Hedonia

Mint julep poached peaches

Once again, I am guest-blogging over at Married ...with Dinner for another installment of their Drink of the Week feature. This time I am discussing a drink I absolutely adore, the mint julep.

As an ice-cold beverage, the julep is cool and refreshing, but the flavors lend themselves well to other preparations. By upping the ratio of simple syrup and mint to bourbon, it makes a wonderful poaching liquid for ripe fruit, and in particular that most southern of fruits, peaches. Since peaches are just now reaching their pinnacle of ripeness, this is a perfect, and perfectly seasonal, dessert.

I stole the idea from Nigella Lawson's Forever Summer; I never actually bought the book, just watched her make this on the television show. I just intuited the recipe -- it isn't really all that complicated.

Do you dare to eat a [mint julep-poached] peach?

Math is hard

A couple decades ago, Mattel had the misguided vision to release a talking Barbie doll, one of whose onion-skin-witty quips has apocryphally been forever captured as "Math is hard. Let's go shopping!" This Barbie and I, we're, like, BFFs .

I decided to make another batch of Limoncello di Hillsborough, blessed as I was with another bag full of luscious yellow bounty from our friends' house. This time, I followed my own advice, and made a few modifications to the original attempt: I used thicker slabs of lemon rind with just a little pith attached, to lend a slightly bitter edge, and I used Everclear instead of regular 80-proof vodka, for a much-needed boost in alcohol content to keep it from freezing.

I was going for a double batch this time, and set the peels to infuse in two 750-ml bottles' worth of high-octane hootch for a couple weeks. After straining off the solids, I set to making my simple syrup. Referring back to my original recipe, I doubled the quantities of water and sugar, totalling 10 c. and 8 c. respectively. As I dumped them into a saucepan to dissolve, I thought, gee, that seems like an awful lot.

Looking back over the recipes I used as reference points for my own version, I realized that the proportion of 4 c. sugar to 5 c. water was meant for a double-batch, and that I had in fact halved that for my single bottle last time.

Oops.

OK, no harm, no foul. I simply used half of what now turned into three liters of sticky-sweet stuff. Now I had three liters of limoncello and 1.5 liters simple syrup. Did someone say cocktails?

Yes, friends, I can think of worse problems to have than finding yourself with a surplus of simple syrup in the fridge. And so don't be too terribly surprised to find the occasional cocktail recipe pop up on these pages over the summer.

Math is hard. Let's have a drink.

Oh, and the limoncello? It's, like, totally awesome.

Jam session

Work has been kicking my butt the last couple of months, likewise DPaul, and so we've not had quite as much time nor inspiration in the kitchen as normal. But it is summer, and with such gorgeous fruit exploding in a riot of color and fragrance all over the farmers market each week, I find myself repeatedly returning with armloads of the stuff. I cannot help myself. The season for perfectly ripe summer fruits is so fleeting and ephemeral, I am always compelled to capture that moment in time and preserve it.

Preserve. Preserves. The act of taking that impeccable piece of fruit and locking it in stasis, like an ant encased in amber. I'm obsessed.

Thai game

So we had this pineapple. At first, I didn't notice it, nestled deep in the shredded-paper grass in the Easter basket my mother sent last week. But sure enough, a second glance revealed its thorny crown protruding on one side.

DPaul doesn't really care for pineapple. Truth be told, I'm not really nuts about it either, at least not raw. However, I do have a penchant for pineapple when it's cooked, particularly when used in a savory application. My first instinct was to grill it, develop some caramel goodness on the surface, but as the week wore on and I continued to ignore the thing, it lured me with its strengthening perfume.

Curry beckoned. It was just a tickle at first, an unformed idea knocking around my olfactory centers. As my mind chewed on it further, the picture became clearer. Green curry. Prawns. Herbs. Chili pepper. Yum.

I wasn't exactly shocked to find that Bell Market didn't have Thai green curry paste. I was, however, a little nonplussed that they had no curry paste of any color or national provenance whatsoever. Maybe I'm being a little San Francisco snobby here, but in this day and age, curry paste is hardly exotic.

Okay, time to improvise. How to make a respectable Thai-inflected curry with supermarket ingredients. Ginger, check. Cilantro, no problem. Hey, lemongrass! We're getting somewhere.

I am certainly no expert when it comes to Thai food, and I surely cannot pretend I was aiming for any particular traditional dish. But I had a clear vision of where I was heading, a sense of what I wanted the final dish to taste like, and that was my culinary compass.

My only other imperative: Easy. I really didn't want to spend hours pounding herbs in a mortar and pestle, toasting spices, what have you. This was going to be a Cuisinart meal.

Right. Ingredients in and set the food processor to obliterate. Get a pot of rice going. Whip up a simple salad of red onion and cucumber (thanks to a little inspiration from Anita). And there you have it: A tip of the hat to Thailand in practically no time. Not bad for a white guy.

Limoncello di Hillsborough

While the state of California was in the grip of the worst freeze in recent history, and citrus producers up and down the valley were suffering catastrophic losses, I enjoyed a bumper crop. Our friends Donna and Dennis had recently moved into a gorgeous house in Hillsborough, complete with a petite but prolific lemon tree in the back yard. One night, they brought us a paper shopping bag full of them.

Some were ready for use right away; others were still on the hard side and would benefit from a little quiet time in the corner, extending our enjoyment. Over the next couple of months, I made spaghetti al limone, chicken with fennel and lemon, a monster batch of preserved lemons and lord only knows how many vodka tonics. And we still had a mountain of the things left over.

I practically had to make limoncello.

I've been meaning to do so for quite some time. I've often been inspired to do so by my good friend Anita, a fine 'cellist in her own right. She's made not only limoncello but a seriously heady bergamocello, an ethereally perfumed Buddhacello (from a Buddha's hand citron) and a difficult-to-name bloodorangecello, as well as any number of other interesting concoctions (such as a seriously complex nocino that I am still enjoying precious sips of, sparingly, two years later).

At its most basic definition, limoncello is simply the combination of a lemon-infused neutral liquor mixed with simple syrup. It's less a recipe than a technique or, as I often think of such things, an equation. Algebra.

L=(((((v*p)+z)*t)-z)+(s+w))*t

To wit: Limoncello is the product of lemon zest and vodka of a given proof, left together for a quantity of time, after which you strain out the zest; to which you then add a simple syrup of sugar and water and let it rest again for a period of time to mellow and blend. How much of each of those variables is what drives your final product.

New favorite fruit: Cherimoya

The day after my excursion to Hillcrest Farmer's Market, I decided to make a breakfast of the exotic fresh fruits I found there. Two cherimoyas and two passion fruit provided ample material to start the day.

Cutting through the leathery, dark purple skin of the passion fruit revealed a bright magenta pith surrounding a freakishly yellow-green gooey interior, slightly milky and almost fluorescent, like radiator fluid. They were hyper-tart.

The cherimoyas, by contrast, were creamy and soft, with a complex flavor reminiscent of piña colada: banana, coconut, pineapple flavors were present, but also a definite apple-pear note as well. The texture was definitely custardy (hence their other name, custard apple), occasionally also pear-like with a faint fibrous feel. Overall mellow and sweet, very easy to eat by the spoonful, except for the abundance of hard, black seeds that you could easily break a tooth on.

After tasting each individually, I decided to just mix them together. The creamy sweetness of the cherimoya tempered the hair-bristling tartness of the passion fruit. A taste of the tropics in a bowlful of local fruit -- local to San Diego, that is.

I eschewed my normal morning espresso for a pot of the black tea chai I purchased from Conscious Cookery at the market, rounding out the exotic theme. I love a good chai, and hers fits the bill: Pungently spicy with a strong clove note that tingles the palate, but not so much to overpower the flavors of anise, cardamom and black pepper. Sweetened with a little local honey and a cloud of milk, well, who needs coffee?

As spring and summer encroach on Northern California, I'll definitely be keeping an eye out for cherimoyas. I'm eager to play with this deliciously custardy fruit. I'm thinking maybe crème brulée or ice cream for starters ...

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.

Put up or shut up

I've been threatening to can all summer long, but never got up the gumption. But when our friends Nick and Russ contacted us about canning up a bunch of stuff this past weekend, we jumped at the chance. That Nick chooses to spend his birthday weekend cooking and canning is but one of the reasons we love him so.

It was dirty, sweaty, steamy, grueling work, but the fruits of our labors were great: 12 half-pints of pumpkin butter, 28 half-pints of fig preserves and 38 half-pints of pear butter ... and we only conquered about half of the pears that they brought. (Nick is finishing the remainder today.)

I'll be posting notes, recipes and photos over the next few days, so stay tuned!

(Photo: DPaul Brown)