On Not Learning to Can

It turns out that if you only have a pound and a half of fruit to work with, today is not the day you must learn how to can. I was kind of excited at the prospect of learning a new skill, which is really a very old skill. I was all set to go to Rainbow and pick up some fresh lids for the growing stash of Ball jars I have in my cabinets (thanks to friends & family who give me wonderful presents like apricot pie filling, pickled jalapenos, and pear butter). I even bought myself a book at the Strand, one of those old Time Life series titles about canning & preserving. But it turns out all I needed was Joy. And fruit, and sugar, and lemon juice.

First the fruit.

My share for the week had included a pound and a half (roughly) of white nectarines. Lovely things, but I don’t get excited about nectarines the way I do about peaches. And, contrary to my usual tastes about heirlooms and less common varieties, I prefer standard yellow to white. So I wasn’t gung-ho about eating these as is, as a simple dessert, or sliced over yogurt. Which led me to the conclusion: jam. Or, really, preserves, because once I figured out I didn’t have to buy new lids for cans, I was not about to create an extra errand for myself and go buy pectin. I already had lemons and sugar, and I do not like to go shopping unless I have at LEAST two things on my list. This rule sometimes causes me to invent needs for myself when I’m out of toilet paper.

In any case, the fruit must be pitted, peeled, and sliced. If it’s very ripe, the peeling part ought to be easy–the skins slip right off–but if not, cut a shallow X in the bottom of each nectarine and dunk them in boiling water for about 30 seconds. And THEN they’ll slip right off. Put thinnish slices (or maybe smallish chunks? I don’t know–I’m new at this) in a large-ish, heavy pot with lemon juice and sugar. Toss together, cover, and refrigerate for a couple of hours.

After which time they’ll look something like this:

and you can listen to your girlfriend giggle when you tell her that you have macerated fruit in a pot.

Bring it to a simmer and cook the crap out of it. This is where it becomes very important to use a heavy-bottomed pot, because things will burn and stick and caramelize otherwise. Caramelized preserves aren’t actually a terrible thing it turns out, but the pot might be a pain to clean. It will take an hour or so to get to the right stage. The standard method of testing for the sugar/water ratio is to put a small plate in the freezer, and drop a little spoonful of the jam/preserves on it just as you take it out. If it’s cooked enough, it will firm up. If not, keep going and try again in 5 minutes.

At the end, you will have preserves!

1 pound makes about 1 cup, or so it seems to me. It is excellent on English muffins, or stirred into yogurt, or on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or on a fancy cheese plate. Don’t worry about the whole canning thing just yet–a cup and a half of homemade preserves won’t last long enough to go bad.

Why Yes, I Am on a Popsicle Kick

This is one of those “so simple it hardly counts as a recipe” recipes, but it lets me use my popsicle mold again, so I’m writing about it anyway.

Find some nectarines. Or peaches, which are really exactly the same thing, except that nectarines have the fuzz allele set in the “off” position. Did you know that? I had always thought, or been told, or somehow else believed that a nectarine was a cross between a peach and a plum. I am kind of gullible when it comes to origin myths of produce, though (cf. urban legends about broccoli). So maybe this is common knowledge.

End tangent.

Actually, you can use just about any fruit you like, but it’s got to be utterly, gorgeously, drippingly ripe. (If it’s not, then there is an extra step in which you cook the fruit with the lemon and honey, but that dirties a pot and takes time, and it’s just much easier and better to start with properly ripe fruit, yes?)

If it is something like a peach or a nectarine, you will probably want to peel it. If it is something like a blackberry, not so much.

Either way, chop it up, and add it to some plain yogurt. Whole milk yogurt would be great; low-fat is also great. Non-fat yogurt is generally not something you find in my refrigerator (unless it’s Greek or Icelandic, which isn’t really what you want here) but I’m sure if you’re the kind of person who likes non-fat yogurt, then it will serve just fine in this preparation.

Squeeze in a little lemon juice, drizzle in a few tablespoons of honey, and add a pinch of salt (everything needs a pinch of salt). Taste to make sure you’ve got the right sweet/tart ratio, and pour into your popsicle molds.

You know what also works here? Those tall shooters that are sold as vodka glasses. Also, smallish paper or plastic cups. You just need popsicle sticks, then. Or whatever is lying around. (The 4th popsicle stick here comes from a novelty ice cube tray, because the last one that came with this kit was still in use.)

Next popsicle project: kulfis, which are a traditional Indian dessert, flavored with cardamom, saffron, and pistachios. (Thanks, P., for the idea!)

Nectarine Popsicles
Makes more than 4

1 c plain yogurt
1 c diced nectarines (or, you know, whatever)
1 Tbsp lemon juice
2-4 Tbsp honey, depending on your taste and the sweetness of the fruit
a pinch of salt

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Check for sweetness. Pour into your popsicle molds and freeze. If you are using cups and popsicle sticks, freezer for a half an hour, then put the popsicle sticks into the cups and put back in the freezer until they’re solid.

Foreign Wordplay

I do not speak French. I understand a few words, mostly food-related, but I can’t even have a basic conversation about the weather. I like language, though, and playing with words, so I completely understood La Tartine Gourmande’s post about her husband’s wondering if “clafoutir” was a word, the verb form of “clafoutis.” (I have a similar question about why “nagemi” isn’t a word, since “ukemi” is, but that is not a subject for a food blog, and I don’t have an aikido blog. Mostly they just give me funny looks at the dojo when I say things like that.)

The construction of “clafoutir” makes perfect sense to me. Clafoutis is a pretty adaptable recipe. The classic is with cherries, but I’ve made it with Italian prune plums on several occasions, and I think really any stone fruit would work. I’ve also seen recipes for savory versions.  All you need is a runny, eggy batter (something like crepe batter) poured over something you like to eat. And shouldn’t there really be a word to describe the process of turning cherries/plums/tomatoes/bacon & cheese from plain ingredients into delicious clafoutis? Alas, there is not. But if the French won’t let us add words to their dictionary willy-nilly, then I think we’ll just have to haul this one into English.

Monday night, for example, G. and I “clafoutied” some white nectarines. (There, see how easy it is? Give it a chance to get picked up into common parlance and the quotations marks will be removed.) It was a beautiful thing.

I’d done a run to Kalustyan’s earlier that day, and decided that my pantry was not complete without orange flower water. Which turned out to be a perfect accentuation to the floral sweetness of white nectarines. That was really the only gilt on this lily. But honestly, clafoutis isn’t a dessert that needs much adornment to be wonderful, especially when you’re starting with fresh summer fruit. Maybe a dusting of confectioner’s sugar, if you happen to have some lying around. Or a little peach sorbet on the side, since otherwise it would just be languishing in the freezer…

Incidentally, to those of you who know me as a strict linguistic prescriptivist, and have heard me rail against using “quote” as a noun, or the verb “orientate”: hold your tongues, please. I have different standards for other languages. If you want me to make you clafoutis, you’ll let me talk about it however I like.

White Nectarine Clafoutis
serves 4-6, depending on how generous you are

3/4 lb white nectarines (or peaches)
1 1/2 Tbsp sweet Marsala
1/3 cup plus 2 tsp sugar, divided
3 large eggs
3/4 cup milk
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled, plus more for buttering the baking dish
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 tsp orange flower water
Confectioner’s sugar for dusting

9″x9″ baking dish

Cut the fruit into chunks (fine to leave the skin on) and toss with the marsala and the 2 tsp of sugar. Let sit. (This step can be done well ahead of time. In that case, stick the fruit mixture directly into the freezer; it will macerate as it defrosts, which will take the better part of a day in the fridge.)
Preheat the oven to 400F and butter the baking dish.
Beat together the sugar, eggs, milk, melted butter, flour, salt, and orange flower water. Place the fruit into the prepared baking dish, and mix the liquid that remains in the fruit bowl into the batter. Pour the batter over the fruit, and stick the dish in the oven for 35 minutes, until nicely browned. Remove from the oven and let cool for 10 minutes. Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar and serve.