Tag Archives: Spices

Plums and Pluots

19 Tuesday Jun 2012

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I’m running out of adjectives. This must happen a lot to people who are trying to describe food on a regular basis. Yes, the plum is juicy, but it’s not juicy like an apricot. It has a wincing tartness and it’s wetter. It’s sweet, but it has a different sweetness to, say, a cherry. It was a surprise to eat a perfectly ripe plum, because on some level I wasn’t expecting it to be so luscious. I have no memory of plums growing up and have always believed them to be rather serious. Perhaps it’s the fact that in England they are an autumn fruit. Evenings are drawing in, there’s a chill in the air. Sundays become Mondays, there are hot water bottles, feet trudge. It’s also the winy red of the skin and a tannic roughness on the tongue. It’s a dark fruit. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

Here in Southern California, plum season starts as early as May and goes through to September. And then there are pluots, a horrible name reminiscent of toilets. It’s a hybrid of plum and apricot, the result of generations of intricate and painstaking crossbreeding. It sounds off-putting, I know, but the fruit is crossbred naturally – not genetically modified – through hand pollination. Think of bees in nature, except here each hybrid takes, not minutes to develop, but years.

The picture above is of the Flavorosa pluot; the white dust is its natural bloom, its skin is less fibrous than a plum, with a soft, plush almost transparently crimson interior. It is sweet but pleasurably so, with some sharpness bringing up the rear. The juice, when you pierce the skin, spills out. Think of it as a summer plum, born under blue skies.

I put it to use sautéed, as a pairing for a cold, dark chocolate pudding, and layered in a chocolate and amaretti tart. I brought them both to the herb garden, where I volunteer, for the other gardeners to test. The chocolate pudding was devoured in silence, standing up by the tool shed. The tart was eaten after lunch. As it almost melts on the spoon you must feed yourself fragments. I didn’t want to applaud my own efforts, but I thought it was pretty phenomenal. Sandy, deeply fruity and blanketed in a heft of complex chocolate, just shy of crust. It’s a mess to look at, so you may want to work on the aesthetics.

“Rich,” said Tony. He wiped the ramekin clean with a paper towel, and placed it back on the table.

“Marzipan?” said Tristan.

“No.” The conversation continued in this way for a while, one word here and there, nothing too formed. It’s helpful to know sometimes that’s what food does. I’ll feature this recipe when I’ve managed to make it look less like a cowpat.

The plum and chocolate pudding is nice cold but not too frosty; you want to be able to taste the marriage of flavours which will start to come through as it warms up. The almond extract  – which I was considering forgoing – is really lovely and works well with the plums. I tried Penzeys cocoa powder, because some cocoa can be underwhelming. The key is the colour: look for a reddish-brown, like an old brick. It should also smell bewitching, simply in its dry state.

Sautéed plums with dark chocolate pudding and crushed amaretti

Adapted from Deborah Madison, Seasonal Fruit Desserts

If you want to make this gluten-free simply omit the amaretti biscuits. Try toasted almonds instead.

For the sautéed plums:

4-6 plums or pluots

2 tbs (28g) unsalted butter

¼ cup (50g) organic sugar or maple sugar

2-3 cardamom pods

1 tsp (splash) orange-blossom water (optional)

For the dark chocolate pudding:

2 cups (500ml) milk

Zest of 2 oranges (less, if you’re less partial)

2oz (60g) dark chocolate (60-70% cocoa)

½ cup (50g) unsweetened cocoa powder

½ cup (100g) organic sugar

Pinch of salt

Scant ¼ cup (25g) cornstarch dissolved in ¼ cup (50ml) of water

¼ tsp (or a small splash) almond extract

1 amaretti biscuit per pudding

For the plums

Rinse the plums, dry, then slice them into wedges. Heat a frying pan/skillet with the butter over a medium heat until it melts. Then add the plums, sugar, and cardamom pods. Raise the heat and cook, jerking the fruit around every now and then so the cut surfaces start to catch and caramelize. After about 10 minutes, the plums will start to give up their juices and cave into one another. Add the splash of orange-blossom water – if you want – and be prepared for a sticky mess.

For the pudding

Warm half the milk with the chocolate and orange zest over a low heat. Meanwhile combine the cocoa, sugar, and salt in a bowl. Stir in enough water to make a smooth paste. Whisk this paste into the warming milk. Mix the remaining cup of cold milk into the cornstarch. I find it works best by slowly introducing the milk to the dry powder, which then becomes slacker the more liquid you add. The other way round results in a lumpy glue. Now add this cornstarch mixture to the pan.

Raise the heat slightly and stir as the mixture thickens. Then lower the heat and keep stirring until it appears custard-like, but still with some movement. You don’t want the spoon to stand up of its own accord. Remove the pan from the stove and add the almond extract and give it a stir. Pour the pudding into little ramekins and place plastic wrap directly on the surface if you don’t want a skin to form. Served chilled with a spoonful of plums and a smashed-up amaretti biscuit on each.IMG_8325

Plums for Breakfast

I like to think of these as ‘sleeping plums.’ They are overnighters, having been tucked into the pan and lapped by their own considerable juices. By morning, they are deflated, dilapidated even, but the juice is spicily intense, having been concentrated by the wait. Nothing quite prepares you for the depth and zing of that first slurp. I quote Nigel Slater, from his book Ripe, in his entirety here. Feel free to add your own spices – such as a cinnamon stick or some cardamom pods. I would also add that it took a fair bit longer for my plums to collapse – you could go to 30 minutes, easily, on a very low heat. That’s when you clap the lid on, turn off the heat and leave them til morning. And remember there are stones to navigate before you dole this out. I used pluots instead of plums.

“A pot with a sturdy bottom, a pound of plums (500g), ½ cup (100g) of sugar, a vanilla pod split down its length, its seeds exposed, and just enough water to leave a wet film on the bottom of the pan. Place over a gentle heat, let the sugar melt and the plums burst, their juices mingling with the sugar. Keep the heat low and your eyes on the job. After ten minutes, maybe fifteen, the plums will have collapsed, their juices taken up some of the warm, vanilla notes and you will have a dish of plums to cool, then thoroughly chill, and eat for breakfast.”

Winging It

11 Monday Jun 2012

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On Wednesday, I flew on the trapeze. Yes, just another day here in southern California. Kidding. It was quite extraordinary, not least because when you watch it, it looks so easy and when you do it yourself, it’s as if a giant rhino has clambered inside your body and is clinging to the bar by its little callused hooves. I came down after the first try, my body shaking with adrenalin and fear and, frankly, embarrassment that people had had to watch me.

I kept looking at the grapefruit tree that stood benignly in the background and the orange tree next to it, its branches crowded with fruit and tried to think about recipes, and yet who was I kidding. I was thinking of not getting it right, of somehow not hearing the instructor’s orders, his barks up to the platform. The platform wobbles as you stand on it, by the way, and is 40 feet off the ground. It’s also frighteningly slim. This is what they tell you, the trapeze aficionados – that the experience teaches you to become a “connoisseur” of your fear. And then you jump.

I had three goes at the “knee hang” – see the picture. If you think you’re fit, try doing that one day. You have to use all your upper body strength to hoist your legs over the bar. I now realize I have no upper body strength. I had one more go left before the instructor called time. “Think of something that makes you really angry,” he shouted angrily. And then: “You can do this!” “Knees to nipples!” a woman yelled. She was a midwife.

I can’t remember what happened next except a feeling of relief and then the blood rushing to my head. I let go of the bar too late – everything in you resists it – and was out of whack with the catcher. I was all over the shop, but his grip was monumental. I dangled, a dead weight. But it’s that in-between moment that gets you, the moment of weightlessness. You’re flying! Everybody looks the same when it happens – lost in rapture. You hope that no one notices, but they do.

There are other sensory impressions: the grass turning brown underfoot. Scorching flagstones. The smell of horse from the field next door. Not dung exactly, but the smell almost of the horse’s breath; musky and hot, mixed with summer air. Low slung wire fencing turning a rusted orange. The clink as you’re unclasped from the ropes. The enormous web of net. Toes inching over the platform. The two bushy trees – grapefruit and orange against the back wall, the flashes of colour a pleasing backdrop to the soaring, swooping and plummeting bodies, the last one being mine.

Citrus with Orange Caramel

Adapted from Deborah Madison, Seasonal Fruit Desserts

This is fruit at its most chaste. The caramel is very subtle; warm rather than sweet. I used grapefruit and oranges because they come from the story, and I made it that night, but you can use anything citrussy.

6-8 citrus fruits

⅓ cup (70g) organic sugar

½ cup (120ml) freshly squeezed orange juice

1 cinnamon stick

1 clove

A few splashes of orange-blossom water

Fresh mint sprigs or lemon balm

Method

Finely grate the zest of an orange, and put to one side. Peel the rest of the fruit. Use a sharp knife for cutting citrus, if you want it to look pretty. Take a narrow slice off the stem and blossom ends. Cut down the sides of the fruit from top to bottom, slicing away the skin and the white pith. Now cut into rounds and put into a bowl.

Melt the sugar over a medium heat, until it turns a rich, chocolatey brown. Don’t stir, but keep tipping the pan this way and that, so the sugar doesn’t burn. When it has become liquid, stand back and pour in the juice. It will splutter and the caramel will seize, but after a few minutes back on the heat, it will dissolve again. Add the reserved orange zest, cinnamon stick, and clove. Splash in a few drops of the orange-blossom water, slide in the slices of fruit and swish them around so they’re coated, then pour the fruit and caramel back into the bowl. Serve very cold, speckled with the fresh herbs. This dish is very accepting of ice cream, and Greek yogurt.

Muffins

26 Thursday Apr 2012

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I came late to the American muffin. It was too close to the cupcake for comfort, architecturally at least. And the last shop-bought muffin I tried was like eating my own washcloth. There was also a disconcerting bounce to it, no doubt the result of all the preservatives required to keep it ‘fresh’.

The craggily homemade version is much nicer; unprecious, easy, malleable. It’s a great one for using up left-overs, marmalade bits, old cranberries, stewed this and that, collapsed bananas and it’s good for experimenting. I like the deliberate under-mixing, and then watching it rise into smooth little balls through the smoky glass. It also absorbs and holds onto the essential flavour of things in interesting ways, like ginger nubbins, dates, vanilla and cinnamon. The botanically named ‘flavedo’ of citrus zest comes through startling well. It’s honest fare; simple, good, true, the workhorse of the kitchen. Wet into dry is the only rule, and then it likes to be left alone. But breaking it open, and getting a headful of that steamy, sweet interior, the texture reminiscent of soft, hot bread is lovely. And it has that essential lick-the-bowl-clean component, central to all great baking expeditions.

Muffins are what is known in the trade as ‘quick bread.’ Bread that uses yeast – ‘slow bread,’ you could say – has a long fermentation period, whereas quick breads use chemical leaveners such as bicarbonate of soda and baking powder and need to go straight in the oven. Muffins favour the casual, almost sloppy cook. A few desultory swipes with a spatula is all you need for the mixture to be ready – any more and the gluten will start to work, and the result will be tough and dense. Keeping a light hand also creates all the nooks and crannies for the butter and jam to fall into later, and hopefully – if the muffin is still warm – liquefy and dance around your mouth in a delightful way.

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This recipe can be made as a loaf or as individual muffins, and you can substitute the raisins for a cup of something else (prunes would be nice). Fennel is an acquired taste, I admit, being the Marmite of flavourings, but the liquorice warmth balances the sweetness here. Play around with spices though, and see what takes your fancy. I have added ground almonds to the mix because I believe that the muffin’s downfall is its tendency to dryness which almonds will mitigate. If you are less catholic in your muffin persuasion, and want to keep things simple, stick to two cups (250g) of flour.

Fennel, orange and raisin quick bread

Adapted from Nick Malgieri’s The Modern Baker

1 cup (160g) raisins

1¼ cups (150g) plain flour

¾ cup (90g) ground almonds

⅔ cup (130g) sugar

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp baking soda

1 tbs fennel seeds

Pinch of salt

¾ stick (6 tbs/3 oz) butter

Finely grated zest of 2 oranges

⅔ cup (160 ml) buttermilk

(or make up 1 cup/250 ml of milk and add 1 tbs of lemon juice.  Let this stand for 5 minutes and use the required amount)

2 large eggs, at room temperature

Method

Put the raisins and about 75 ml (5 tbs) of water in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Remove from the heat, cover, and leave until the raisins have absorbed most of the liquid. You don’t have to do this but it makes the raisins very plump and juicy. Drain and leave to one side. Heat a dry frying pan/skillet over a medium heat and add the fennel seeds, shaking the pan so they toast evenly. They are ready when they start to release their fragrance and are beginning to brown; then whizz them in a spice or coffee grinder for a few seconds.

Preheat the oven to 400F. Lightly coat the muffin pan or loaf tin with butter. Put the flour, ground almonds, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, blitzed fennel seeds and salt in a medium-sized bowl and combine well. In a saucepan, melt the butter gently with the orange zest. Turn off the heat and add the buttermilk to the melted butter and let it sit for a few minutes, until it’s tepid. Pour the melted butter mixture into a bowl and add the eggs and whisk until well blended.

Add the wet ingredients to the dry and stir gently with a wooden spoon or spatula. Mix until just blended. Gently fold in the raisins. Use an ice cream scoop or a spoon to pile the batter into the muffin cups (fill to the top if you want a billowing ‘crown’), or simply pour into the loaf tin. Bake the individual muffins for 18 – 20 minutes and the loaf for about 35 – 40 minutes. The top should feel firm and a skewer will come out cleanish when it’s ready. Leave the tin to cool for five minutes and then prise the loaf/muffins out using a thin knife and leave on the rack until okay to handle, but still tender and steaming. Eat very soon.

Some things to remember: All the liquid ingredients must be brought to room temperature before beginning. If, when you whisk the milk, eggs and butter together, the milk or the eggs are chilled, the butter will congeal and won’t blend well. Always add any zest to the melted butter rather than to the dry ingredients, as this releases the essential oils. Stop mixing the batter as soon as you can see no streaks of flour or liquid; don’t worry about lumps, they’ll even out during baking. Just get the darn thing in the oven.

These muffins, unlike their commercial counterparts, have a shorter shelf-life. After a day, they need a zap in the oven to bring them back to life, but by day three it’s all over. Freeze them once they’ve cooled on the rack, if you want to keep them for a while; they freeze for up to a month, wrapped and sealed in a freezer bag. When you’re ready to eat them, thaw for 30 minutes and then reheat. Alternatively, prepare the dry and wet ingredients, cover and store them separately until the morning (keep the wet in the fridge), and then whip them together and bung in the oven.

You can put the batter into squares of parchment paper, which then sit in the muffin tray, as pictured below. Though it looks quite pretty, the downside is the paper’s tendency to cling to the muffin, thus tearing it asunder. This makes it easier to eat though – doing the job of fingers.