Hedonia

Eat me: McQuade's Celtic Chutneys

I have to admit that I never really got chutney until well into my adult life. My first bite was straight-from-the-jar Crosse & Blackwell Major Grey's at a tender young age, and I had no idea what to do with it. It was sweet, but strangely funky, a little too salty and ohmigod hot for my nubile palate.

Well. Things have changed. Today, I love the complex sweetness of a good chutney, and my only qualm with the aforementioned condiment (a Smucker's product, incidentally) is that it is too pedestrian.

I've made the occasional chutney, the greatest success of which was a reasonably good fuyu persimmon version a couple years ago when I inherited a massive bag of the things from a friend. But in terms of off-the-shelf product, I've been left wanting. Until now.

My first exposure to these piquant creations was at the recent food bloggers' volunteer day at the San Francisco Food Bank. As we lounged about afterwards, soothing our sore muscles and swilling biodynamic wines, among the treats we had to sample were Glaswegian Alison's creations, McQuade's Celtic Chutneys.

Alongside our plates of charcuterie, cheese and chocolate were little glass bowls of glistening Gaelic goodness. Now, I wasn't aware of Scotland's place in chutney culinaria, but I shall never doubt again. From my first taste, it was true love.

The ones I specifically remember tasting that day were the Moray Fig & Ginger and the Elgin Habanero. Despite its incendiary name, the habanero chutney's introductory taste is a mustardy-vinegary kick, with a pleasantly sweet crunch of apple. Only on the finish do you get a throat-tickling burn of capsaicin. The Moray fig is its sweeter sister, with a honeyed palate and caviar-like crunch from the fig seeds. I immediately scampered to Cowgirl Creamery to share these treats with DPaul.

The obvious application is with a cheese plate, and you can't go wrong there. We had each with an unremarkable sharp cheddar and crackers to reasonably good effect, though I felt bad for the poor cheese's whimpering cries under the chutney's operatic trill. By contrast, as a flavor- and texture-enhancing condiment to some smoky grilled pork chops, the sweet-tart zing of the moray fig was like long-legged, blonde arm candy strutting alongside a tall, pomapdoured mayor.

Sure, they run something like a buck an ounce, but you only live once, so you might as well live happy. I say run, don't walk to these locations and stock up on these charming chutneys right now. I said now!

One year ago today ... I told you how to find out everything you ever wanted to know about the 1906 quake and fires. Did you avail yourselves of it? Sheesh, why do I bother?

Pear butter

Nick had worked out an arrangement with one of the vendors at the Galleria farmers' market to buy off all her bruised fruit for a song. "Don't be alarmed by 50 lbs. of pears," said Nick. "We don't have to peel them." Grand. Still, we did have to core, chop and cook them down. The pumpkin butter was sealed and done, and the fig jam was well underway by the time we even began dealing with the pears. Russ and I set to work, converting ourselves into pear coring machines, filling container after container with 1" cubes of slippery pear flesh. In the end, we barely got through half the pears before deciding we wouldn't have the time -- or energy -- to finish the job all in one shot.

Some of the pears got a little scorched, but as we lovingly ladled the puree into our jars, being careful not to dislodge any actual burnt bits from the bottom of the pot, it had a dedidedly not unpleasant burnt-sugar aroma, so we joked that they became caramelized pear butter. Truth be known, we're into one of the jars of scorched stuff now, and in fact it has a delicious caramel flavor. I wouldn't recommend attempting this deliberately, but if it happens know that all is not lost.

This recipe comes to us from our friend George, or more accurately from his mother, Peg. As far as I'm concerned, any canning recipe that comes from a little old lady in Nebraska simply has to be good. Like the fig jam, this recipe uses only citrus rind for pectin. The resulting pear butter has a pleasantly creamy texture. It bursts with citrus and spice flavors, but still screams "pear" throughout. We're already well into consuming our second jar of the stuff. Glad we canned so much of it.

(Photo: DPaul Brown)

Fig jam

Is there anything more beautiful and mouth-watering than a juicy, perfectly ripe fig? It seems to me the fig would be a far more appropriate symbol of temptation than the apple, but I wasn't consulted on the matter.

Fig preserves are not only delicious but versatile. My favorite application is a classic Bolognese dessert, paired with squaquerone, or a good fresh (read: homemade) ricotta.

This recipe calls for no commercial pectin, instead relying on the natural pectin in lemon rind for thickening. We adapted from a recipe on Cooks.com, replacing some sugar with honey to accentuate figs' natural honey notes.

You soften the figs first by steeping them in boiling water, then mashing them and cooking them down. The water turns a gorgeous, brilliant magenta color. I so wanted to figure out something to do with it, but in the end it was just fig water, and down the drain it went.

The resulting jam is glossy and purple-black, with constellations of tiny seeds throughout. I can hardly wait to crack into one of the jars.

When life gives you lemons...

Conserve them!

My friend Greg, his girlfriend and his brother recently purchased a home one scant block from my place. In their backyard is a glorious, well-established Meyer lemon tree, positively exploding with lemons. For weeks, I procrastinated dropping by to raid it, but finally had the occasion last week. I brought home a healthy bag full of petite and extremely fragrant yellow fruit.

A few went straightaway into an infusion. Knowing from past experience that the pith makes for a very unpalatable infusion, I just barely zested a couple of the lemons into a container, then set about supreming the fruit. As these are seriously tiny things, and the segments are quite thin indeed, it took nearly surgical precision to extract a few fleshy slices of pulp. But the deed is done, and there will hopefully be a small burst of lemony liquor in my near future. (No pic of the infusion -- it's not exacly photogenic right now.)

But the other thing I've been wanting to do with lemons is conserve them. I do like to make Moroccan/North African dishes from time to time, and it is the one ingredient I am always without. You can substitute fresh, but it just doesn't have the same zing. Besides, I think it will make a fabulous addition to nearly any recipe, regardless its provenance.

Pretty much all the research I've done on making conserved lemons says the same thing, but I did find one handy resource that came with photos here. And, so, that is pretty much the recipe I'm going to stick to. This is not instant-gratification food, though; I've got a month ahead of me, and several steps along the way, before I'll get to enjoy these babies. Luckily, I am a patient man.

Super-sweet Clove-scented Watermelon Rind Pickles

Whew, that's a mouthful.

So lest you think I've gone pickle-crazy (and I'm not saying I haven't), remember: I have something of a surplus of watermelon in the house. And as I abhor waste (unless I'm feeling lazy, which is almost always), I just had to do something with all that rind after removing the top inch or so of juicy watermelon flesh. Luckily, my new-old favorite pickle book has a recipe for just such a thing.

Mind you, I used only the deepest red parts of the watermelon for the infusions, and the pickled rind recipe calls for no red, no green. So that left me with rather a copious amount of the in-between bits -- the pinkish flesh that is not so sweet, yet still watery. What does one do with all that? Suffice to say I was well hydrated yesterday.

This recipe is a little more labor-intensive than the one before, as it involves salting, resting, boiling, steeping and cooling. And after all that, the product won't really be ready for a week! But at first pale, it seems promising. It is definitely sweet, and I am intrigued to see whether the sweetness will subside during its resting period. I still have yet another quarter of the melon left (that's almost 4 lbs, people!) -- and one quarter was sufficient to create this batch -- so there may be another round with a slight modification of the sugar-to-vinegar ratio next time around.

On the bright side, the pickles will coincidentally be ready on July 4, just in time to dole out to the various hosts of Independence Day fêtes that we'll see. Now, where's my red-white-and-blue grosgrain ribbon?

You know the drill. After the jump. (Oh, there's pictures!)

The week in ingredients

Belgian lamb born with six legs, cannot walk and must be specially fed. Could this be the new veal?

Heinz ketchup celebrates 130 years of bottle spanking.

Robert Grimm, father of the so-called baby carrot, dead at 54. Turns out baby carrots are not baby at all, but mature carrots that are whittled down to the little plugs they are. What I want to know is, what happens to all the carrot shavings?

Oversize ingredient extravaganza: Football-sized lemons, record-breaking bass, giant squid on ice and super fluffy bunnies. We have world hunger, why?

You can make almost as many things out of hot dogs as go into them!

SFist in the Kitchen tarts things up with kumquats.

Spring descends on the Ferry Building Farmer's Market: German Butterball potatoes, artichokes, spring onions, tatsoi (bok choi), rainbow chard, daikon and spinach are cropping up.

Spread the news

My mother (who lives in San Diego) recently ate at a restaurant there called Spread, in North Park. Although Spread sports a chic, modernist interior and features a menu of "nouveau comfort food," their claim to fame, for which they were recently featured on Food Network's Unwrapped, is their series of, well, spreads. Specifically, they produce dozens -- more than a hundred -- of varieties of gourmet peanut butter-based spreads. So impressed was she, she ordered a few to have sent to us: Cinnamon cherry, chili mango and dark chocolate curry.

I'm normally cynical about such gimmickry but I have to admit: These are pretty good and surprisingly different one from the other. The cinnamon cherry is chunky, and both the cinnamon and cherry flavors manage to stand out against the peanut base. The chili mango, smoother, has a nice mild burn tempered by the mango's sweetness. And the dark chocolate curry has a Nutella-like texture and color, the curry a fairly subtle backnote that adds a floral layer to the complex flavor of the spread. Pass the milk.

All the spreads are hand-made; the 4 oz. jars run from $5 to about $9. No refrigeration required. They can be ordered online at Style Peanut Spread's website. Due to their recent exposure on Unwrapped, however, be prepared to wait for yours.

Spread
2879 University Ave, San Diego