Yellow Plum Jam with Vanilla

For the past couple of summers, I've gone over to my friend Kari's house to pick yellow plums from her backyard. This tree gives and gives gorgeous, mellow yellow fruit. 

Last year, the tree almost went overboard with its generosity. Kari called everyone she knew to come and pick plums. Afterward, there were still more, as in falling-to-the-ground-and-attracting-bees-and-getting-squashed-underfoot-by-the-kids more. Desperately, Kari called the gleaners. They came, they picked, they handed her a receipt for the amount of fruit collected: over 500 pounds. From one backyard tree!

We actually went to pick our plums after the gleaners were done and the tree gave us yet another 50 pounds to take home, with more still visibly weighing down its generous branches. 

I learned something from bringing home 50 pounds of one type of fruit. It's a bit like winning the lottery, I imagine. After you get home, you have to take a moment to stand back and wonder at what to do with all the wealth that you've suddenly acquired. It almost feels like too much -- although the greedy pig inside you would never admit it.

Mostly, I made jam with the plums. All day jamming sessions that went late into the night for a couple of days in a row. Then I used the jam to make all sorts of things like cakes and cookies. But mostly, I happily spread the sweet-tart stuff onto buttered toast.

The main thing I took away from my plum jam-making is that it is a process. It's hard work, and you get really sweaty from all the boiling and boiling away that is happening. Your arm starts to ache from stirring to prevent scorching and skimming the scum off the top. If making more than one batch, you might also get snapped at here and there by a husband who is providing childcare to a toddler and wondering when you will actually be finished with your seemingly never-ending project.

It's not glamorous work at all, though you'd never know it from the final product, which sits innocently -- and at times, glamorously -- gleaming in small glass jars on your pantry shelf, like a girl who knows she is beautiful but who doesn't want you to think she realizes it.

Despite the involved process, the maker of things in me just loves putting up jam.

But a bit more about what I've learned. Jam must be made in modest quantities. With plums, especially, it seems the smallest batch that you can make without feeling let down by the fact that you only have six puny jars at the end of it, is best. 

Plums, especially the yellow ones from Kari's tree, are full of water. They have to be macerated first in sugar, softening their skins and leaving you with fruit basking in layers of golden syrup. Then, they have to be cooked down longer than other less moisture-laden fruit.

They mustn't, however, be overcooked, which is more likely to happen if you make a larger batch of jam. If the fruit is cooked too long, it loses the beguiling, fragrant quality that makes it so attractive in the first place, leaving only tartness and a one-dimensionality behind.

This year, I only took home 18 pounds of plums from Kari's tree (even as she attempted to hand me more). I made it all into jam. 

When you live in a place that rains nine months out of the year, a fragrant plum jam is most welcome on the darkest of winter's days. It is the best reminder of sweeter, warmer times when it was possible to spend a sunny afternoon with friends, reaching up into a giving tree to pluck its ripe, bloom-covered fruit. 

Yellow Plum Jam with Vanilla
This is a jam for anyone who loves tart flavors. The addition of vanilla gives the jam additional complexity and a lovely fragrance. We make a lot of vanilla ice cream during the summer months and always have spent vanilla beans sitting in a jar of sugar. That's what I used here. You can also probably use some vanilla extract added at the end, but that might not give as nice a flavor as the spent vanilla pod would. 

You'll also notice that this recipe does not contain any liquid or powdered pectin. I prefer not to use it, as I feel it gives the jam a murky taste. I generally prefer the clean, bright flavor of fruit with a softer set to a firmer-set jam with cloudier flavor.

Slightly adapted from The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook.

Makes 6 to 7 8-ounce jars. 

Ingredients
2 pounds, 3 ounces (35 total ounces) pitted and halved yellow plums (to be mashed/pureed)
2 pounds, 5 ounces (37 total ounces) pitted yellow plums, halved
1 1/4 pounds plus 3/4 pound white cane sugar
2 to 6 ounces freshly squeezed lemon juice, strained
1 spent vanilla pod leftover from other cooking activities, or 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

Instructions

Day 1
In a large non-reactive bowl, layer the 2 pounds, 3 ounces of fruit with 1 1/4 pounds of sugar and 1 ounce of lemon juice. It is important to make sure each of piece of fruit is covered with the sugar and lemon juice. In another separate non-reactive bowl, combine the 2 pounds, 5 ounces of plums in the same manner with the remaining 3/4 pound of sugar and 1 ounce of lemon juice. For each container, press down a piece of plastic wrap against the fruit to prevent browning. Cover both bowls tightly and allow to macerate in the refrigerator for 24 hours. If you find that you can't get to it by then and need a little bit more time, that is fine as well.

Day 2
Place a saucer with a few metal teaspoons on it in the freezer. You will use this to test your jam later for doneness.

Remove plums from the refrigerator. Scrape the 2 pounds, 3 ounces of macerated plums into a large, non-reactive dutch-oven or other similar type of wide cooking vessel with high sides. Place over medium-high heat, stirring often until they soften, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and coarsely mash (I used a potato masher, but you can also use a food mill), breaking up larger chunks.

Add the uncooked, macerated plums. Taste the mixture. Very gradually add lemon juice as needed. Taste as you go. The flavor of the lemon juice should be present but not overpowering. The ideal is to be able to just detect the tartness of the lemon. 

Bring the jam mixture to a boil over high heat, stirring frequently with a large, heatproof spatula. Boil, stirring frequently until the jam thickens, 30 to 45 minutes. As the jam cooks, use a large stainless steel spoon to skim off foam from the surface. Discard. Scrape the bottom of the pan often. Very importantly, decrease the heat gradually as more and more moisture cooks out of the jam. Stir the jam slowly and steadily the last 10 minutes of cooking to prevent scorching.

When the jam is thickened, test it for doneness. Remove a spoon from the freezer and scoop a half-spoonful of jam with it then put it back in the freezer for 3 minutes. Remove and feel the underside of the spoon. It should be neither warm nor cold. If still warm, put it back in the freezer for another moment. When ready, hold the spoon vertically to see how quickly the jam runs. It is done when it is thick and gloppy. If it runs off the spoon, cook your jam for another five minutes, stirring, then test again.

Turn off the heat and don't stir the jam. If any foam remains, skim it off the surface. Add the vanilla pod by pressing it slightly down into the jam. Allow the jam to sit for 10 minutes, then pour the jam into prepared, sterilized containers (here's a nice how to), leaving behind the vanilla pod. 

Process the jars in boiling water for 10 minutes. Remove from water bath and place on a rack, with jars at least an inch apart. Allow to cool overnight without disturbing. This jam will last for one year.

The Lost Chihuahua & A Summer Cocktail

There's the saying that we should "pay attention to the signs." And then there are young children like my son, who are fascinated by the familiar, yet not always recognizable squiggles, lines, and edges written on an actual sign.

Two weeks ago, as we were driving past the lake by our house, Kingston pointed at a sign and asked, "What that say?"

This was one of several large yellow posters placed high up on telephone poles in the near vicinity. I'd seen them but hadn't given them much thought once I'd driven past.

I explained to Kingston that the sign in front of us was for a lost dog. Someone, maybe a family, had lost their chihuahua. Of course, I then had to explain what a chihuahua was, since he had never met one.

Over the following days, he became fascinated by the idea that a little black dog cherished by someone was gone, and that there was a person, perhaps an entire family, searching for it. 

He entered into this thought with the innate enthusiasm that is common to most three-and-a-half-year olds. For instance, he began to make up songs about the chihuahua and sing them loudly, not caring one iota where we were -- next to the dog treat section of Trader Joe's, in the library, at the park. Every version naturally included a rousing chorus that went, "Lost chihuahua, where are you?" (repeat at least twice)

Then, a day or two after his musical efforts began, Kingston informed us that he was a dog and that we should call him not by his given name, but by "Dog." As in, "Good boy, Dog," which we should say as we patted him on the head.

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Bedtime was also overtaken by the lost chihuahua, as together we wove ever-more elaborate tales about the poor, lost dog who was heartbroken over his separation from his beloved family, especially the boy who would snuggle with him every night in bed. How he missed his boy!

Such enthusiasm. What was it all about? What did it mean? 

Then last week, I was reading Maria Popova's wonderful, Brain Pickings, which featured a piece on the writer, Neil Gaiman. His insight on stories about animals and why children are drawn to them, resonated with me:

“Animals in fiction … are your first attempt to put your head into the “other” and to experience the other, the idea of another…

The most important thing that I think fiction does [is that] it lets us look out through other eyes … but it also gives us empathy. The act of looking out through other eyes tells us something huge and important, which is that other people exist.

[…]

One of the things that fiction can give us is just the realization that behind every pair of eyes, there’s somebody like us. And, perhaps, looking out through animal eyes, there’s somebody like us; looking out through alien eyes, there’s somebody like us.”

— Neil Gaiman

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Other people exist. There's somebody else like us. What Mr. Gaiman posits seems absolutely spot on.

I can't help but think of Kingston's fascination with the lost dog and the way he has taken to calling it the "poor, poor chihuahua." 

What if we could see the world as children again? Would we foster more empathy within ourselves if, as adults, we regularly practiced being a horse, a cat, or even...a black chihuahua? Would we end up being more loving, more fully realized human beings?

Could be. I say we give it a try.

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The Lost Chihuahua
My own imagination took over as I tried to think more about the chihuahua as a child might. The poor dog, separated from the people it loved needed a bit of comfort. Silly as this might sound, I thought it might like a cocktail to soothe its frazzled frou-frou soul. 

I thought it might find something bubbly like prosecco a suitable choice. Prosecco mixed with something fruity, maybe since it was living in this (our hippie) town, something "alive," possibly fermented. Maybe it would like a touch of an herb, say, a sprig or two of mint. 

This is how the Lost Chihuahua was found in the form of the perfect summer drink. While you are enjoying this light and fizzy beverage, don't forget to make a toast to the real lost chihuahua. Cheers!

Makes two drinks.

Ingredients
1/4 cup, homemade berry shrub (or substitute a purchased berry kombucha)
1 1/2  cups (14 oz.) Prosecco
two sprigs of mint, for garnish
a few berries of your choice, for garnish (I used alpine strawberries from my backyard)

Instructions
Pour half the shrub into each double-rocks glass already filled with ice. Add half the Prosecco to one glass, then the other half to the next glass. Give each drink a stir. Garnish with sprigs of mint and berries. That's it!

Snap Pea Salad with Red Chile, Feta, Mint and Lettuce

With all the beautiful produce showing up recently, it's been hard not to have salad on the brain. In fact, it's easy to start daydreaming about being Yotam Ottolenghi, the vegetable master, flipping all sorts of gorgeous possibilities around in my mind. Red chile? Snap peas? Feta? Yes.

There is much to hope for in a good salad. When seasonings and textures are in harmony and the freshest ingredients used, a salad can be invigorating. Uplifting, even. This is especially true on those hot days when we feel droopy to the point of not wanting to eat - or hope for - much of anything.

Salads can veer off into wild exuberance, with acidity, for instance, nearly taking over only to be pulled back from the edge by just the right amount of salt. Crunch can get piled on top of more crunchiness and crispness, each element steeped in its individual flavor. If they are put together right, a mouthful is bliss on a sunny day.

I know people like my neighbor, Heather, however, who dreads putting a salad together for fear of not doing it right or making it "too bland." I'm not sure where this fear comes from, but it must be set it aside. 

Those intimidated, would-be vegetable artists need to step up to the task of salad making with courage and determination. Not to do so would mean missing out on life.

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people," writes the very wise Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird.

But really, when it comes to warm weather produce and what to do with it, this line could be rewritten as: "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the salad."

This means, be brave and pull it together. Don't be afraid of making a salad with what you have. Don't worry too much about the outcome. Dare to let your veggies be great. 

Walk through the farmer's market or the produce section and grab what pleases you. If you are fortunate enough to be asked by a neighbor (such as mine) to water her garden while she is visiting Southern California or even have a small plot of your very own, pick what is ready and calling out to you. 

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Step back and gaze at the pile of things you have collected and thunked down on the counter. In what ways could they possibly be encouraged to live happily together?

Maybe just a dressing will do? The simplest one I can think of for a large head of lettuce washed, torn, and thrown into a bowl is made with the juice of half a lemon, a few glugs of good olive oil (twice as much as the juice) and a generous pinch of salt.

Knit them together with a quick, energetic whisking. If no lemon is in sight, a lime will work just as well. Or use a vinegar instead.

Taste as you go along. Make sure that you have yin to balance out the yang of your vegetables. If something is crisp, add an element that may be soft or silky. Tart? Add sour. Bitterness? Add sweetness. And so on. Just have fun with it and should anything go amiss, it can always be corrected. 

In the worst case, when you can't quite figure it out (with practice, this will happen with less and less frequency until it becomes a non-concern) you will at the very least, still have something fresh and healthy to eat.

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Snap Pea Salad with Red Chile, Feta, Mint and Lettuce
Our neighbors did ask me to water their veggie garden while they were away for ten days recently. They had plenty of snap peas, which I had to snatch away from Kingston, who ate them out of hand. I had the lettuce, chile, onion and a hunk of feta in the fridge already. Mint and tarragon were in my herb box on the back deck. So, this was a salad about using what I had. These, for me, are always the most enjoyable kinds of meals. Simplicity itself. 

Serves 3 to 4.

Ingredients
2 cups snap peas
1 small fresh red chile
1 small fresh banana pepper (optional)
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese
6 or 7 Boston or Butter lettuce leaves (larger, outer leaves)
Fresh mint, enough leaves to make 1 teaspoon when roughly chopped
Fresh tarragon, 1 sprig, leaves torn off
1 teaspoon black sesame seeds, plus more
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon olive oil
salt and pepper

Instructions
Cut snap peas on the diagonal into 1/2-inch pieces. Mince the red chile. Cut banana pepper lengthwise then again crosswise into thin pieces, about 1/8-inch each (if using). Roughly chop mint and tear or cut tarragon into small pieces.

Whisk together lemon juice and olive oil. Add salt to taste, keeping in mind hat the feta will add saltiness as well. Just a small pinch was enough for me.

Add torn lettuce pieces to the snap peas and peppers. Drizzle dressing over the veggies and scatter sesame seeds and then the feta. Add a grind or two of fresh black pepper. Toss salad gently but thoroughly with your hands or with tongs. Make sure all of the vegetables are coated with a bit of the dressing.

Serve in a big salad bowl or on individual plates. Scatter a pinch more of the sesame seeds over the salad before serving. Eat immediately.

Roasted Blueberry and Lemon Balm Ice Cream

Blueberries are the friendliest and easiest to love of all the berry types available to us here in Western Washington. Sweet, slightly tart and free of tiny seeds or pits, when the blues are plentiful, we snack on them all day. 

We freeze pounds and pounds of them every summer. Usually they lasts us until about February, March if we're lucky.

Last August, Kingston and I were down at Bow Hill Blueberry Farm picking enough beautiful organic fruit to keep us happy through the cold months.

After our busy morning, our trunk packed with fruit, we paused for some ice cream. Kingston hopped around on the bench out front, eager for us to dig into the single-serving container. Together, we scooped up the creamy goodness with tiny wooden spatulas. 

The ice cream was made by a certain San Juan Island purveyor. It was just the right temperature for cooling off on an already warm morning. We both certainly enjoyed it a lot. But as I was eating it, I kept thinking that I wanted more of that spark of cheerful blueberry flavor.

So, when we opened this week's box from our CSA to find the first of this season's blueberries, last summer's blueberry ice cream at Bow Hill popped into my mind. A note in the CSA box suggested that we make blueberry shortcakes, but I had other ideas of course. Ice cream!

And off I went.

Inspired by my favorte ice cream maker, David Liebovitz, I drizzled Lyle's Golden Syrup over the berries and put them in the oven. After half an hour, the downstairs of our house smelled intensely like blueberries. The extra water content in the berries had oozed out and evaporated, leaving behind a thick purple syrup alive with berry flavor.

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A bunch of lemon balm was also in our CSA box. I tore off a leaf and bit into it to discover a deep lemony aroma with strong floral notes. Blueberry and lemon are ideal partners. The lemon balm, which contains both herbaceous and floral scents, would add a citrusy quality with undertones of more.

This is an ice cream with deep blueberry flavor. Each bite is full of the whole, roasted berries which are both toothsome and fruity.

Kingston and I served this to his Dad and his Uncle Jack, who is also a Dad, for Father's Day. The guys ate everything without uttering a word. 

"Does it taste blueberry-ish enough?" I dared to ask while they were still eating.

Silence. Then, nods all around. 

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Blueberry and Lemon Balm Ice Cream
A perfect treat for Father's Day, Midsummer's Day, or any time, really. It's for anyone who loves blueberry flavor, plus more.

Adapted from David Liebovitz.

Ingredients:

For the roasted blueberries:
1 lb. blueberries, fresh or frozen
2 tablespoons Lyle's Golden Syrup (or substitute honey)

For the ice cream custard:
1 3/4 cup whole milk
1/2 cup (100 g) sugar
2 teaspoons finely chopped lemon balm
3 strips of lemon zest
1 cup heavy whipping cream
5 egg yolks

Instructions:

For the blueberries:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Place blueberries in one roasting pan (use two if needed) large enough so that the berries remain in a single layer. Drizzle the Golden Syrup over the berries. Place in the preheated oven and roast for 30-35 minutes, stirring at least once. Roast until the berries have given up some of their liquid and a thick, purple syrup has formed. Place berries in a container and set aside to cool.

Blueberries may be prepared up to three days ahead.

For the ice cream custard:
In a large bowl, prepare an ice bath. Place a smaller bowl in the ice bath and set a fine-meshed strainer on top. Pour heavy cream through the sieve into the bowl.

In a small saucepan, combine sugar and milk. On medium-low heat, warm the mixture. When warm, add the lemon balm and lemon zest. Turn off heat, cover with lid, and allow flavors to infuse for 30 minutes.

After the 30 minutes, reheat the milk over medium-low heat until it is hot, Stir together egg yolks. Add a few tablespoons of milk to the yolks and stir quickly. Add a bit more milk and stir again. This warms up the egg yolks and prevents them from curdling.

Pour the yolk mixture into the heated milk-sugar mixture and stir quickly using a heat-proof spatula. Continue stirring and scraping the bottom. This will prevent lumps and clumps from forming. As you stir and scrape, you will eventually notice that the bottom is becoming easier to scrape. It almost feels silky, as if the spatula is gliding across the bottom of the saucepan. This is a sign that your custard is nearly done. It is fully done when the mixture coats the spatula.

Pour the custard through the sieve and into the bowl of cream. Mix quickly and vigorously so that everything is combined and cools slightly. Cover the bowl and place in the refrigerator to cool completely. Overnight is best.

When the mixture has thoroughly cooled, place it in your ice cream maker and churn according to manufacturer's instructions. Once you have started the churning, add the blueberry mixture. When done with churning, place the finished ice cream in a freezer-proof container and put in the freezer for a few hours to harden a bit more.

Serve plain or with some fresh berries, and garnish with lemon balm leaves.

A Roasted Tomato Sandwich

It might seem over the top to use the word "thrilling" to describe the end-of-summer arrival of a ripe tomato.

Yet, I would argue that when you reside in a place where clouds and rain are abundant for at least nine months out of the year, the brightness that a tomato imparts to your existence is no small thing.

When the tomato finally goes from green and rock-like to red and giving it's...well, thrilling. 

So, I'm going to eat up as many as I can until they disappear.

One of my favorite ways is to roast them in the oven. Adding heat draws out juices and brings to the fore their full, savory umami-ness -- that fifth taste (along with sweet, salty, sour and bitter of course) first described by a Japanese chemist in 1908 -- umami from the Japanese word for deliciousness, umai .

While this tomato sandwich might seem simple, plain even, its flavors are most definitely delicious. Everything surrounding the thick slab of caramelized, collapsed fruit adds to its umami quality and makes the tomato shine even brighter. 

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Snug and cozy in their pan.

These tomatoes will smell incredible while they are cooking, snugged together and dressed with olive oil, garlic and herbs. The scent of the roasting tomatoes will attract comments of longing by family members and even neighbors, who may be walking past your house. 

Invite said people into the kitchen. Call out, wave them in. There is surely enough to go around.

Let them watch as you assemble the sandwiches.

Use good bread. A crusty roll is best. Let it become saturated with golden juices and olive oil, which only underscore the tomato flavor. Mayo flecked with thyme leaves adds richness. Be generous with it. 

Cut the beauties in half, trying not to squish the tomatoes too much.  

This sandwich is for eating outside. A front or back step is good. And in the sun, people. 

Hand portions to those eager to receive. Eat together in a silence punctuated only by moans of approval as the juices drip down hands, arms and onto bare, sun-warmed knees. 

Summer is at its end. We all know that. 

But sometime during the darkness of winter, you will surely remember this moment, your mouth watering, your heart filled with light.

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Summer perfection: Tomatoes at their peak.

Roasted Tomato Sandwich with Thyme Mayonaise

Serves 4.

Ingredients
4 Medium-to-Large Tomatoes
Olive Oil
Salt and pepper to taste
2 Garlic cloves, sliced
3 to 4 Sprigs of fresh thyme
4 Good-quality, crusty rolls

For the Thyme Mayonaise:
1/2 cup (or more, according to your preference) of mayonaise, store-bought or homemade
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme

Directions:
Cut large tomatoes into fat slabs. Smaller tomatoes can be simply halved. Snug them into a baking pan.

Give them a generous pour of olive oil then add a few drops of balsamic vinegar.

Sprinkle over the tomatoes hearty pinches of coarse salt and pepper.

Tuck garlic between and under tomatoes. Toss on top a few sprigs of fresh thyme.

To Assemble Sandwiches:
Combine mayonaise and thyme.

Cut roll in half. Generously spread mayonaise on each cut side. Place two (or more) tomato slabs onto the roll. Add additional salt, pepper, olive oil as desired. Place other half of roll on sandwich. 

Enjoy!

P.S. While we are on the subject of the last of summer's ripe tomatoes, it would be negligent of me not to remind you to make April Bloomfield's summer tomato soup. For me, this soup is perfection itself. Don't tell anyone, but I always end up standing by the stove, scraping the bottom of the pot with a rubber spatula and licking the last bits off of it. This is after I've already eaten bowls of the stuff. Yes, it's that good.