Heirloom Apples

Heirloom Orchards Apples

Metropolitan Market, $2.49/lb

The first day of my freshman year of college I took a "Red Delicious" apple from the dining hall and placed it on a shelf in my room. I'd heard rumors that the cafeteria produce was irradiated so I figured I'd do a little low-tech experiment. When the school year ended, I took the apple down and threw it in the trash. Under its blanket of dorm dust, it was just as shiny, red, and rock-hard as the apples I'd eaten throughout the year--and presumably as tasteless.

After college I spent two years living in a small English village that holds an "Apple Day" festival each autumn. Apples were celebrated in all their solid, semi-solid, and liquid forms. There was a bake sale, apple champagne, and fresh cider, courtesy of an ancient stone-wheeled press and a very patient horse. Among the attractions was a leathery old man that a few of us called the "apple whisperer". Bring him a branch, leaf, or fruit from an unidentified apple tree and he'd tell you the make and model, then diagnose any ailments. I particularly loved to watch him take on a mystery apple; after giving it a long and serious look, he'd whip out an old wood-handled Opinel, excise a wedge, and pop it in his mouth in less time than it would take for me to find a clean cutting board. After a few seconds of furious chewing, he'd spit into the garbage and pronouce, "Dropsey's Amber Fleshpot grafted onto Blackgold Pucker; wants fertilizing." It was tremendously good regional theater.

Another booth sold a bewildering array of heirloom apples. My favorite of all was the tiny Egremont Russet, named for the lord of a nearby village and for the fruit's potato-like papery brown skin. Its creamy-white flesh tasted of honey, roses and jasmine. The first year, I bought a couple of pounds in spite of the stallholder's warning that they "wouldn't hold". I remember being surprised at how quickly they started to go soft, and then delighted that I had a good excuse to eat them one after another. Not in a million years would I trade an over-the-hill Egremont Russet for a dozen ageless, tasteless Red Delicious.

More recently I was delighted to find a selection oddball apples from Heirloom Orchards at a nearby grocery. I bought one of each and had my own tasting. My favorite of the bunch was the King David, a small apple as shiny and red as a garnet, with a sweet-sour tang reminiscent of Sour Patch Kids.

Last-of-the-Blackberries Cobbler

Last-of-the-Blackberries Cobbler

Now that she has absolutely no idea who I am, my 92-year-old grandmother likes me just fine.

Whenever I stop by her nursing home she greets me with a grin and the same question: "Should I know who you are?"

Nope, I always assure her, you don't know me at all.  I'll offer her my arm and for a few minutes we will toddle around the yard, making polite chat about the weather and the relative cleanliness of any cars in the lot. Back at the door of her building, she'll thank me for the outing. If she's had a good morning at bingo, she might even press a mini KitKat or a few peanut M&Ms into my hand.

It wasn't always like this. Although reportedly thrilled to welcome her first grandchild, her enthusiasm for me waned from then on, bottoming out around the time I learned to talk. Decades of holiday phone calls went exactly like this: "Hiya, kid!" she'd cry, then, "Now, pass the phone back to your dad." 

It's an odd thing to have a grandparent who dislikes you; after all, liking grandkids is the main item in their job description. It's odder still when you have a lot in common with that grandparent. My grandma did a lot of things that, even as a kid, I considered cool. She traveled extensively, sewed stylish clothes and knitted complicated sweaters, and always had some screwball craft project on the go, usually involving repurposed rhinestone jewelry and/or googly eyes.  We shared a lot, but only indirectly. We never traveled together. I took sewing lessons at a yarn barn, and learned to knit from a friend.  I started my own stockpile of rhinestones and googly eyes from scratch.

It was only when it came to cooking that I felt some traction. When we visited she'd pass around gooey sandwiches and rich casseroles and I'd think to myself, Surely this is something remotely like love. 

Cobbler was one of her classics. She made it with whatever fruit was in season or in the deepfreeze--most often foraged blackberries or marionberries, a testament to her thrift and persistence.  Sometimes she'd tell me and my parents that the cobbler on the table had been made with the last of the frozen berries, and I'd read into that that she was really happy to see us.  

Cobbler was one of the last things she made before she and my step-grandfather left their home for a assisted living facility.  She'd already slipped pretty far, and her last cobbler was not, alas, her best, but more importantly,  she invited my dad and me over for the making of it, to train us in the way of cobbler.  Better late than never. 

My grandmother was in my thoughts when I set out to gather enough late-season blackberries for one last cobbler.   Along with her craftiness I inherited some more dubious tendencies, most notably stubbornness and irrational thrift.  The latter drove me out into the alley for one last forage, despite the bounty already in the freezer; the former spurred me to stretch to my full tip-toed height, determined to reach a juicy cluster dangling overhead.  I inevitably overbalanced and took a comical spill into the brambles, emerging snagged, scratched, juice-spattered and laughing, recalling a story about my grandma's first week in the locked memory-care unit.  

Finding herself unable to roam freely and unable to understand the reasons for her confinement, Grandma took action.  When the coast was clear she pushed a planter against the wall of the patio; my 5-foot grandma clambered over the 7-foot wall and tumbled onto the grass on the other side.  She brushed herself off and walked around to the front of the building where she was seen and apprehended as she tried to totter out towards the main road (surely one of the slowest-speed chases on record).  

When my dad heard the story he asked her if she was scared trying to climb down from that high wall.  

"Oh, no," she insisted, "when I was a kid I used to do things like that all the time."

"But Mom," my dad pointed out, "that was eighty years ago."

So maybe I'll also inherit her selective regard for the passage of time.  I used the berries I gathered to make the summer last just a little bit longer.  Although the recipe I use is neither my grandma's (which calls for shortening, a non-presence in my kitchen) nor my mother's (Bisquick, same story), the cobbler turned out pretty well.  I would have liked to share it with Grandma, to see if she'd have anything nice to say about a total stranger's cooking.  

Cornmeal Cobbler

2 lbs fruit or berries, fresh or frozen (but preferably free!)
up to 1 c sugar
2 Tbs cornstarch
3 Tbs sugar
1 c cornmeal
1 c flour
2 tsp bp
¼ tsp salt
1 c buttermilk
½ tsp almond extract
1 beaten egg
4 Tbs melted, cooled butter

Mix the fruit and the sugar (to taste) and spread in a shallow baking dish. Whisk together the starch, 3 Tbs sugar, cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix the almond extract, buttermilk, egg, and butter, and stir into the dry ingredients. Top the fruit with large spoonfuls of batter. Bake 30-35 minutes at 375.

Angelcots

Angelcots

Another fruit I wish I had on hand is the angelcot. I picked up a box of these at Trader Joes's last year and am eagerly awaiting their return in June.

The angelcot is a sweet, juicy little Frankenfruit, hybridized from Iranian and Morrocan apricots. Ross Sanborn came up the cross about 30 years ago and continued to tinker with anglecots for the rest of his life. A small annual crop comes out an organic orchard in Brentwood, CA.

Red Huckleberries

Red Huckleberries

Huckleberries are adorable and taste like heaven, but perhaps even better, they make you aware of and thankful for being in the right place at the right time. Since attempts to cultivate them have not come to much, luck is practically one of their flavor notes.

Many years ago on a summer trip through the Smokies my parents and I stopped at a little roadside restaurant for some lunch. When we asked about dessert our server said all of the menu items were sold out but she guessed there was a serving of huckleberry cobbler left in kitchen, just something they made for themselves out of berries from out back and not as pretty as the menu desserts, but we were welcome to try some. It was The Best Cobbler I have ever eaten. Blueberries and blackberries have a lot going for them, but somehow huckleberries manage to pack an unparalleled amount of flavor and complexity into a tiny package. Maybe wildness is the secret ingredient.

The huckleberries that grow on the Pilchuck Tree Farm in northern Washington state are of the red variety and tarter that the blues I've eaten before, but just as delicious. Like the salmonberry, the nutritious huckleberry was a major player in Native American diets. It was eaten fresh, dried, or mixed with other ingredients such as salmon roe.

Rainier Cherries

Rainier Cherries

Nope, they're not in season yet--despite our recent premature spring weather. But a few days into my elimination diet, this morning I found myself desperately searching the kitchen for anything sugar-free but vaguely candylike. And then I remembered: towards the end of cherry season last year, Rainiers got so cheap that I bought several pounds and stashed a couple of tubs in the freezer. Huzzah!

Eight months in hibernation doesn't amount to beauty sleep for cherries (hence the lack of an up-to-date picture), but they tasted better than they looked, and gave me the little hit of sweetness I was craving.

Salmonberries

Salmonberries

Unlike its distant cousin, the invasive Himalayan blackberry, the salmonberry is a seasonal treat native to the Pacific Northwest. Even so, something about them--the sci-fi name? the importance to Native cuisine?--has always made me classify them as "exotic". It wasn't until I had them pointed out to me in the wild that I realized I'd actually seen salmonberries around Seattle--not flourishing in vacant lots like the blackberries, but cultivated as decorative groundcover.

The ripe berries can be various shades of golden orange or dark red and are only slightly sweet, with a mild bitter aftertaste that reminds me of citrus pith. A fine snack for hikers, they can also be made into jam, cobbler, or pemmican.

Dried Apricotsicles

On my trip to Japan last year, I spent quite a lot of time shopping for budget souvenirs at 100-yen ($1) shops.  Among my haul were four individual popsicle molds made of (packable) silicon rubber.  I have them in pretty much constant rotation right now and every time I pop out a perfectly formed sicle it occurs to me that good design is a real pleasure.  The popsicles are short and fat, but not overly large; each mold has a strap that wraps over the top to hold the stick in place and little feet that keep it stable in the freezer.  

The fact that the molds are separate instead of conjoined encourages experimentation; I can make one or two on a whim, or fill one mold with ingredients that would make a unappetizing mess should they happen to slop over into another.  

My first attempt at making apricot sauce for anzu kori    If it seems odd to be using dried apricots at a time of year when fresh ones are widely available, consider that drying intesifies the fruit's natural sugars. If, like me, you are taking a break from sugar, this is one of those magical treats that is satisfyingly sweet without the help of any added

Two of the popsicles in the group shot below are made from my first attempt at apricot syrup for anzu kori.  I used unsulphured dried apricots and a recipe for stewed fruit compote.  Although I omitted the most overtly Christmasy spices, I've really been enjoying spicy foods this summer, so I decided to throw in a little cinnamon and both powdered and grated fresh ginger.  While a lot of homemade popsicles come out hard and icy, thanks to the fruit pulp these are tender and velvety.  

1/2 lb dried apricots

3 c water

1/4-1/3 c sugar (optional--the fruit is pretty sweet on its own)

1 Tbs mixed spices (eg ginger, cinnamon)

1 Tbs lemon juice

Rinse the apricots in cold water and let them soak for 2-3 hours in a saucepan covered in 3 cups clean, cold water.  Don't drain!  Bring the apricots and water to a boil and lower the heat.  Cover and simmer gently until tender (20-25 min).  The apricots should be falling apart, but mash them a little; the texture should be like a chunky applesauce.  Stir in sugar (if using) and quickly take off the heat.  Stir in spices and lemon juice.  Cool to room temperature.  Fill popsicle molds and freeze 4-6 hours.  Refrigerate the remainder of the fruit. 

Anzu Kori

Today's sweet is brought to you by poor planning and wishful thinking. 

While teaching English in Japan in 2000 I read about Ki no Zen, a kanmi dokoro (old-fashioned parlor serving tea and sweets) located near Iidabashi station at the the bottom of the Kagurazaka slope, one of Tokyo's historic geisha districts. Of the countless versions of kakigori (shaved ice with various sweet toppings) that make Japanese summers bearable, Ki no Zen specializes in anzu kori, ice topped with sweet-tart apricot syrup. The article described Ki no Zen's anzu kori as so popular that on hot afternoons a telltale line of waiting OLs (young "office ladies") spills out the unremarkable front door and into the street.

I longed to join them, but for some reason (possibly my days off coincided with Ki no Zen's?) I never made it. When I went back to Tokyo last summer Ki no Zen was near the top of my list of spots to visit. But there were so many distractions; I put it off a little longer, a little longer, until finally I made it there too late. It was the end of September and still sweltering, but Ki no Zen's menu is based on the calendar rather than the thermometer, and they had long since served the last anzu kori of the year.

As Seattle began to heat up earlier this month, my thoughts returned to anzu kori and I resolved to try making my own version based on the descriptions I'd read.  One article mentioned dried apricots (which seemed a little odd given that summer is the season for fresh ones) so I started with a modified stewed fruit recipe.  The result was tasty but not at all what I had in mind--dark brown, nearly opaque, and totally lacking the tang of fresh apricots:  essentially, highbrow baby food.

So back to fresh apricots, then.  While I don't in any way claim that it's in the same ballpark as Ki no Zen's, my homemade anzu kori was simple, pleasant to look at, and quite refreshing.  I added only a touch of sweetness and a squirt of lemon juice to underline the apricots' natural tartness and protect their glowing color.  

Freestyle Anzu Kori

1 lb fresh, just-ripe apricots

3/4 c water

2 tsp lemon juice

1-3 Tbs honey

shaved ice

Dice the apricots and remove the pits.  Bring the apricots and water to boil in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Reduce the heat and simmer until the apricots are soft and their skins are totally indistinguishable from the pulp (15-20 min).  Remove from heat.  Mash the apricots further with a fork or potato masher; leave some small chunks for texture.  Stir in lemon juice and honey to taste.  Chill and serve over bowls of unsweetened shaved ice.  

(As I mentioned in Montezuma's Reward, I'm currently sans food processor, so for my shaved ice I froze 2 Tbs of vodka in 2 1/2 cups of water, then used a fork to grate the soft-set ice.)

Back Alley Blackberry Brown Betty

How's this for locavore?  A brown betty made with wheat-cider bread from the Macrina Bakery a few blocks away, and huge, juicy blackberries from the alley out back.  (All other ingredients courtesy of the neighborhood Trader Joe's.)  I believe that the original recipe came from a Whole Foods' flyer a few years ago.  

Blackberries have me under their spell these days.  I can't go anywhere without scanning the scenery for unplundered patches, or gazing impotently at those enormous jet-lack clusters that flirt from just beyond my reach.  I carry a plastic baggie at all times and am always scratched up like the loser in a girl fight.  I marvel at the fact that members of the same cluster ripen at different rates, making it possible for me to get a good crop from the same bush that my neighbors harvested only the day before. The 4 cups of berries called for by this recipe took me all of 10 minutes to collect.  

Blackberry Pecan Brown Betty

4 Tbs melted butter 

½ c sugar 

8 oz bread in ½" cubes

4 c blackberries

½ c pecans

¼ c lemon juice

Coat a 1 1/2 quart baking dish with butter and sugar.  In a big bowl, pour the melted butter over the cubed bread and toss to coat.  Add the berries, pecans, sugar, and lemon juice, and mix gently.  Transfer to the dish and sprinkle the top with sugar.  Cover with foil and bake 30 minutes at 375.  Remove the foil and back another 10-15 minutes.  Let cool for 10 minutes and serve with whipped cream or ice cream. 

Check out more delicious blog posts at Wanderfood Wednesday...

Missy's Cranberry Walnut Tart

Missy's Cranberry Tart

2c sorted, washed, drained cranberries

1/2c sugar

1/2c walnut pieces

3/4c melted butter

1c sugar

1c flour

2 lightly beaten eggs

2tsp almond extract

Mix the berries, 1/2c sugar, and walnuts and spread evenly in a buttered round cake or pie pan. Mix the other ingredients and pour over the berries. Bake at 325 for 30-40 minutes, until just browned. The tart is best if it sits for 8-12 hours before serving.

(Of course you don't have to wait that long, but I strongly recommend it. Some weird alchemy takes place that plumps up the cranberries and deposits a crunchy sugar crust on the bottom of the tart. And if you're worried that you've slightly over- or under-cooked it, a long rest seems to cure that as well.)

This recipe was given to my family by our former neighbor Missy, a good cook and great hostess. It quickly became one of our holiday favorites--a quick, easy and festive dessert perfect for eating at home or taking to parties.

Rhubarb Pie and Once-a-Week Pie Crust

Rhubarb Pie

Seattle summers just about make up for the bleak, soggy winters.  For three months there's rarely a cloud in the sky and every time you turn around another fruit is ripe and begging to be made into pie.  I adapted this recipe for an olive-oil-based pie crust from one in an old diet cookbook, and I practically have it memorized by now.  I like to make the dough on Friday night and stash it in the fridge; Saturday morning I come home from the nearest Farmers' Market with whatever looks juiciest and in under an hour I have a hot, fresh, seasonal pie.  

Once-a-week Pie Crust
¾ cup + 1 Tbs all-purpose flour

¼ cup + 2 Tbs whole-wheat flour

2 Tbs sugar

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp cinnamon

3 Tbs + 1 tsp oil (olive, grapeseed, etc)

3 Tbs ice water

Whisk all the dry ingredients together, then add oil and stir until the mix looks like fine bread crumbs.  Stir in the ice water 1 Tbs at a time until the dough sticks together.  Wrap in plastic and chill for at least an hour (or freeze for up to two weeks).  Roll out the dough, place in a 9" pie plate, and prick all over with a fork.  Bake at 400 degrees until golden (about 18 minutes).  Add the desired filling and bake or chill as needed. 

This crust is pretty much foolproof, healthy enough to eat regularly, and hearty enough to pair with a variety robust and flavorful fillings.  As the summer goes on I'll paste more recommendations and pictures, but I'll mention here that I've used it with blackberries, peaches, mixed berries, and apples.  Since it's vegan I've used it to make tofu "French Silk" pies for vegan parties.  I've also left out the sugar and cinnamon and used it for quiches and savory flans. 

My favorite filling of the moment is locally-grown rhubarb, which I prefer not to dilute with strawberries.  Chop a scant pound of clean rhubarb and cook with 2-3 Tbs of sugar in a small saucepan over medium heat.  When the rhubarb gets tender and juicy, make of paste of 1 tsp cornstarch and a little hot water and stir it into the fruit.  Let the fruit simmer for a couple more minutes, then pour into the hot pie crust.  Put back into the hot oven, shut the door, and turn off the oven; the residual heat will set the filling.  

 

Pâte de Fruit

Pâte de Fruit
Above: William Dean Chocolates, $5/small box
Below: Paris Caramels, $15/large box

Like jam, condensed milk, or astronaut ice cream , pâte de fruit (pronounced not like liver pâté, but as in "Pat the Bunny") is a delicacy born from a difficult challenge: how to make a perishable surplus last a little longer. During the 10th century in France, someone figured out that you could preserve ripe fruit by cooking it down into a semi-solid, super-concentrated state. Sometime later, the shelf life of this fruit paste was extended again when makers began to coat each piece with granulated sugar, a natural preservative.

I first fell for pâte de fruit while visiting France, where the 1000-year-old treat is still a part of modern life. It's a prime souvenir of the Auvergne region where it was invented, while the high-end epicerie Fauchon displays gleaming cubes of every imaginable flavor in a chic display case, and most corner shops sell little plastic-wrapped bars suitable for a kid's lunchbox.

While the US is well-stocked with fruity gems, gels, and jellies, it's decidedly lacking in proper pâte de fruit. What do I mean by "proper"? No "fruit flavorings". No gelatin (first, because I'm squeamish, second, because fruit is packed with pectin, a natural substance that is ready and waiting to become squishy, and third, because fruit + gelatin = jello). No more added sugar than absolutely necessary (again, fruit is already full of sugar). And finally, NO corn syrup, NO artificial coloring, NO preservatives; any so-called pâte de fruit that includes these ingredients is missing the point.

Needless to say, I don't get to eat pâte de fruit very often! I was thrilled to find them for sale at the William Dean Chocolates display at the Seattle Chocolate Salon. The ingredients were staightforward enough (fruit puree, wine, sugar, pectin, glucose, tartaric acid) so I bought a small box including cassis, mirabelle plum, kiwi, pear, raspberry and passionfruit (pictured above). I got the Paris Caramels box (below) from ChefShop, whose website reports that the fruit used comes directly from small-scale French growers. The flavors of lemon, passionfruit, and raspberry come through loud and clear.

Since things can get a little grim during Seattle winters, I'm trying not to eat all of these right away; I can picture myself in the middle of January, self-medicating with a daily dose of these sunny little sweets.

Cascadian Farm

Raspberry Shortcake
Cascadian Farm, $4.50

How's this for a summer treat? Shortcake with fruit and whipped cream, purchased from a hobbit house sitting in the middle of lush berry fields and eaten at a sun-baked picnic table. If I had read the U-pick schedule before I ordered I would have chosen in-season blueberries; since raspberries peak earlier in the summer, the one disappointment was that the berries in my shortcake weren't quite thawed.

Even if you've never been to Rockport, WA, you've probably seen Cascadian Farm's organic products on the shelves at your grocery. Although the company is now massive and diverse, the u-pick fields and farm stand tell the story of Cascadian's small start in 1972 as a pioneering organic farm.

Cascadian Home Farm
55749 State Route 20
Rockport, WA