Squolch

But some things don’t seem to be determined by my conscious mind. I noticed limes in the fridge, ginger in the cupboard, enormous ruby grapefruits in the fruit bowl. No big deal. Normal life, que sera sera, c’est la vie ordinaire mon petit choux-fleur. And then I was chilling with a cup of tea at work and I suddenly thought of those three things all at the same time and knew I had to have marmalade. I mean: grapefruit, lime and ginger? That is GOLD, son.

Criteria for recipe: easy with no dicking about; must produce a sour and/or bitter concoction; must not require overnight sitting. Mostly because it was Sunday and I wanted it NOW. Turns out I’m not a unique and special little snowflake in this regard. Came across this marmalade post on Thursday Night Smackdown, and it seemed like my sorta thing. Only, of course, I wasn’t using lemons. Thursday Night Smackdown’s recipe was an adaptation of this one on Sally and her teacakes. Essentially, you boil your fruit, whole, until it’s soft and squalchy and then purée it. Pick out any seeds, then add sugar, water and any other flavours you want to add, and start boiling. I boiled my enormous ruby grapefruit with a couple of limes: it took about half an hour, which was quicker than I thought. Then into the food processor! Whiz! Squalch! Splurt! (Sexy.)

It's there, trust me.

I added fresh ginger, crystallised ginger, half a cup or so of pineapple juice (because we had some and why not and stop asking questions) and sugar and a little water. Boiled everything until, well, until it was marmalade. And boy howdy snap-pants, is it ever! YEAH! On toast: beautiful. Stirred through Greek yoghurt, awwwwHELLZyes. Yeah marmalade! IS THERE NOTHING I CANNOT MAKE? (The answer is no, but that results in a triple negative — too much for you? TOO MUCH GRAMMAR?)

Gel test, as if I can't tell what marmalade is.

But my triumph could be greater. Here’s what I’ll do next time:

• Purée it to a much smoother pulp. Really really really smooth: the texture of this batch is a little on the chunky side.
• Simmer the fresh ginger in some sugar syrup, or use only crystallised stuff: it’s a little blunt as is.
• Use more pineapple juice in place of water.
• Make more. Much, much more. I only had one grapefruit and two limes, so I only got three jars outta this. They have not lasted very long.

If there’s any lesson to be gained from this (apart from how splendid I, as a cooker, am, but that’s more a gentle reminder than a lesson as such) it’s this: if there’s something you want to try cooking, do it. It’s likely to be easier than you think (unless you’re making, like, walrus consommé or something), and the sense of chuffedness when you realise “YEAH, one more thing I can make for myself” is unmatched.

Long-term planning

For the record: today I planted shallots, broccoli, beets and snow peas. (This is less about writing an informative blog post than it is about reminding me what I planted.) Having pulled up all the beets for pickling, it seemed logical to invest in the future. Abundance this year was generous and fun: abundance down the line has to be prepared for.

And then this baby rolled down the driveway:

BOMB. Of happiness.

For the baffled: that’s a feijoa. A frickin’ big one. Apart half the size of my hand. The neighbours’ bush is awe-inspiring, with massive pedunculated fruits, the stuff of dreams. When I realised one had dropped into my lap driveway, I pounced. It’s now buried in the back yard veggie patch, along with my hopes, dreams and reason for being. If it grows and makes me a feijoa of my very own, I’ll be damn pleased. And astonished. Feijoas don’t usually grow true to type from seed, I’m told, which means if it does sprout and make baby feijoas, there’s no guarantee they’ll be as plump and seductive as this blighter. They could be tiny, tasteless, annoying, or absent: but feijoas are damn pretty and even if it brings me no fruit, it will be an awesome and welcome shrubbery.

While we’re on the topic of abundance (however tangentially), I’ve just discovered punkdomestics.com, which is an awesome site of preserving, canning, pickling, foraging, and general off-the-griddery. Love this stuff! How did I overlook such an awesome site for so long?

One last thing: my tiny habaneros are fruiting!

PS?

Each has loads of green fruit and one orange fruit each — will we get a flush of red fruit before the cold season clamps down like an icy bear trap of futility? Will there be heat in winter? Will there be habaneros for bethini? Only time will tell. THE EXCITEMENT GRIPS ME AND ALSO YOU PROBABLY!

I did relish; I did carrots; next up: backyard sourcing. Time to harvest some beets, friends.

Harvest!

Frosts are coming and these babies have been in the ground since spring. I have no idea when beets are ready, so I figured they’re ready when I’m ready. Cos that’s how I roll. Pulled them up and got ready to RUM-BLLLLLLE!

There are two sides to successful beet pickling: the beets and the brine. (A third, silent side: clean, warm, dry jars: get those suckahs boiling early so that you can take them out and air-dry while you’re chopping your cooked beets.) I like to roast my beets with rosemary, peppercorns and olive oil, inspired by Alton Brown’s recipe. When they’re tender, let them cool and peel them (if you’re impatient, as I am, you can peel them while hot, but it’s trickier). Then slice. Meanwhile, get the brine hot and juicy: equal parts white vinegar and water, plus half a part of white sugar and a couple of generous tablespoons of salt. Bring it all to the boil while the beets are cooling. Chop a purple onion into half-moons, then layer: you want layers of onion and sliced beets, with a few sprigs of rosemary and whole peppercorns throughout. Then pour the hot brine over the lot, making sure they’re covered. Voila! You just pickled beets, my friend.

I love beets. I really really really do. On sandwiches, in salads; with goat’s cheese and walnuts; with rocket, with olives and cucumber — or, if we’re honest, straight from the jar while I wait for my toast to cook. Plus I grew them myself. Plus they’re super pretty:

Pinker than anything in the whole entire world probably.

I love ‘em. And I love making use of the garden: these beets grew because the plants wanted somewhere to stockpile sugars and nutrients for next season. So they grew big, sweet bulbs on their roots. Bulbs I like. Bulbs I want to roast and pickle. I’m stockpiling: beets won’t grow all winter, but now I’ve got enough to see me to the next crop. I call it a win.

Fig 1a: Carrots.

As you can see, I’m pickling. The earth turns, seasons change, the kitchen moves with it. Pickled carrots combine two of my fav-our-ite things, so let’s go!

I used this recipe from My Own Ideas, and it was easy as anything. (I haven’t tasted the results yet, which makes this blog post arguably premature.) Put simply: chop carrots and garlic and jalapenos, sauté briefly, then simmer in brine and bottle the lot.

Fig 1b: Carrots again

I am curious to know whether sticks or discs is better when it comes to pickled carrots. I went with sticks. Recipe mods: we’re running low on garlic and jalapenos, so I omitted both and instead threw in some sad shallots from the bottom of the crisper. That’s the beauty of pickling: age is no obstacle.

Large jar? Yes. Too large? No.

I boiled an enormous ex-olive jar until I felt it was suitably clean (20 minutes at a rolling boil, bubbles and all), and used that. Once the carrots have had a chance to simmer in the vinegar and spices for about 20 minutes, put them, still steaming, in the jar and ladle the pickling brine over the top.

Lid up. Done. You’ve just pickled carrots. Should be ready for eating in a few days, if my experience in pickling is to be believed. AND IT IS.

Food traditions are interesting: in particular, I get a kick out of “use it up” traditions. You see them in every culture, techniques for reusing leftovers, extending food past its best, or preserving in times of abundance in anticipation of times of scarcity. I think I love it because I get all hippie-zen and reflect on the beauty of the world turning and people learning to bend their food around the vagaries of the seasons. You see recipes that make use of abundance and excess in just about every culture: fatoush, ribolita, bread and butter pudding, almond croissants — all great ways of using up extra and stale stuff. And stockpiling: every single jam, marmalade, sauerkraut, kimchi, relish and pickle ever. EVER. They’re all about making abundance last through the times of chill and lack.

My tomatoes, planted late, yielded a measly five (5) tomatoes. And they were out too late to ripen (my fault, really). So this isn’t really making use of abundance as much as squeezing whatever I can out of the scant harvest. Enter green tomato relish! Wait — why stop at relish? We’re in a preserving frame of mind…can anyone say Pickle Party? Pickle party!! Woot!

This is why I don’t get invited out. But screw you, I don’t need to go out. I got pickling to do.

Few but beautiful, I have to admit.

Step zero: start the day before! Finely chop your beautiful green tomatoes. Finely chop an onion (I discovered, mid-chop, knife poised, my onion was smulchy and gross in the middle, so I dispensed with most of it). Pop the chopped goods in a bowl and toss with a liberal dash of salt: this will help slurp out a lot of excess water.

Step nought-point-five: jar preparation — whatever your method, you want your jars ready to go when the relish is done, so get things underway. I personally favour the technique of piling all jars and lids into a big pot and boiling the dickens out of them as long as possible, but I take no responsibility if you try this and get crippling botulism poisoning.

Step one: next day! Drain off the excess water and sling your tomato/onion/salt in a pot with some white vinegar. Bring it to the boil, and simmer for about half an hour. This step cooks the tomatoes and onions.

Step two: add sugar and spices! You will be aMAZed to notice as soon as you add sugar, a thick sauce forms over everything and begins bubbling. This step sweetens and flavours the tomatoes and onions. Simmer for another half an hour, but pay close attention and stir regularly. It’s thick and will burn easily at this stage, and you do not want the smell of burnt sugar/vinegar/onions in your house.

Step three: mix some cornflour and extra vinegar in a separate tub, then add to your relish to really thicken it. Cook it for another five to ten minutes, stirring vigourously, and then switch off the heat.

Your jars, of course, are ready at this stage. Try to avoid ladling hot relish into cold jars, as they ‘splode. True story. Ladling hot relish into hot jars, then allowing to cool, yields this beauty:

Yay!

From five tomatoes, I managed two smallish jars of relish:

Enough.

Which is enough to be getting along with. I didn’t get much out of my tomatoes this year, but what I did get I have put to good use. Hooray!

Proper recipe: Green tomato relish

• 5 green tomatoes
• 1 brown onion
• a few tablespoons salt
• 140gm white sugar
• 200mL white vinegar
• yellow mustard seeds
• black mustard seeds
• allspice
• 1-2 tablespoons cornflour

What you do

1. Finely chop the tomatoes and onion. Sprinkle liberally with salt and leave overnight. The next morning, drain off the extra liquid and put the tomatoes and onions in a pot with 100mL white vinegar. Bring to a boil, then simmer for half an hour, stirring regularly.
2. Add a generous pinch of yellow mustard seeds, black mustard seeds, allspice, and 140gm white sugar. Stir well and bring back to the boil. Boil for another half an hour, stirring regularly.
3. Taste the relish now and see if you would like any extra salt or sugar: now’s the time to add it! Dissolve the cornflour in the rest of the vinegar and add to the mix. Cook for another minute or two, stirring constantly. When it’s thick, switch off the heat.
4. Ladle the mix into hot jars. Let it get cool, but not cold, and put the lids on. As it continues to cool, it will seal tightly.

Use it wherever you like good condiments. I mostly go for crackers and sandwiches, especially with sharp, crumbly cheddar. Ooooh baby, brine my flank.

Many delicious, uber-ripe green friends are now crowding my fridge. A mix of Shepherd and Hass, if you’re interested. I’m not even sure how I’m going to use them all up, since I have enough to make the phrase “I’m sick of guacamole” more than an hilarious fib. While I’m tempted just to strip off and take photos of myself in a bathtub full of them, smirking at the camera in a salacious display of squishy green wealth, I’m going to take a more practical approach and think about my options.

Day one: avocado on toast, with tomato slices. An oldie but a goodie, and with good reason.

Day two: avocado and salad rice paper rolls with carrot/ginger/miso dressing (adapted from Happyolks).

Now from here, I’m looking for inspiration. Help me foodgawker!

There is an arresting number of sweet avocado dishes out there. I’m not at a stage where I’m interested in avocado ice cream or avocado smoothies — I can see where people are coming from with avocado as a butter substitutes in cakes. I could totally get behind that if I hadn’t gone haywire on the chocolate cake front recently, leaving me with a strong sense of antipathy towards that whole food group for the time being. So let’s rule out avocado cakes, shall we?

Ohh, has anyone got some butcher’s paper and textas? I feel a brainstorm coming on!

• Avocado, tomato and lettuce rice paper rolls!
• Avocado, boiled egg and pesto tossed salad!
• Avocado, preserved lemon and chilli sushi rolls!
• Avocado and banana quesadillas!
• Avocado…on toast again!

I’ve run out of butcher’s paper. I’ll be honest: I don’t really feel like I want to get too inventive here. I love avocados and I don’t think the challenge here is to find ways of keeping them interesting. The challenge here is to eat them all before they go funky. I think a ginormous bowl of guacamole and friends over for burritos is going to be the best option. It combines my love of guacamole with my friends! What more could I want? (Spicy beans, that’s what.)

No, it's kinda good, you can still see them...

Stewed quinces! Yay!

I know it's a bit blurry, but I think they can still see the cloves and stuff...

Peel, core and slice quinces; mix a spoonful of sugar and pour about two cups of water over. Add whatever spices plough your paddock: I used cinnamon, allspice, cloves, ginger and nutmeg (in descending order of quantity). Boil until the quinces become lush and soft and start to fall apart. You might need more sugar, you might need a dash of lemon: taste it and see. We’re not formal here.

I admit it's getting a little hard to tell now.

Cameras don’t like steam.

Quinces: you'll have to take my word for it.

This blurry tale is the last of this year’s quinces. Quinces are done, figs are done. I declare autumn: iCal that shit.

And my cleverness doesn’t end there! I’ve been whisking up cleverness into a foamy clever froth and then baking it quickly into a divine cleverness meringue! Sure have.

Allow me to escort you through this journey of wonderment and cleverness. I’ve mentioned it a few times on this hereabout blogaboo and never with any degree of detail. It’s Sunday night! Have a shakshouka night! Step zero: find out what shakshouka is! An lush spicy soup of tomatoes, capsicums and spices, and then at the last moment you poach eggs in it; then serve it with feta and bread and za’atar…oh, just google it. Yeah. See what I mean? Now try saying it: give it a kind of Skyrim shout, too. SHAKshookAHHHHHH! That’s what’s on the cards Chez Spoonfully tonight. And by “cards”, I mean “plates”.

Roast yourself two red capsicums: mine took about an hour at 180°C, then let them cool.

You gots to start right.

Get out some of this sexy juice:

Nectar of the Gods if the Gods are olives.

And very finely chop some onions and carrots. You probably don’t know what that looks like, so here you go:

Pause for photos, obviously.

And then take your behemoth pot (for boiling behemoths):

Welcome back Big Red!

And then combine those last three photos. Pot on stove, oil in pot, onion/carrots in oil. Sizzle, sizzle, etc. Add your roasted capsicums and two tins of tomatoes:

Choice chopped caps!

Add about a canful of water and let it get a-boiling.

Meanwhile, get yourself some herbs and spices together. My stock base for shakshouka varies wildly depending on what I’ve got, what needs using up and what needs pruning. Today, there was coriander that needed using up, and parsley and mint needed pruning. A little coriander and mint for an accompanying cooling yoghurt sauce, and plenty of coriander and parsley for the broth. Also thyme. Spices: vary according to taste and availability. Since we’re having peeps over for shakshouka sharing, I toned back the spices. So tonight’s stock base:

• parsely
• thyme
• salt
• paprika
• cumin seeds
• ground coriander seeds
• one fresh mild chilli

Chop it all up, add another canful or so of water and bring it to the boil. Once you’ve got a rolling boil happening, turn it back and let it go to a simmer for a while, then taste it and make sure the salt level’s right.

If it’s not, you might have a sudden burst of YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE PERFECT?

Stroke of salty genius, baby.

A huge spoonful of finely chopped preserved lemon, baby. Wish I’d added more.

I was going to make some tortillas and do fresh za’atar flatbreads, but we’ve got some cornbread leftover that is a textural soulmate to the thick shakshouka. Beautiful.

I puréed my mighty shakshouka, then brought it back to a boil just before serving. When you’ve got it boiling beautifully, it’s time for an extra helping of RAD. Press the back of your ladle (or a massive spork or whatever) and make a little pit in the soup and crack an egg into it. Poach your egg in the simmering soup for a wee while: four minutes for me, to get an egg that’s cooked through but still has a soft yolk.

Then ladle into bowls and coax your poached eggs into the broth. Delicious, but…food photographer I am not.

Not photogenic.

Something that people constantly mention in relation to shakshouka is what a great hangover breakfast it is. Jesus. I cannot support such deviance. I mean, when I’m hungover, it’s all I can do to weep and beg for slices of cucumber or frozen mandarin segments. The last thing I can imagine doing with any joy is ingesting a spicy and flavour-intense blend of rich ripe veggies, with cornbread, mint yoghurt and za’atar.

An unnecessary aside, however: shakshouka is delicious and filling; cornbread and yoghurt is smooth and delicious; and if you need a triumphant dinner for a bunch of peeps, it’s the way to go.

This season I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of harvest. Recently, a large zucchini:

The tip of generosity

A very large zucchini:

NOT A FAKE ARM

I can only use it up a bit at a time. This weekend, it went into a scramble, which may have been the world’s ugliest lunch while I was cooking it…

Stirred with the ugly spoon

Quick and dirty veggie scramble:

• Fry half a sliced onion in butter until it’s looking good and browned, then add a generous double-handful of shredded zucchini. Fry until the zucchini starts to look really vivid.
• Whisk two eggs with a splash of milk and a couple of tablespoons of pesto. When the zucchini is practically ready to eat, add the eggs and stir constantly until cooked
• Serve with toast, hot sauce and, if you’ve got some, roasted tomatoes. I had some. I recommend.

The weekend was lazy and happy; the veggies were fantastic. It’s a good time to be bethini, which I am.