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Homemade fruit Nectars

This posting has also been published in the latest edition of the Preschool Cookbook.

A few years ago, I started making fruit nectars (like the expensive ones you find in European grocery stores) from leftover home-canned fruit. It turns out that all you have to do is to whizz your canned pears or peaches or apricots in a blender, strain out the skins with a sieve, and add something citric (lemon juice or frozen lemonade concentrate) to balance the taste, then dilute the whole thing with an equal amount of water.

Meanwhile my little neighbourhood has been getting bumper crops of gold plums for three years running, and a quantity of them have landed in my kitchen. I don't eat much canned fruit or jam, but I do drink a lot of fruit juices, so I started making nectars with that too. It turns out that there's no need to add any lemon juice to plums: they have their own tartness and make a very satisfying drink on their own.

First, make the fruit pulp:

Pit the plums, and heat them with a little bit of water, just until they're at a rolling boil. Skim as needed, then turn off the heat. Cool slightly, puree briefly in a blender or food processor. Push through a sieve to strain out the skins.

Next, sweeten the fruit pulp:

Start with ¾ to 1 cup of sugar for every 4 cups of puree. Some varieties will need quite a bit more. Let your taste guide you: the mix should have a pleasing acid-sweet balance.

To preserve the nectar, freeze or can it at this point (same method as for canned plums.)

To serve, dilute the puree with an equal amount of water. Adjust the sugar content if needed: our perception of sweetness varies greatly with temperature and you usually have to add a bit more sugar. Serve chilled. It's also very good with rum for cocktails.

Variations:

Other plums: Japanese gold plums are my favourites for this recipe. They have an exotic peachy-mango taste. I've been using Cannor's Gold plums with great success also. The skin is more tart and they need more sugar. Greengages make very good nectar, but the colour's a bit weird. Any red plums would work very well. On the other hand, I tried prune plums last fall and the results were disappointing. But prune plums are good for lots of other things... uh, prunes, for example.

Plum and berry: I've done a batch with Cannor's Golds and raspberries; it tastes fabulous. Plum-blackberry has a disquieting dark red-purple colour, but tastes very nice. Gold plum and strawberry would be amazing.

Other fruits: as you saw above, you can also start from pears, peaches or apricots. The cooking method is the same, except that you need to add lemon juice or lemonade before serving.

It's early in the summer, but the garlic is heading up already! As many gardeners know, you have to snap off the curly flower stems to get good garlic. The plant's first strategy for reproducing itself is to make seeds. Failing that, it puts all its energy into plan B: bulbs. Which is what we want. But it's only a few years ago that I realised that the garlic flower buds, also known as scapes, are edible too. Some people stir-fry them or make them into a kind of relish. So I started using them too -- in garlic soup!

This is one of my favourite soups of the whole year. I can make it once or twice, then the season is gone -- so the expectation makes it even better.

Obtaining garlic scapes may be tricky without your own garlic patch. Some farmers have started selling them at markets. Otherwise, be nice to a gardening neighbour. Maybe he or she doesn't even know the scapes are edible! That's how I got today's soup. My own garlic, in a shadier garden, will be ready for scape soup in about a week.

The recipe is an adaptation of the French classic. I got the original from Mamie's hand-written cookbook. The pommade, added at the end,  is a bit fussy but worth the trouble. You can use it to dress up any light soup.

Two notes for solitary eaters:

1. I usually make a smaller batch, about 2/3 size. So for the pommade, I might use one whole egg with a bit of the white removed, plus one egg yolk. It's all approximate anyhow.

2. I've actually gotten away with reheating this soup -- gently. It might separate, but it tastes good anyway.

Green Garlic Soup

·      1 litre chicken stock or mild vegetable stock, boiling

·      1 large handful of garlic scapes; about 2 dozen? I pick them about 6 inches long. Cut them into chunks.

·      1 bay leaf

·      2-3 sage leaves

·      ½ tsp thyme (use fresh herbs if available)

·      salt (keeping in mind that the pommade has parmesan in it.)

Simmer all this until the scapes are tender, about 10 minutes. Purée in food processor, then pass through a sieve to remove the fibrous bits.

The pommade:

Whisk together until creamy:

·      1 egg

·      2 yolks

·      pepper

·      1/3 cup grated parmesan, or mix of parmesan and gruyère

Slowly pour in ¼ cup olive oil, whisking constantly to emulsify. Then whisk in, gradually, a few ladlefuls of hot soup, until the cheese starts to melt. Return to the soup pot, whisking over medium-low heat until just starting to thicken. Do not let it boil or it'll separate. If it does, it'll still be tasty, just not as elegant.

Serve topped with a big handful of croutons.

Easiest Croutons:

Lightly butter 2 or 3 slices of very good bread. Sprinkle black pepper onto the buttered side so it sticks. Cut the bread into cubes. Put it in a pan in the toaster oven for a couple of toast cycles, stirring often, until light brown and starting to crisp (they'll get crisper as they cool). Or bake in the oven. 

It's getting a bit late for this posting... but better late than never. It's been a busy spring. Here goes:

When it comes to local foods, I'm not a purist, but I like the general idea. Sure, you could decide to go on the hundred-mile diet, but you could also indulge in something more exotic while being mindful of the issues. For example, it's orange season in California. For us here, it's the closest oranges we ever get, and therefore less outrageous a luxury than fruit from Japan or Brazil, say. For Québec, the oranges from Florida are the ones to watch.

These last few years, we've had access to an added treat: a number of small farms, fighting for survival, grouped themselves under the label Buck Creek, and started offering unsprayed, tree-ripened fruit at reasonable prices. This is important to me because I like my oranges very sweet, and I always use the peels in various concoctions. I didn't think much of that until a few years ago, when I saw a crate that had held conventionally-grown lemons from Mexico. "Limones de Cucuma", it said. Then, still in Spanish, "sprayed with government-approved products number this, that, and the other thing. Pelo non comestible." The peel is not edible. This information wasn't a secret, nor was there any kind of conspiracy. It was printed clearly on every box. But it did not make it to grocery shelves because nobody reads the boxes, plus there's the assumption that lemon and orange peels get thrown out anyway. Hence: unsprayed fruit. Tree-ripened.

I love zest. Lemon zest in cheesecake. In blueberry cake. Orange zest in raspberry coulis. With shrimp. On fish.

Here's the latest: I tasted a pastry filled with apples, roasted almonds, cinnamon and orange zest. A woman from somewhere in Eastern Europe had made it; my neighbour Elke said that the combination is reminiscent of turkish love-cakes. I went home, figured out the proportions, and, rather than trying to reproduce the rather tough pastry, I used the recipe for Danish apple bars from Carolyn McGee. Her recipe used corn flakes, as I recall...  My version of it is in the Little Book, q.v. But I'll show the Turkish Love-Cake version here.

Maybe we can name it, paraphrasing from Edward Espe Brown's Tassajara Bread Book,

Danish Love-Cake Cookie Bars?

Pastry:

Cut 1 cup cold butter or margarine into 2 ½ cups sifted flour, until crumbly. Add and egg yolk plus enough milk to make 2/3 cup.

Divide pastry in half. Roll to slightly larger than a medium cookie sheet, so it comes up the sides. Sprinkle 1cup lightly crushed bran flakes on the bottom crust.

The original recipe simply uses apple slices (from about 8 apples) and tops with 1 cup sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon. For the love-cake version, you have to lightly precook the apples - or use about a quart of apple sauce from last fall. To which you add...

·      ¾ cup sugar (less if your applesauce is sweet, of course)

·      2/3 cup toasted and ground almonds

·      lots of orange zest

·      1 tsp cinnamon.

Cover with top crust. Finish the edges as for a pie and cut vent holes. Glaze with reserved egg white and bake like a pie (middle or lower rack depending on your oven, 350-ish degrees).

While the pastry is still warm, drizzle with a glaze made with the leftover egg white, about ½ cup icing sugar, maybe a dash of lemon juice, and a few drops of water if it needs it. (mixture should be a bit runny).

These pastries are best eaten fresh, but it's a big batch for one person.... I use that as an excuse to send some presents around the neighbourhood... but I've been successful in freezing the leftovers and warming them up, one or two at a time, in a toaster oven.

Seems to me that the dough could also be used for other things. It's pretty quick to make, and surprisingly flaky.

 ***

 Here's something else I make when oranges are plentiful. The concept comes from Barbara Tropp's China Moon Cookbook, a fussy but priceless collection of recipes from a Chinese-West Coast restaurant in San Francisco. The original recipe makes a very spicy infused oil, which you use like toasted sesame oil. But the prize is at the bottom: a wonderful "goop" of the infused ingredients. So I set out to make a version that was mostly goop. That way I end up using less oil to achieve the same flavour. I've changed the proportions a bit to suit my tastes, and greatly toned down the heat.

Use a tablespoon or two in various Chinese (or not-) recipes: I've used it to dress up an instant won-ton soup, to add depth and personality to garlic spare ribs, and in the two recipes that follow.

Chili-Orange Oil (inspired by China Moon)

·      Finely grated zest of 2 medium oranges (wash them first)

·      1 ½ tbsp chili flakes (if you have whole chilies with a good colour, use more but discard the seeds. The red bits become jewel-like...)

·      1 ½ tbsp salted black beans, chopped small

·      2 large cloves garlic, smashed

·      ½ cup vegetable oil (sunflower or canola)

·      ¼ cup toasted sesame oil

Mix all ingredients in a small pan. Heat until it just starts to bubble all over - not to a rolling boil - and keep gently bubbling for 15 minutes. The garlic should be soft and mushy, not roasted. Refrigerate in a glass jar until ready to use. It'll keep for a few weeks. To use, stir up until the solids are evenly distributed in the oil before measuring.

 Chili-orange noodles

This is what I do with recipe books: I cruise through, and go, Oooh, that looks good... then more often than not I do something completely different. So it was with something elegantly called 'Dragon Noodles' in that same China Moon Cookbook. (Il faut toujours qu'elle fasse à sa tête...)

Time for a confession: 1) this stuff is somewhat strange; 2) I'm hopelessly addicted to it. It's ideal for solitary eaters; if I already have chili oil in the fridge, I can make supper in just the time it takes to boil a handful of rice sticks; it's gorgeously aromatic, and light and filling at the same time, perfect for this time of year, when I crawl home ravenously hungry from a day of pruning orchards - or else I'm on the boat, working 12-hour shifts.

(Tom: you can make this without the peanut butter; it'll be a different dish. Be prepared to tweak the ingredients. Maybe toasted almonds on top?)

For each portion, mix directly in the serving bowl:

·      2 tsp sweet soy (see note)

·      1 tbsp peanut butter (sorry, Tom)

·      1 ½ tbsp chili orange oil

Then add about ¼ to ½ cup crumbled tofu (drain it first; if I'm in a hurry I just squeeze the water out with my hands) and

·      1 small carrot, grated

·      ½ cup cabbage or chinese cabbage or bok choy or kale - whatever is available locally (darker greens are more attractive if you have the choice).

Meanwhile, cook 1 to 1 ½ cake (65 to 100g) fine egg noodles or rice sticks. Dump the drained, warm noodles on top of the cold, uncooked stuff in the serving bowl. Give it a quick toss, top with plenty of cilantro if your religion allows it, and that's it!

(Note: sweet soy. It looks like molasses, comes from Indonesia, and the one I have comes in a tall bottle that says, ABC brand, kecap manis. Heron thinks it's pronounced "ketchup" -- he may well be right. It keeps forever without refrigeration. It tastes very salty and sweet. If I didn't have any, I'd try mixing dark miso and molasses, half and half.)

The next recipe I'll give you just as a concept because I'm tired of measuring everything, plus that's how I think in the kitchen.

Chili-orange meat pastries

Start by browning some ground pork, or ground turkey, in a pan, with some grated ginger and a bit of garlic. Maybe leeks or green onion. Drain the extra fat.

Add at least twice the amount of shredded vegetables: carrots for sure, cabbage, or savoy cabbage, chinese cabbage, kale (ok: they're what's available locally right now, so I put them in everything). Zucchini in the summer. NOT green peppers, but a bit of red is ok. Cook just enough to barely wilt the vegetables. Salt to taste. Take off the heat and add plenty of chili-orange oil. Its taste should be present and accounted for. I used 3 tbsp, and 300g meat, for about a dozen pastries.

You can chill the mixture to make it easier to handle, or proceed right away to wrap it into filo pastry, just as you would do for spanakopita. Bake it the regular way. These pastries freeze well, before or after baking. They're not bad cold, even. Good work food.

I think chili-orange oil just begs for cilantro as a topping, but I know some of my descendants will differ.

When Heron was in grade 5 or thereabouts, and living here on the island, he took some cooking classes with Wayne Wai. He duly noted down recipes, albeit in a heronlike manner, and although I can't really cast any stones, they were indeed on the cryptic side. To wit:

"Tempura'd oysters: 1 egg - salt - water - flour"

That's it. That's the recipe.

Some were easier, once one deciphered the calligraphy. Here's one that is on Hajar's request list... It even has (some) amounts! (Again, I'm in no position to cast stones...) I made it this week with kale, rescued from under the snow, sweet from the cold. Soon the first nettles will poke up... Should be nice with that, too.

This one is for people who actually like tofu. It's a bit stark (see 'righteous tofu,' below) but it quickly grew on me. (Um, I ate the whole thing at one sitting. No rice on the side: just a tofu scramble with barely-wilted greens.) It's one of those 5-minute suppers, ideal for solitary eaters.

Spicy tofu on Spinach

• ·      2/3 lb mashed tofu
• ·      1 tbsp red death* (It's quite spicy with this amount)
• ·      1 tsp soy sauce (Actually, I used 2, and some salt besides)
• ·      Corn starch (amount unspecified in Heron's transcript... I used 2 tsp)

Stir-fry this mix in a medium-hot pan or wok, in a little oil. Then stir-fry a certain quantity of fresh spinach. Oh, okay, I used about 3 cups chopped kale, loosely packed.

That's it! Basic but nice.

*Red death: The rest of the world calls this sambal oelek. It also comes in a jar simply marked 'Tuong Ot Toi Vietnam'.

Now here's the deluxe version. This is based on a recipe for 'Northern-style tofu' in Classic Chinese Cuisine by Nina Simonds. Papy lent me this book, and due to unforeseen circumstances the loan became permanent. Part of my inheritance. Another reason to remember him.

The original recipe - described by N. Simonds as "the favourite of the Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi, in the 19th century" - is only for the tofu 'pillows', and ends up with very little sauce. I thought it just begged for velvety sauciness and a nice bed of fresh spinach. I also increased the amount of seasonings across the board.

Here's a secret that few tofu haters know: tofu recipes are not necessarily vegetarian. That lovely white stuff will take on the taste of whatever it is cooked with, so if the accompaniments are overly righteous, the result is disappointing. Here, the slices are simmered in a flavourful chicken stock, which they sponge up until they melt in the mouth. The recipe above is an instant supper; this one is much more involved, but well worth the effort.

Tofu Pillows on Spinach

Drain 1 lb medium or firm tofu; wrap it in lots of paper towels, or 2 tea towels, and place a heavy weight on top (I use my cast-iron frying pan). Let stand for 30 minutes, to drain the extra water.

Slice the tofu into pieces, about 1 ½" square and ½" thick.

Heat ½ cup vegetable oil in a wok. Dip each tofu piece in cornstarch, then in beaten egg. Fry in small batches until golden; drain on paper towels. Remove the oil from the wok, leaving 1 teaspoon.

• Add to the wok:
• ·      1 tbsp grated ginger (stir-fry it briefly before adding the other ingredients)
• ·      3 c chicken broth
• ·      2 tbsp rice wine or sake
• ·      ½ tsp sugar
• ·      salt to taste

Bring it all to a boil, then slide the tofu pieces into the wok. Jab the pieces with a fork so they'll absorb more broth. Simmer, uncovered, for about 20 minutes.

Lift out the tofu pieces from the cooking liquid and thicken it with a bit of cornstarch, to a runny-but-velvety consistency. Return the tofu to the sauce; finish with 2-3 tsp sesame oil and 2-3 tbsp minced green onions. Serve piping hot on a bed of fresh spinach (the hot sauce will cook the spinach). If you substitute nettles, cook them beforehand.

I like this best served on sticky rice (a.k.a. sweet or glutinous rice). Most recipes call for steaming this kind of rice over, not in, water, but at the risk of making the Dowager Empress Tzu-Hsi turn in her grave, I just boil it like ordinary rice. It becomes very sticky.