Currently Featuring: Currants

    

Nature is full of surprises. Just when you think that all is lost, and there are signs and stories everywhere of devastation and doom, you spot something red as you’re driving up Main Road. Your heart skips a beat. It’s sour cherry time . . . could it be? Trying to be pragmatic and not set yourself up for disappointment, you hypothesize, as you make a U-turn, that it’s raspberries. No; not cherries but not raspberries either. Something better and wholly unexpected: currants. Red ones, white ones—and black ones too. And only $1.50 a pint (that paradox of the generous and stingy, the fruit lady).

Sitting outside thinking about the vagaries of survival, how tough old things like potatoes can be so vulnerable, snuffed out even while in hiding underground, and delicate little transparent jewels like currants can power forth into glory, I saw another little miracle of survival. Out in the field, four wild turkeys, foraging for food. I am not a hunting sort of girl, but I couldn’t help but wonder how they would be to eat. You know, with a little currant sauce. And then I saw some other movement in the grass alongside them, poking out from time to time: little turkeys-to-be. There were two litters (broods? hatchlings?). One, associated with the three turkey hens (don’t ask me why three, but they traveled together), of six little turkettes, the size of baby ducks. I saw them ( I think they are really called poults) first. Then much later, I saw with the turkey that stood apart—and that was lighter in color, probably a turkey version of an ugly duckling—several tiny, tiny chicks, like the ones that they used to sell, rather irresponsibly I now realize, in the 5&10 at Easter when I was a little girl. They could not have been more than a few days old. Born in a downpour, no doubt, yet waddling around quite nicely.

It is reassuring to see life among the ruins, and to see very old-fashioned, near-disappeared fruits like currants outperforming their more modern counterparts. Is it something about these untouched things? My fruit lady’s currant bushes are old—most likely minimally bred for commercially appealing features and mass production. Could that be their secret? Could it be that what is closest to nature is what is best suited to respond to nature’s vicissitudes? I wonder, and the currants make me hopeful. I’ll be watching for the cherries.

This is what you might serve if you shot a wild turkey. Of course, you can always serve this with pork or poultry, or use your currants for a pie or a buckle, or for some nice jelly.

Spiced Pickled Currants

You can use this as is or stir it into another sauce base. It’s also good with cheese. Makes about 3 ½ 8-oz jars.

4 cups currants (I used red and white mixed)
½ cup vinegar
1 cup sugar
1 tea mixed spices to taste: cinnamon, clove, cardamom (of course)
2” piece stick cinnamon (optional)

Stem and rinse the currants. Combine the sugar, vinegar, and spice in a stainless steel or enameled pan; cook at a good boil for a few minutes (3-5) until it reaches a very light gel stage. Take off the heat, add the currants, and toss. Put back on a medium fire. The mixture will thin with the currant juices, and foam up a little like a jam; do not skim. Cook another 3-5 minutes, until it is clear and syrupy. Put into jars and seal.

 

      

Salad Days: New Beets and Onions

While we are waiting for the real summer produce to arrive, we are blessed, at least, with the earliest of earthly delights: the lettuce, of course, and beautiful tiny beets and onions. Not to belabor the weather—it is, after all, sunny today, although it still feels like fall, and I am still sleeping with a blanket—but the damage to the crops has been officially confirmed by the local newspaper.

It appears that just about every crop has been seriously affected, in many cases destroyed, by the flood of rain, and in some cases hail: from tomatoes to peppers and corn, even the apples. At our local major potato grower, Ferolbink Farm, they’ve plowed under 8 acres, and anticipate the loss of more. A fungus called “late blight,” which is related to the one that caused the Irish potato famine in 1849, has hit our local farms; a combination of the rain and resistance is making it impossible to keep it at bay. It is exacerbated by cross-over from residential gardens, and invades everything. The farmers are going out of their minds.

We share their pain. We need to buy what we can from them. Most things are more expensive than usual, but that seems reasonable given that yields are much lower than the growers ever could have anticipated, given that we have never, ever, in recorded history, have had a spring and early summer like this one. Choices are limited, but slowly expanding. Lettuce is doing all right. Cabbage, too. Beets appear to be squeaking by. There are quite nice tiny leeks and small onions. Everything is young and new—salad days.

Rainy Summer Salad

This will perk up a gray day. Season this well with salt and pepper to taste to balance the sweetness. You could serve this alongside a piece of grilled chicken, without the lettuce base, if you like. Serves 2.

3 small new onions
5 or 6 very small beets, roasted and peeled
2 ears corn
1 T butter
1 tea olive oil
¼ cup orange juice, freshly squeezed if possible
2 T maple syrup
¼ tea salt
1/8 tea pepper
½ tea grated orange rind (optional)

6 or 7 Boston lettuce leaves
1 T extra virgin olive oil
1 tea maple syrup
2 tea freshly squeezed lemon juice
salt and pepper

Thinly slice the onions and the roasted beets (see here for instructions), and cut the corn off the cob.

Melt the butter with the oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. When sizzling, add the onion and sauté until it begins to soften, about 1 minute, then reduce the heat somewhat and add the corn; sauté an additional minute or so, until the onion just starts to brown. Add the orange juice and cook, stirring occasionally, until the juice has been reduced and there is only a little liquid left; add the 2 T syrup, salt, and pepper, zest if using, and cook for another minute. Add the beets and toss for a few seconds. Taste for seasoning. Remove the pan from the heat and allow the mixture to cool to room temperature.

Make a dressing by whisking the oil, syrup, lemon juice and some salt and pepper in a bowl. Add the lettuce leaves and turn around in the dressing until they are thoroughly but lightly coated. Arrange the leaves on a plate and place the beet salad in the center.

Surprise! Strawberries

I wasn’t really expecting them. Not yet. It wasn’t just that it had been so cold and rainy for so long, although that was a big part of it. It was more that it was only the first days of June. It seemed so early. But there they were, along with that other eagerly awaited assurance, beautiful and flavorful lettuce, that the summer growing season is, after all, coming to come again this year: strawberries. Surprise!

Of course, they are not cheap. Yet. Maybe never this year unless it stops raining and warms up some more. But at $5.50 a quart, worth every penny.

Not that you’re going to make a kettle full of preserves at this price. For that, we’ll wait to see what happens with the weather and the crop—meaning, to see if the price of that quart drops to $3.00 like, happily, last year. Or even $4.00. For now, there are other delights for a single quart, including that essential for the first-of-season, eating them out-of-hand. The old standby, strawberry shortcake. Strawberry ice cream, should we get the elusive hot day (we can dream, can’t we?). Or something as simple as a strawberry syrup for plain vanilla ice cream or pound cake, or an intense strawberry butter for slathering on biscuits or thick white toast, both started by simply pushing ripe strawberries through a sieve. Biscuits and strawberry butter are, in fact, just a deconstructed version of strawberry shortcake, a variation on the theme of simple biscuit dough, fruit, and cream—in this case churned beyond the whipping stage to fresh unsalted butter. It makes for a nice, quick, springtime breakfast or afternoon treat with lemonade or iced tea.

But confronted with strawberries and lettuce, an embarrassment of June riches, what else is there to do but join them—it is June, after all—in wholly flavorful matrimony. Sitting down to these first gifts of summer is as sentimental and life affirming as eating cake at a June wedding—preferably one held, and eaten, out on a Little Compton lawn. Pour the champagne, and say a toast to a new beginning. Summer, or life. They’re both the same.

Red June Wedding Salad

This is very pretty, and very good. I like to use the Boston red leaf lettuce from Coll Walker’s farm to complement the intensely pink strawberry dressing. Serves 4.

3 T extra-virgin olive oil, preferably organic, unfiltered (see Note)
1 T half-and-half or light cream
3 medium-large strawberries, trimmed of stems and crown
½ tea aged balsamic vinegar (see Note)
½ tea white balsamic vinegar (see Note)
¼ tea salt
6-8 twists of the pepper mill

1 head red Boston lettuce or other red leaf lettuce, washed and dried

In a small bowl. whisk the cream into the olive oil with a small whisk until combined. Slice the strawberries in half or quarters; you should not need to core them, as those awful white cores are virtually nonexistent in local berries, which are, deliciously, red right through. Using your little whisk, press down on the berries—local berries are soft—and whisk them into the oil/cream mixture until they have almost disappeared, turning the mixture an intense pink with a few flecks of red. If you want bigger pieces of berry in your dressing, stop when it is as you like. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Tear the lettuce into big pieces and place in a bowl. Pour about half the dressing in and toss; add more dressing gradually until the lettuce is nicely coated, with little red bits clinging to the leaves, but not saturated. The dressing will keep well in the refrigerator for several days; it will thicken, but may be used as is, or thin it a little by whisking in a few drops of warm water.

Note: Both organic olive oil and old balsamic are quite viscous—my balsamic, brought back from a trip to Italy, is like a thick syrup. If you do not have either, use regular extra-virgin olive oil, and you will likely need to use more vinegar (either regular balsamic and white balsamic or all balsamic) than is called for in the recipe—maybe 2 teaspoons total. Taste as you go. I am very fond of the Casa Pareja olive oil from Spain (where all the best olive oils hail from, in my opinion); I discovered this outstanding value oil while living in Philadelphia; you can mail order it from DiBruno’s if you cannot find it where you live.

Potted Herbs for the Nongardening Cook

When it comes to gardening, I am a reaper, not a sower. I rely on the farmers and my gardening friends for my produce. I’ve tried, I really have. I don’t at all mind—in fact, enjoy--digging the dirt and putting things in the ground. But I forget to water. I don’t like to weed. Pests baffle me. I’ve had successes over the years, from amazing beans and cucumbers to seeming bushels of cayenne peppers. But my crop losses have outweighed them, and the fickleness of the weather and its effects is more than I really want to deal with. Or need to. The farmer is down the road, wants to sell to me, and I, quite frankly, would rather buy. One of Nature’s true symbioses.

So my gardening days are over. The only thing I plant, and then only in small quantities in pots, are herbs. There is a particular economy to having your own herbs in pots. Even if your farm stand has herbs in abundance, and even if you frequently buy them, a small selection of certain herbs is important to have on hand. The logic of this is variety, security, and parsimony.

First, variety. While many grocery stores carry a fairly extensive selection of herbs, they are often expensive, skimpy packets that are not fresh, and your local farmer generally will not offer every herb that you might want. Most farm stands will reliably have basil, flat-leaf and curly parsley, and cilantro (coriander), perhaps dill, at a minimum; this is good, because some of these, particularly parsley and cilantro, can be temperamental for the home gardener in the New England climate (at least, for me). Not many farmers grow fresh Greek oregano, sage, tarragon, French thyme, rosemary, or peppermint, possibly due to low demand, as they are all a breeze to grow. So these are what I plant in pots, because each of them is essential in their own way for things I cook.

Security: There is nothing more annoying than not having that one crucial herb on hand that is indispensable to a dish or drink (juleps, mojitos) when you are in the mood for it, or to not be able to find it at your farm stand or market when needed. With your own herbs, this never happens.

Parsimony: Potted herbs outside your kitchen door allow you to step out and snip or pinch only what you need: a sprig of rosemary for the marinade, oregano for the grilled pizza, tarragon for an egg dish, mint for the lemonade. Herbs are highly perishable, both in terms of flavor volatility and condition of leaves, and we have all thrown them away after using a small amount. In New England, a very waste-not-want-not place, potted herbs are a virtue.

Although I do not plant most of the herbs that I can, and do, buy in big bunches from the farm stands and use in abundance, I do plant a few basil plants (in a pot). I like to pinch off a few leaves for a chiffonade garnish, or to lay on a tomato sandwich. But for pesto, I go to the farm stand and buy huge bunches for a dollar or so, and because I can reliably do this, I don’t worry when something (snails? I can never figure it out) starts defoliating my few basil plants.

Of course you can put your herbs in the ground. I used to have a rather nice, circular herb garden, about 12’ in diameter and divided like a pie into wedges for different herb combinations, everything edged with granite curbstones. But I now find that a few pots, which I plant anew every year (even the perennials don’t winter over very well here), suit me better. And for the wilder spreading herbs, like mint, there is the added benefit of containment. This, of course, is essential for the urban dweller. Herbs indoors struggle for air and sun, so if you are in the city and have a tiny patio, ledge that doesn’t threaten pedestrians below in a sudden gale, or even a very sunny window that you can leave open and place the herbs right into against the screen, they will do best there. Potted herbs require little attention—forgetting to water is not fatal—and for an investment of perhaps $20.00 plus the pots and soil you will soon have a thriving assortment for most of your summer cooking needs. Indeed, they will last deep into the fall; you can harvest them before the first frost (either leaving them on their branches or stripping the leaves), leave them to dry, and seal in little bags or rinsed spice jars for use throughout the winter.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, select and pot your herbs as soon as possible; it’s time. When they start growing like mad, around the time the first greens appear, you may want to try this dressing. Or you can blend any combination of herbs of your choice with a little (very little) chopped garlic, salt, and pepper into goat cheese or cream cheese to spread on crackers, or into soft butter for superb herb-garlic bread (on the Pao deMilho, last post, would be nice), sprinkled with a little parm and broiled briefly. You can also add a little cognac or calvados and a dash of cayenne to this same herb-garlic butter, roll it in wax paper into a log, chill it, slice it, and drop it onto a hot steak for a quick sauce. Or float it on last summer’s tomato soup, pulled from the freezer, as in the photo. Whip all these up an hour or few in advance to allow the flavors to blossom. You can refrigerate for several days or freeze.

I generally snip most herbs with scissors rather than chop them, which can bruise them too much and press out their oils. For large leaves such as basil or mint, stack and fold them into quarters and snip fine; snip tarragon, oregano, and other smaller herbs while still on their stems. Strip thyme whole by holding the stem between your thumb and forefinger and pushing them firmly along the stem. I do chop when I need something very fine: always use a very sharp small chef’s knife, and draw your herbs into a tight little mound to chop.

LCM Dressing

This dressing is very flavorful; it’s nice at this time of year on peppery baby arugula (which, too, you could grow in a pot…) and pea shoots, both showing up locally now; the salad in the photo is made from this combination of organic greens from my neighborhood. The recipe is proportioned to be rather light-textured so as not to overwhelm baby greens, but for firmer salad items you could cut the coffee in half, or double the cream for more body. I also like this tossed with very lightly blanched (2-3 minutes), still-crisp sliced carrots, or with cold leftover beef or pork. For the carrots, I whisked in an extra tablespoon of cream.

So that you don’t drown your salads, add a small amount of dressing and toss; you can always add more. If you overdo, add more greens and toss again. Same goes for seasoning; taste after tossing, and add more salt and/or pepper if you like.

2 T honey (I use a local raw raspberry honey; you can substitute another raw honey that is the color of a Sam Adams)
1 tea Dijon mustard
1 T heavy cream
1/3 cup plus 2T extra-virgin olive oil
2 T leftover strong coffee (see first May post)
2 T lemon juice (1/2 large lemon)
1/3 tea salt
4 or 5 twists of the pepper mill
2 tea mixed tarragon, mint, and thyme, finely chopped/snipped, roughly 1:1: ½
1 small clove garlic, smashed and peeled

With a small whisk or fork, blend the honey, mustard, and cream; whisk in the olive oil well, then whisk in the coffee, followed by the lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Stir in the herbs and drop in the garlic. Give it a good stir. Let sit 5 or 10 minutes, then remove the garlic and discard (stick your finger in and taste to decide when). Makes just under 1 cup.

Salads are best at cool room temperature, so don't refrigerate the dressing unless you are making it the day before, in which case remove several hours before serving.