drop of batter should sizzle immediately and brown quickly. If the oil is smoking, remove from the heat to let it cool a bit before proceeding.
• Now, working in small batches, dip the sage leaves into the batter and fry, turning once, until crisped up and golden, 1-2 minutes. Remove with a tongs or slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. Serve hot, perhaps with the rest of that beer that you had to open for the batter.

The Variations:

• You could, of course, put some additional flavouring into the batter – a little hit of chilli might work well.

The Results:

• Enough beer-battered sage leaves for 10 or so people to nibble on.

Another week, another Spud Sunday…

If you’ve ever wondered why I do what I do – and I have, occasionally, wondered about it myself – you might like to have a listen to a real, live interview with yours truly, as conducted recently by Bridget Nicholas, in association with Radio Kerry Training. Fancy or what?

Spud takes to the airwaves

As I got home, I pulled a Tesco receipt from my wallet.

All I could do was laugh. A kind of resigned, shake of the head laugh, as opposed to the belly kind of laugh, though, in point of fact, it was bellies and the filling thereof that had me shaking my head in the first place.

I was just back from the inaugural For Food’s Sake event which took place earlier this month in Dublin’s Sugar Club. Organised by, among others, Aoife Carrigy, late of Food and Wine magazine, it was a panel discussion on the future of our indigenous Irish food industry, with Pat Smith, General Secretary of the Irish Farmer’s Association, Una Fitzgibbon, Director of Marketing Services with Bord Bia, journalist Suzanne Campbell and Graham Roberts of Connemera Smokehouse all participating. To remind us of what it was all really about, samples of Graham’s fine smoked fish were available for sampling, along with excellent relishes and sauces from Janet’s Country Fayre, beautiful cheeses from Mary and Gerry Kelly of Moonshine Organic Dairy and lovely breads from Le Levain bakery.

Really Good Ketchup from Janet's Country Fayre:
just what a spud needs

Mostly, though, there was talk. The dominant and domineering position in the food industry of supermarkets, such as the aforementioned Tesco, was a recurring theme on the night, as was the merit of supporting small, local producers through more direct routes. Pat Smith related the story of a potato grower who was offered, by a supermarket buyer, €150/tonne for potatoes which cost him €250/tonne to grow. These would be sold by the supermarket (and perhaps bought by you or me) for the equivalent of €725/tonne. The problem, as Pat saw it, was that the supermarket, in offering such a low rate to the grower, had respect for neither him nor his product.

The system works, though, because so many of us buy our food in supermarkets on the basis of convenience and price. It often takes a conscious, concerted effort to do otherwise. The question was asked, though perhaps not answered in any kind of definitive way, as to how we could change consumer habits. The truth is that no one thing or person is going to change the system that leads consumers to buy where and what they buy, though perhaps a raising of awareness as to the implications of those choices is a start. And that, I suppose, is what events like this may achieve, but only if talking leads to doing.

And so I got to doing a little something by finally planting this year’s potato crop and perhaps redeeming, in some small way, my many supermarket spud purchases. My future crop, comprising a (modest for me) 10 varieties this year, have been committed to bags in my small backyard. And knowing what goes into growing my own brings with it a healthy reminder of the thought and respect that I should try to apply when buying foods carefully cultivated and created by others.

The spud bag: it's what's underneath that counts

Instead of remaining glued to my weekend pillow, this morning found me beating a path towards the Crawfordsburn Growing Festival in Northern Ireland’s County Down. It was a mission undertaken, as ever, in the name of spuds.

Helen's Bay, gateway to Crawfordsburn Country Park

Now, the thing about Northern Ireland for a southerner like me, is that it manages to be both foreign and familiar at the same time. Whilst Belfast is nearer to Dublin than, say, Cork, it has always felt further away, involving a border marked by changes in accent, signage and coinage, to say nothing of history. Mark you this, though, whatever it is that may set north and south apart, we have in common a love of potatoes. Today, at the Crawfordsburn Country Park visitor’s centre, hard by the shores of Belfast Lough, it was all about the spud.

The spuds of tomorrow

There were some 40 to 50 varieties of seed potato available for sale by the tuber, and, in the event that seed-buying proved a hungry task, colcannon, champ and cheesy mash were on offer, in addition to local breads, freshly churned country butter, cheeses and chutneys.

Potato bread? Don't mind if I do.

Meanwhile, posters dotted about the visitor’s centre reminded the public of what is fact and what is fiction when it comes to spuds.

A tall tale, perhaps, though it might just explain Mr. Potato Head

Dave Langford’s heritage potato collection was on display, though sadly minus Dave, who is recovering from surgery at present. Dermot Carey, soon-to-be ex-head gardener at Lissadell House in County Sligo, was, however, on hand to tell me that he and Dave are on the lookout for another home for the collection due to uncertainty about the long term future of the gardens at Lissadell, following recent court actions. Would that I had garden enough to accommodate those 180+ heritage spuds myself.

Alas, the truth is that I am all but without a garden these days. That, however, that did not deter me from getting my seed potato fix, because where there’s a patch of spare ground and a potato bag, there’s a will. So I travelled back across the border with seeds for Epicure, International Kidney and the wonderfully-named Mr. Little’s Yetholm Gypsy – the only potato known to show red, white and blue skin.

What’s more, and as sure as spuds is spuds, I will be adding to that seed stash before the Spring is out. In addition to the annual celebration of the spud that is Potato Day at the Organic Centre in Co. Leitrim on March 13th, Sonairte, the National Ecology centre in Laytown, Co. Meath, are hosting their own Potato Day on March 6th, where they’ll have about 50 varieties available for sale as individual tubers. Methinks I’ll be needing a few more of those potato bags before I’m done.

There are so many things that you must remember to pack. Like your toothbrush. And your spuds.

Although, to be fair, when one has a potato-obsessed brain and some unusual red, blue and purple potatoes to match, they become a little less hard to forget.

Some of this year's multicoloured crop: Salad Blue, Highland Burgundy Red and Aura

So it is that I find myself in the midst of such a move, between two houses, minus one garden, operating with half a kitchen and a bag of spuds.

And no toothbrush.

It could be worse. I might have no spuds.

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.

For all you know, this potato could be quite large...

The fact is that my potatoes, so far, are really quite small.

There is no shame in small potatoes, of course, but, frankly, there’s just less of them to eat.

Undaunted by matters of size, I gathered together a dinners-worth of new season potatoes from my garden for my parents last week. Ma tells me that, when she was growing up, her family liked their potatoes big and piled high in the centre of the table – small potatoes, or póiríní, were strictly for feeding to the pigs. I was glad that my recent ancestors didn’t resurrect themselves for dinner in that case, as we had a rather low mound of spudlings on offer. Size clearly didn’t matter to my Da, though, who polished his spuds off in short order and was the first to ask, Oliver-Twist-like, for more.

After dinner, he retired to the sittingroom.

Moments later:

Da: “That was a grand dinner.”

Ma: “It was, sure.”

After another minute or two:

Da: “Are there any potatoes left?”

Ma: “No.”

Pause.

Da: “Do we have any for tomorrow?”

Da: “Oh.” The disappointment palpable.

Small or not, it’s good to know that my spuds will always be welcome at home.

Better get to work on my next delivery, so.