Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig

I've decided that, since I have expended more than enough energy complaining about phx summers, I should start trying to look on the bright side and appreciate all those things about months of triple-digit temperatures that are not terrible and utterly soul-destroying.  These things include a renewed appreciation for seasonality; mighty haboobs; the fact that a cold beer never tastes as good as it does on a hot, summer day; monsoon season and the awesome thunderstorms that come with it; and figs.

Yes, even in the depths of summer, when it seems more likely that fruits would spontaneously combust than ripen, figs manage to survive.  Of course, fig season lasts all of a week, and given that we were in and out of town over the course of June and July, I was sure I had missed it.  Imagine my surprise and glee when I saw some figs at the grocery store.  There weren't the figs I had been dreaming of, being from California and not totally at the peak of ripeness, but nonetheless I snapped up a couple of packages, visions of figgy delights dancing through my head.

The figgy gods must have been smiling upon me, because when I went to the farmers' market the following day, what did I see?  More figs!  I obviously bought a dozen and, given the bounty of figs I had received, declared the (smaller, sweeter, riper) phx figs to be for mostly-unadulterated consumption only.  These little figgy jewels, along with some fresh nectarines, were coated with a wee bit of olive oil and grilled (on my decade-plus old George Foreman grill, because that's how we roll in city apartments sans balcony) and served on little baguette crostinis of goat cheese and the briefest of sprinkles of black Hawaiian salt (for the figs) and strawberry balsamic vinegar (for the nectarines).

There were more.  They were eaten before the camera could get to them.

As for the other figs, they became part of Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig, which was my attempt at making balsamic figgy jam.  I have written about the only other time I tried (and failed) to make jam; even with my less-than-stellar record of jam production, I figured that a figgy sauce would be an acceptable outcome.  To be perfectly honest, as long as I did not set the figs on fire, I was pretty sure I'd be happy.

To start, stem and quarter 2 lbs. of figs.  In a large, heavy pot, bring the 1 c. water and the figs to a boil, then let simmer for 5 minutes or so, until the figs get soft.  Using a potato masher, crush the figs to whatever consistency you desire.  Add 1 c. sugar, 1/2 c. balsamic vinegar, and 1/4 c. lemon juice, then return to a boil.  Reduce the heat and let the figs simmer until they thicken up, but aren't dry.

Now, the recipe suggested that this thickening process would take 20 minutes.  This is a blatant falsehood.  Perhaps the original author had magical figs, or was a wizard, or something, but I had to simmer those figs for at least an hour to get the sugars working.  See, figs are a low-pectin food, and if you are like me and stubborn and impatient and not about to waste precious figgy time with tracking down packets of pectin,  you just have to persevere and TRUST THE FIGS.  Rather than go by cooking time, the best way to check for the doneness of your jam is to do the gel test.  My method is to pop a small plate into the freezer when you start the simmer; when you think the figs are properly thickened, get your plate and spoon a small dollop of the jam onto it.  When the jam cools (you can use the refrigerator to speed up the process), tilt the plate—if the jam doesn't move, it's good to go.  If the jam is still runny, leave it to simmer for another couple of minutes and try again.  I promise: it will set.  Eventually.

After much testing and cursing and fretting, you should end up with this:

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig is GO.

Dark, sticky, unctuous figgy jam.  The sweetness is subtle, undercut by the pleasant tanginess of the balsamic.  With a little less sugar and the addition of some rosemary, it could make a fine savory jam.  As it is, it's delicious on toast points with goat cheese, alone on toast, with a little almond butter for a twist on the old pb&j (I call it the Elitist Breakfast), on (or in) scones...basically, it's just good.  And it's a nice little reminder of the good life during a desert summer (if you don't melt first).

AW80D - Preserved Lemons

I will be honest:  I'm not sure how I feel about this installment of AW80D.  Maybe it's because preserved lemons aren't something that you enjoy out-of-hand — they're a condiment, and thus really only come into their own when combined with something more substantial.  It's like a recipe for ketchup (which, admittedly, I've also already discussed), and as such, using this as one of the recipes almost feels like cheating; it's not really a dish, which is what the title of this series suggests I am promising.  Also, I'm posting about it before I can even confirm that the preserved lemons are a success, and that seems a little risky.  These things take at least three weeks to ferment; what if, at the end of the process, it turns out that I made some horrible mistake and the lemons become sentient and attempt a hostile coup?  That's clearly something I should warn you all about, lest you make the same mistakes; I can always update as time goes on, but by then, it might be too late.  And I certainly don't want this humble blog to be Patient Zero, infecting you with binary zombie lemon disease, resulting in some terrible dystopian futureworld.

However, I finally decided to do a little write-up, because 80 dishes is a lot and I shouldn't be too picky and should fill up the recipes slots with whatever is available, and besides, the possibility of my creating a new life form seems negligible (though I am not good at statistics, so don't ask to see my data on this matter).  Also, preserved lemons are an integral part of North African cooking, something I will almost certainly need for other dishes, and I like the idea of attempting to make all parts of the food I discuss be as from-scratch as possible (one of the many benefits of my privileged life of leisure as the trophy wife of a...grad student?).  Also also, preserved lemons seem pricey, and regular lemons are dirt cheap during the Arizona citrus season (which is coming to a close), and this seems like a nice, relatively inexpensive way to keep a little bit of the phx winter with me as the blazing summer months approach.

OK, so, to begin, gather ye lemons while ye may, along with a cinnamon stick, a bay leaf, a few whole cloves, kosher salt, and a suitable boy jar.  As you can see, I am using an old sauerkraut jar, because we (I) are essentially packrats who do not part with anything that could potentially be used as part of a grand storage scheme.

If any of the Frank's people are reading, I am open to endorsement deals.

You should always be sure to sterilize your jar before use, because even though the vast quantities of salt should be enough to keep any critters at bay, you don't want to risk contamination with any food that you'll be leaving to sit out for weeks.  I filled the jar with boiling water, covered the jar lid (sitting next to the jar in the plastic dish) with additional boiling water, and let them both sit while I prepared the lemons; this admittedly seems like a half-assed sterilization method, but it's worked for me so far.  (You can also use a dishwasher, or submerge everything in boiling water, or use a low heat setting on your oven [though I would be careful of this last option if the jar lids are not fully metallic]).  Once the jar seems acceptably germ-free, drain and dry, and then add the spices.

On to the lemons.  First, slice off the ends of the lemon.

Cutco people!  I will totally shill for you if you send me a new knife block.  (Corey:  this means you.)

Next, you want to slice the lemons into wedges, but leave the base intact. 

Like this.

The lemon should be cut into six wedges, then gently pulled apart to facilitate salting.  For six or seven lemons, you'll want about 1/2 cup salt (sea or kosher seem to be the preferred varieties; I used kosher salt that may very well have made the trip out when we moved cross-country).

Pre-salting.  Tip:  Do NOT salt the lemons if you have a paper cut.  Ouch.

Rub the salt into the wedges, covering as much of the flesh as possible.  Once sufficiently salted, add the lemons to your jar, pushing and squeezing them to extract the juice and pack as many in as possible.  Juice any extra lemons and use the juice (or bottled lemon juice) to cover the jarred lemons.  Any leftover salt can also be added now.  Use the rind from one of the juiced lemons to help push down the lemons (they should all be completely submerged), then screw on the lid.

Ready for the pantry, or perhaps the citrus rebellion.

And there you have it.  Pop these bad boys into a cool, dark place and let the salts and acids do their thing.  The lemons should be ready to go in three to four weeks; in the meantime, you'll want to give the jar a good shake every day or so to help re-dissolve any salts that precipitate out.

Expect to see these little balls of sunshine-in-a-jar in a near(ish) future post, at which point I will let you know how they've turned out.  That, or my fears will be realized and I will be welcoming our new citrus overlords; just in case, I would like to point out now that, as a trusted blog personality, I can be helpful in rounding up others to toil in their underground sugar caves.

PRACTICE SAFE EATING: ALWAYS USE A CONDIMENT.* (ALSO, FOOD PORN, BUT NOT THAT KIND OF FOOD PORN, SICKO)

Right now, I have a potato rösti in the oven, which will hopefully be a tasty brunch on a crisp disconcertingly hot autumn Sunday.

But I am not here to discuss potatoes.  I am here to talk about condiments, specifically ketchup and mustard, specifically specifically how to make them.

Now, the funny thing about this is that I've never actually liked ketchup or mustard† (or any condiment, really, save for maybe aioli, and I'm not sure that's even really a condiment in the same sense as ketchup or mustard, though it is mayonnaise, which is a condiment, which I also dislike, so I JUST DON'T KNOW).  BUT, I do like a challenge, and the concept of making ketchup and mustard seemed so quaint and useless that I obviously had to try it.

MUSTARD
I've recently come to accept mustard as an ingredient in things (what with mustard seeds/oil comprising its own food group in the Bengali food pyramid), though I'm still suspicious of mustard on sandwiches and hotdogs, but given how I don't really eat sandwiches or hotdogs, I don't worry too much about it.  We used to have tiny jars of Grey Poupon in the fridge for use as an emulsifier in salad dressings, but one day we ran out and decided, "Well, we have pounds of mustard seeds – why not just make mustard?".§

Now, if you have ever had that talk with your parents about Where Mustard Comes From, you'll know that making standard yellow mustard (akin to the kind that my parents seem to keep in the fridge for years) is very simple: take mustard powder, mix water, maybe add some vinegar if you're feeling sassy.  Voila!—Mustard.  However, I decided to make wholegrain mustard, because I am hardcore and like spending three days to make food I may never actually eat.

This is what the mustard looks like.

Yay for hoarding jars!

As for taste, I actually have no idea.  We haven't needed any since we made it (during the Time Without Mustard, we moved away from emulsifying salad dressings, and haven't yet gone back).  But it looks like mustard and smells like mustard, which means we are at least two for three here.  (Still, I'm a little scared of it.  I've taken a sniff, and it sort of burns my nose; I'm a tiny bit concerned about what it will do to my esophagus.)

KETCHUP
Though I had my ketchup consumption limited when I was young, my mother did not do the same with my younger brother, who took to ketchup with a will that I have not seen equaled.  He put it on everything; he probably would have put in on salad, had we ever eaten any, or pancakes, if that wasn't disgusting even for him.  I'm sure that part of my aversion to ketchup stems from his overenthusiasm.  I have terrifying memories of washing off plates simply covered in ketchup, like some horrible crime scene where the french fries or mac and cheese suffered a gruesome fate at the hands of a deranged psychopath.

So you can see why I was so excited to make some.

I've occasionally tried ketchup since then, often by accident and usually when I'm sharing a plate of fries and my half gets infiltrated by the Red Menace.  I still can't see the appeal of ketchup – it's overly sweet and, for something made of so many tomatoes (and classified as a vegetable for the purposes of school lunch pyramids), it tastes nothing like tomatoes.   And I like tomatoes.

While back in New York this summer, I started watching re-runs of Jamie at Home, a cooking show about the exploits of Jamie Oliver and a loveable hobo^ as they garden their way into good food.  (Or something.)  It is probably the food-porniest food porn I've ever seen, all about soft-focus shots of Jamie cooking at his wood-fired grill, or close-ups of fresh fruits and vegetables from the garden, or (clearly re-dubbed) sounds of food sizzling in hot oil, or slowly-panning money shots of glorious-looking food on adorable rustic plates.  None of the food is too fancy; the focus is more on using great ingredients simply so that the natural flavors shine through.  Turns out that Joliver (as we call him) had a ketchup recipe, one with lots of tomatoes and not much sugar and some interesting ingredients.  I used the recipe from the cookbook companion to the show, and while the tomatoes were simmering, The Husband and I sat down to watch the episode in question ("Pickles and Preserves").

Of course, the recipe in the book is not the same as the one on TV.  Well, the ingredients are the same, but the methods differ; the recipe I give below is a combination of the two, using what I think makes most sense.  Either way, the ketchup was a success; we made some grilled potato chips for our first tasting, and I really enjoyed how the tomato taste shone through, and was complimented by the acidity and sweetness of the vinegar and sugar.

Strange-looking honey.

HA!  Take that, Heinz.  Ketchup does not need high fructose corn syrup, thankyouverymuch.  It also doesn't need to be a non-Newtonian fluid.¥

RECIPES

MUSTARD (from here, which you should totally buy because it is awesome and will teach you how to forage for limpets)

Ok, to make wholegrain mustard, take 6 T. brown mustard seeds, mix in 2/3 c. white wine vinegar, and let it sit out for 3 or 4 days (the longer it sits, the hotter it gets).  After it's done soaking, use a mortar and pestle to coarsely grind the mustard seeds and vinegar (just enough to crack the seeds – you aren't making a paste).  Grind 1/4 c. yellow mustard seeds in a spice grinder (or use mustard powder if you're lazy, not that I'd judge you or anything...) and mix this into the mustard/vinegar blend, adding another 1/4 c. white wine vinegar, 2 T. honey, and 2 tsp. salt.  Pour into a small jar, and store in a cool, dry place.

KETCHUP (adapted from here, to compensate for Jamie Oliver's inability to remember his own recipe)

1 large red onion, chopped (everything can be roughly chopped, since it'll all go into a food processor later)
1/2 fennel bulb, chopped
1 stick celery, trimmed and chopped
thumb-sized piece of ginger, peeled and chopped
1/2 red chile, de-seeded and chopped
2 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
bunch basil, chopped
1 T. coriander seeds
2 cloves
1 tsp. black pepper
2 lbs. roma tomatoes, chopped
3/4 c. + 2 T. red wine vinegar
1/3 c. brown sugar

In mortar and pestle, grind up the coriander, cloves, and black pepper.  Add this, along with all the onion, fennel, celery, ginger, chile, and garlic, to a large saucepan and saute 10-15 minutes, until soft.  Add the tomatoes and 1 1/2 c. water; bring to a boil, then simmer until tomatoes break down and the liquid has been reduced by half.  Add basil leaves, mix, then remove from heat, pour into food processor/blender, and whiz until well-blended and pureed.  Put the sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean saucepan, then add the sugar and vinegar (NOTE: I didn't think this was enough vinegar, so I added some cider vinegar as well, to taste), bring back to boil, and simmer until it reaches the consistency of ketchup.  Add salt and pepper to taste, then spoon into sterilized jars.  Close tightly and keep in a cool, dark place – it should keep for up to six months.


*Bet you never heard THAT witticism, or any variation of same, before.
†This is a lie.  I used to eat ketchup constantly when I was a wee little one.  But one day, my great-aunt told my mother that, if I was allowed to wantonly eat ketchup on everything, I wouldn't eat food that didn't have ketchup in it.  So I was cut off from ketchup, and by the time I was allowed to eat it again, I wanted no part of it.  This general sass continues to this day.
§Because this is how normal people think.  Right?  Please say yes.
^This is another lie.  He's not really a hobo.  I think.
¥Science!

THE OL' PESTO CHANGE-O.

Pesto and I have a long and semi-complicated relationship.  I first attempted to make pesto during my senior year of college.  I had given up meat for Lent (a harbinger of things to come?) and a friend and I decided to have a meatless dinner.  I offered to make pesto, and, long story short, it turns out that fresh basil and dried basil aren't the same thing and you can't just straight substitute one for the other in a pesto recipe.  I can't remember what happened to dinner that night; I think my lovely friend gamely tried to eat some, whereas I took one bite, almost threw up, and maybe ordered pizza.

Fast forward some odd number of years, after I had moved to DC and inherited the food processor that my mother took when she left her job (or got as a wedding present – the story varies).  Enough time had passed since the dreaded Pesto Tragedy of 2004 that I felt confident in giving it another go.  Long story short (too late), fresh basil is tasty and my love affair with pesto was born.

Even though my love for pesto has waned a bit over the years, we are still on good terms.  In fact, there is almost always pesto in the freezer, as it is my and The Husband's* go-to dinner option when we are feeling lazy and uninspired and can't be arsed to cook but still want to act like grownups and have something more than cereal for dinner.  However, we sometimes resort to pesto pasta more often that we'd maybe like to admit, which leads to feelings of resentment, which leads to me feeling pretty apathetic towards making pesto, AGAIN, even though I bought the basil and we clearly won't use it in anything else.

That's the problem with pesto and I; pesto often becomes an afterthought.  It's what I make when I have leftover basil (and there is ALWAYS leftover basil).  I never seem to make it because I want to; I make it because basil starts to go bad the second you get it home and I'm tired of wasting food, so I begrudgingly whip some up and then throw it in the freezer and forget about it.

However, tonight I actually wanted to make pesto, if only to replace the unpleasantness that was the lemon basil pesto from a month or two ago (lemon basil has its place, but it's not in pesto).  One of the stalls at the farmers' market yesterday had basil and arugula; it was bag-your-own, so if you could cram it into a bag, it was yours for $3.  After much furtive glancing around the market to ensure that no one was watching as I stuffed already overflowing bags with more and more leaves, I sauntered off with a tidy sum of greens and a hankerin' for some pesto.

I ended up with two types: your standard basil and pine nut (extra garlic, natch) and an experimental version of arugula pesto, this time using toasted pepitas, a bit of spinach (to cut the spiciness of the arugula) and basil oil.  I had some of the arugula pesto on whole wheat fettuccine (with chopped tomatoes and Parmesan) for dinner, and I was terribly pleased with myself.  The rest has been dolloped out into an ice cube tray and popped into the freezer; once it hardens, the individual cubes of pesto are transferred to freezer bags, and voila!  We have single-serving portions for the future.  MAGIC.

(I had taken some photos of the pesto to illustrate the fascinating color differential between the basil and arugula versions, but the basil pesto looked thoroughly unappetizing; I tried to adjust the color, but fixing the basil meant that the arugula looked radioactive.  So, instead, I offer you this photo of our cat, Pannekuchen.  He is lounging on our copy of "How to Cook Everything Vegetarian," so this photo is relevant to my post and I'm only partially cheating.)

Let's be honest: he is a cat, and this is the internet.  This will always be relevant.

Next up, a long and rambling story about mouse books and the resulting obsession with scones.

*In Wyomingese: The Husband and I's.