Springtime in a Jar

Though I've spent more than half my life in California where fresh locally grown strawberries, (and very good ones too), are available year round, I still associate that most beloved of fruits with spring. (Seriously, have you ever met anybody who didn't like strawberries? If so, I wouldn't trust them.)

Springtime drives 'out in the country' with my mother, whatever their actual purpose, frequently turned into foraging treasure hunts; for whenever we passed a likely looking abandoned farmhouse, she'd slam on the brakes, pull off the road, and, as often as not, we'd find an overgrown strawberry patch somewhere on the property, teeming with fruit ripe for the taking. (I later learned she'd lived in one of those houses during her first marriage, so she knew where to look, but that's an entirely different story.)

If we had any left by the time we got home, there'd be strawberry shortcake for dessert, (luck being with me), or Mamma's special take on strawberry chiffon pie, (a culinary abomination if ever there was, and a disservice to both the berry and the Cool Whip), which everyone else professed to love. No great matter, since I preferred them straight from the hand, maybe dipped in a little brown sugar or dragged slowly through a melted Hersey bar.

By late June (sooner if the birds were particularly ravenous) the local berry crop would be done, but by then so much else was going on in the garden they wouldn't be missed until later; when somebody pulled a soggy stash out of the freezer and tried to duplicate the Strawberry parfait from Easter, and it was just all wrong.

Better were the berries that had been turned into jam in their prime, and, in the days before jam became synonymous with Smucker's, just about everybody who had a plot and a pot 'put some up.' Strawberry jam was, and is, a no-brainer; strawberries, a little lemon juice, a whole lot of sugar. It was easy, it was fool-proof, and everybody's tasted about the same. And it was all good, like springtime in a jar.

When it came to making my own, however, I wanted something a little different. Like this one. Call it springtime in a jar with the promise of a red-hot summer coming on. So good I sometimes bake a couple of biscuits just for myself and pile it on. Other times, I eat it straight from the jar with a spoon.

Hank photo bombs the strawberry jam shoot

BALSAMIC STRAWBERRY JAM WITH CRACKED BLACK PEPPER
(Makes about 8 half pints)

5 pounds strawberries, lightly crushed
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons good quality balsamic vinegar
6 tablespoons powdered fruit pectin
5 cups granulated sugar
2 teaspoons freshly cracked black pepper

Wash and hull strawberries and crush lightly. (I like a few chunks of actual berry in my jam, and you wouldn't believe how satisfying it is to crush a bowl bull of berries with your hands until you've tried it.)

Combine crushed berries with lemon juice and balsamic vinegar in a 6-to-8-quart saucepan. Mix fruit pectin with sugar and stir into berries.

My cracked pepper secret, inelegant but effective

Bring to a full rolling boil over high heat, stirring constantly until sugar/pectin mixture is completely dissolved. Continue to boil hard and stir for 3 to 5 minutes. Remove from heat, skim foam if necessary, and stir in cracked black pepper.

Ladle into sterilized jars and process in boiling water for 10 minutes. (For more detailed canning instructions see:  http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can7_jam_jelly.html)

Note to the health conscious:  The amount of sugar in the recipe still gives me pause, but I've recently learned of a super sweet California variety, the Gaviota strawberry, which, rumor has it, can cut the sugar requirement by half. (One local canner even claims to make a respectable Gaviota strawberry jam with no added sugar at all, but, like those who professed to love my mother's strawberry chiffon pie, I suspect she may be exaggerating a bit.) Gaviota strawberries are available only in the spring, even in California, so stay tuned.
 

Peas and Prosperity (and Chutney)

I almost titled this post, "Love, Peas and Happiness," because when it comes to that old southern standard, black-eyed peas, most people either love 'em madly or don't like them at all. Me, I'm a lover.

Cooked plain, according to the soak-overnight package directions, with a meaty smoked ham hock buried in the middle of the pot, black-eyed peas are my ultimate comfort food. (I stint on the salt and simmering liquid because I like them less soupy and briny. And don't cook them too long - about an hour is good - or they'll be mushy.) Add a couple spoonfuls of tomato and pear chutney on the side, and you've got manna from heaven.

Maybe this explains how the dish, along with the requisite mythology and superstitions, became a New Year's Day tradition in most of the southeast; or maybe it's because that's about all they had to eat in the dead of winter back in the day. Either way the black-eyed pea (a bean actually) is another culinary gift from the dark side of our heritage. Brought into southern ports from Africa with the slave trade, black-eyed peas were initially cultivated exclusively for the consumption of livestock and slaves, but, when times got hard, white folks found they made mighty good eating.

Exactly 365 peas. Yes, I did.

Today we eat them on January 1st, seasoned with a little chunk of preserved pork, to assure luck and prosperity throughout the coming year. A more arcane tradition specifies that we eat exactly (or at least) 365 individual peas, one for each day of the year, to assure the continuity of all that love and happiness. This is what 365 peas looks like.

When I was growing up in south Georgia black-eyed peas were commonly served with chopped raw onion (not my predilection) and/or a particular ground-pear relish, which I adored, and whose secret formula I'm still looking for. In the meantime, I've found a completely satisfactory, maybe even better, alternative: fire-roasted tomato and pear chutney. Were I given to hyperbole, I'd call it the condiment of the gods.


FIRE ROASTED TOMATO AND PEAR CHUTNEY

2 cups roasted tomatoes, seeded and chopped
2 cups cubed pears
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 cup raisins
2 cups brown sugar
1 cup cider vinegar
3 tablespoons peeled and grated fresh ginger
2 tablespoons mustard seeds
2 cinnamon sticks
2 teaspoons red pepper flakes
2 teaspoons kosher salt

If you want to do it up right and have the where-with-all to grow your own, an assortment of heirloom tomatoes, cut into quarters, roasted in a hot oven, peeled, seeded and chopped, do it best. When homegrown tomatoes aren't available, I go with a good canned variety, such as Muir Glen Fire Roasted tomatoes, and still have a really outstanding chutney. (Seriously, don't bother with store-bought 'fresh' tomatoes. The process is more trouble than they're worth, and the result won't be any better.)

Combine all ingredients in a large, deep saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, stirring frequently. Reduce heat and boil gently until reduced by half.

Ladle hot chutney into sterilized half-pint jars. Place filled and lidded jars into canning vessel, (I use my tamale pot, no joke), cover with water and bring to boil. Process at a boil for 10 minutes. Cool in water, remove, store and enjoy! (For more detailed canning instructions see: http://nchfp.uga.edu/how/can_06/chutney_principles.html)

I customarily make the recipe in triplicate and end up with around 12 to 15 half-pint jars. Sometimes I do a few pints because this stuff goes fast, and you don't want to run out. (Try it with pork, rare beef, lamb, butter beans; the possibilities are endless.)

And keep some on hand for black-eyed peas; which should always be served with the style and respect they deserve. Kudos to Jacob Preston for the black-eyed peas bowl. I happen to think it is just right.