Setting

  • The Markets: Any of the farmers markets in Chicago that I work throughout the week.
  • The Orchard (aka the Farm): 81 acres in Southwest Michigan, about 2.5 hours from Chicago.

 

Cast of characters

  • Peter: My boss and chief fruit slinger.
  • Lupe: Farm foreman. Lives at the orchard and directs the day-to-day agricultural labor.
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    2009 Categories

    Entries in cherries (5)

    Thursday
    16Jul2009

    Cherry vodka

    I was in my kitchen, tying up loose cherry ends — pitting the sour cherries left over from the sour cherry preserves, along with the sweet cherries I had hauled home from the market to snack on. Both were going on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and then into the freezer for an hour. From there, they'd end up in labeled and dated zip-top bags.

    But then I stopped halfway through my pitting and reached for two pint jars from the cabinet. One, I filled with sour cherries. The other I filled with sweet cherries. Both I filled with vodka.

    And that's it.

    The jars are stashed in the cabinet. In a week or so I'll check on them. If the vodka is tasty, I'll strain out the fruit and put the jars of vodka in the freezer.

    Last year, I made four infused vodkas: blueberry, melon, blackberry, and raspberry. Blackberry was the winner, with blueberry a strong second .

    The muskmelon vodka was disappointing. It had a striking melon flavor, but the unpleasant muskiness came too quickly forward. I'm not even sure we finished the bottle.

    I don't expect that problem with the cherry vodkas.

    Friday
    10Jul2009

    Jamlady, call me

    I've been immersed in jam cookbooks lately. Here are brief reviews of three.

    Blue Ribbon Preserves

    You can see where Blue Ribbon Preserves would be a conceit. As in, here is how to make preserves that are worthy of a blue ribbon, although, of course, you will not actually be entering them in a jam competition to win a blue ribbon.

    There could be a cookbook out there with that conceit. But this is not it. This book is actually a guide on how to make jams that will — when you actually enter a jam competition — win a blue ribbon. There are long passages on exhibition rules, tips on how to label your jars, and an exploration of the Danish and American systems of scoring.

    But there are also many, many good recipes and a lot of solid information on how to improve your jams. I can recommend this cookbook as a good supplement to the standby, the Ball Blue Book of Preserving.

    Also, while author Linda J. Amendt is passionate about her jams and preserves, she does not appear to be insane. You will see why this is important in a moment.

    The Jamlady Cookbook

    Jamlady is crazy. How do we know that Jamlady is crazy? Jamlady refers to herself in the third person throughout The Jamlady Cookbook. Jamlady's full name is Beverly Ellen Schoonmaker Alfeld. So you can see why she does not refer to herself as Beverly Ellen Schoonmaker Alfeld in each recipe. But still.

    Here are but a few examples of what I am talking about. (Notice my deft use of the first person.)

    Jamlady has included this rhubarb-nutmeg recipe to illustrate rhubarb jam made with powdered pectin.

    and

    Jamlady has not fully investigated chestnut jams or chestnuts preserved in alcohol, as she cannot can chestnut jam in a RWB so that it can be sold at market and she has no liquor license to sell alcoholic products at market.

    An RWB, for those of you unfamiliar with Jamlady's terminology, is a rolling water bath. It is what many of us would call boiling water. And again: Jamlady, for those of you unfamiliar with Jamlady's terminology, is Beverly Ellen Schoonmaker Alfeld.

    Earlier, I stated that Jamlady is crazy. I need to revisit that. She may not be — she is probably not! — crazy. She's probably a very nice lady. (Jamlady, call me.) This book has so much good information and so many interesting recipes that I almost want to recommend it.

    But it is extremely disconcerting to read a recipe — let alone an entire book — in which the writer refers to herself in the third person.

    It's enough to make you lose your mind.

    Take it from Fruit Slinger.

    Mes Confitures

    Though ordinarily I might hesitate to recommend a cookbook that I cannot pronounce, I enthusiastically recommend Christine Ferber's Mes Confitures. This is the book from which the strawberry-raspberry preserves with balsamic vinegar and black pepper were taken, and it's the book that inspired the black raspberry and wild strawberry with chocolate preserves that I made today.

    This is probably not the first jam cookbook that you want to own, but it is a devastatingly beautiful and inspirational work.

    If you're getting at all serious about jam-making or want something to which to aspire, you want this book on your shelf.

    * * *

    This isn't really the sort of blog where I talk about the restaurants I go to.

    However.

    The other night my friend Sarah was in town. For dinner, we went to Carnivale.

    The food was fantastic. The hospitality was unbeatable. It's been a long time since I'd eaten that well.

    Beyond the commitment to sustainability and locally sourced ingredients, what struck me in nearly everything we ate was the olive oil.

    It brought to mind standing at a public telephone in Seville, Spain. I was there with my mom. A few years before, I had spent my junior year in college there.

    Being there in college changed me. One of the ways in which it changed me was introducing me to olive oil.

    Now, a few years had gone by and I had brought my mom there.

    It was raining a lot and my mom and I weren't seeing much of the city, unfortunately. I was at the public telephone because I was dialing directory assistance. I asked for the number of an olive oil factory in Baena, a town about 200km away. That's where my favorite olive oil was made. The name of the company was Nuñez de Prado. I got the phone number and when I was connected, I asked if they gave tours. Not really, I was told, but I was welcome to visit.

    My mom and I showed up. We got a tour from Francisco Nuñez de Prado. It was great. 

    Somewhere in a photo album in a closet is a photograph of me standing in front of a stark white wall with the Nuñez de Prado sign over my shoulder. I'm grinning like an idiot.

    It's the same look I had at Carnivale.

    * * *

    It is regrettably churlish to mention that you can still contribute to this blog's Kickstarter project — a Kickstarter project that is to my genuine surprise and utter delight overfunded. But there are only a few days left and so I am mentioning it one last time. What does an overfunded fruit blogger spend the money on? The same camera, actually. A macro lens. A flash.

    Really, at this point, I'm not asking for money. But I'm telling you that if you wanted to contribute, there are only a few days left.

    Sunday
    05Jul2009

    "Would you like to throw in some cherries?"

    "Five dollars for the blueberries. Would you like to make it $9 and throw in some cherries?"

    "I was looking at those. They look good."

    "They are good. They are very good."

    "The problem is that I'm not sure if I'm going to eat them."

    "Oh?"

    "Yeah, because I'm going out of town."

    "Well, if it were me, I'd just stay home and eat cherries."

    Wednesday
    01Jul2009

    "I'll let you have the final word on that."

    "What are we going to do with all these raspberries?" Peter surveyed the table — so many unsold baskets on yet another gray, rainy market day.

    "Well, I can pay you for some of them," I offered.

    What was this new thing I had with paying for fruit? I had already bought another $10 worth of strawberries off another stand today.

    This was becoming a bad habit.

    Peter looked at me. "I think we're beyond where you need to pay for fruit."

    He caught me a little off guard. "Well, I just meant it's a lot of berries and ..."

    "We are beyond you paying me for fruit," he said, matter-of-factly.

    "I'll let you have the final word on that, Peter."

    I took home three quarts of strawberries, two pints of blueberries, two pints of raspberries and two pints of cherries. I try to be conscientious when I take fruit — if something's left over or abundant, that's one thing. If my taking it deprives the farm of a revenue opportunity, that's another. 

    Today, I deprived the farm of a few small revenue opportunities.

    Oh, maybe yesterday, too: I took home three baskets of fraises des bois.

    But Peter told me to take those home. In fact, it was the first thing he said to me Saturday morning, when we threw open the back of the truck and found the flats of wild strawberries stacked on the edge.

    "Don't you think you should take some of these home and make jam out of them?"

    Yes, Peter. In fact, I do think that.

    Yes, I do.

    Monday
    22Jun2009

    "Are they safe to eat?"

    Uh oh.

    I flicked the light switch again. Nothing happened. On. Off. On. Off.

    It was still dark. No electricity.

    I stumbled downstairs to brush my teeth. No water, either.

    I walked outside the house. Huge branches had been torn off of trees and tossed on the ground. Trees had split in half. Some were uprooted. Cherries lay on the ground.

    I walked onto the street. Power lines were down. 

    This was all Friday morning. The storm had hit overnight Thursday. I could hear it raging, feel the house shaking. But I didn't realize quite how bad it had been until I got out of bed the next morning.

    Lupe and the guys spent most of the day Friday cleaning up, taking the chainsaw to fallen limbs and hauling away debris.

    "Maybe I can go into town and get some iron rods," Lupe said. "Then I can right the trees and bind them up."

    "Good idea," I said.

    When I left for the market Saturday morning, there was still no power at the farm.

    * * *

    I thought I was early. And I was. Just not Peter early.

    I got off the expressway at 3.50, about a five-minute drive from the market. Peter and I had agreed to get to the market just before 4.30.

    "Sweet! I have time to go to Starbucks!" I thought.

    I parked, ran in, got a decaf latte and jumped back into the truck.

    When I pulled up at the market, I could make out Peter wrestling a tent into position.

    "You're early!" he said to me.

    "I'm early? You're early! I thought I had time for a coffee before you got here ..."

    "Take your time! Have your coffee!" Peter wasn't being passive-aggressive. He meant it.

    I dipped a shortbread cookie in my latte while I watched Peter drag out more supplies from the van.

    But I couldn't really take it anymore.

    I poured the rest of the latte into my thermos and threw open the back of the truck to start unloading.

    Two hours later, we were set up and I finished my latte. 

    * * *

    "Chef!"

    I spun around and saw Peter talking to a big-name chef I hadn't seen at this particular market in ages, but whom I often saw on Sundays.

    "I don't usually see you at this market," Peter said to him.

    "Well, yeah. I sort of try not to come here because I spend the whole time talking to people."

    Ugh. Tell me about it. I spend the whole time talking to people, too.

    No good can come of it.

    Like when I heard this question again and again this weekend:

    "Are they safe to eat?"

    This was in reference to the fraises des bois.

    Yes, they're perfectly safe to eat. I mean, honestly, if you gave the question half a second's thought, wouldn't you realize there's only one logical answer? They're set out on a table at a farmers market. We're charging $7 a half-pint for them. They're safe to eat.

    And then later, someone else: "Are they safe to eat?"

    I should have said, "No! My God! You didn't eat one did you!? Tell me you didn't have one!"

    And then later, once more with someone else: "Are they safe to eat?"

    "Yes, they're safe to eat. You can try one if you'd like."

    "So they're safe to eat?"

    "Yes!"

    "Well, I wasn't sure. You know, with my irritable bowel ..."

    Stop.

    Just stop.