Excerpts From Steamy Romance Novels for Food Writers: Pluot & Vanilla Jam

Saturday, June 4, 2016


He began to stand on his chair. Stalwart. Strong. Almost as quick as his flash she reached out to him and pleaded. "If you don't sit down they'll know we're writing a Yelp review." Yet, she knew he cared nothing for her reviews, regardless of how witty they were. All that mattered was his food porn.

---

He gazed longingly at her as she paraded the coconut cake with homemade, organic Meyer lemon curd and Italian buttercream frosting made with fair trade Tahitian vanilla beans to the table. She had shaved the coconut herself; a dedication that only made her more desirable. He would have to chain back his lust before leaping upon her and the cake until she had a good shot for her Pinterest board.

---

They couldn't understand why someone would call that question into The Splendid Table when a Google search would have been more efficient.

The Research Process: Fig and Brandy Jam

Monday, August 18, 2014

1. Collect information from the library, internet, interviews, etcetera.

2. Read it all. All of it.

3. Take so many notes that you would shame Tolstoy. 

4. Make sure your notes are in such a ludicrously archaic and indecipherable form that Tolstoy would literally spin in his grave as such that the thanatropic energy harnessed from his whirling corpse could power a Hyundai. 

5. Put all of your sources into a annotated works referenced page. This is to help you in the long run. You know it does as it helps you remember what sources said what. 

6. Of course, it's also a huge pain in the ass. Most likely you will skip this part often until a small stack of sources begins to get so tall the cat climbs to the top of it to survey his territory (e.g., you). Then spend four hours logging that shit into EasyBib and hoping a publisher doesn't make you switch it all from MLA to APA, or, god forbid, Chicago Style. 

7. Write!

Stupid Raccoon: Earl Grey & Kumquat Marmalade

Monday, January 13, 2014

-The perfect cure for the busy mind.-

We took down the Christmas tree today, an event that has as much joy as getting your bits waxed. Down came the teddy bear advent calendar I grew up with. The mistletoe - which didn't see nearly enough action - was removed from the foyer. The mantelpiece was de-garlaned. The tree's bobbles and strings were delicately removed and tucked into boxes with a throw-n-go method. The tree itself, a marvelous Martha Stewart fake that could fool even the most scrutinous botanist if not for the lights miraculously growing from its branches, was packed away.

Once stored and shelved for the next eleven months the husband and I went out to the garage for the comfy sack - a large beanbag chair of sorts. It's filled with foam pellets instead of those crappy polyurethane beads that exploded over many a living room in the 80s, and upholstered in a chocolate microsuede cover. Quite fun. Extremely comfortable. I highly recommend it if you want a touch of whimsy in your home.

It was also, apparently, very peed on.

So Today Was a Quiet Morning and I Made Jam: Pluot Jam

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

-For your lazy, quiet Sunday.-

It's a quiet Sunday for once and only because I did all the yard work, cleaning, and my writing yesterday. I survived a work week that was more stressful than it should have been. As a reward I was overjoyed to have a college friend crash the night as we played catch up and made Tollhouse cookies. We spent the morning over jasmine tea to recover from the cocktails and too many bottles of wine the night before. Now? Now the windows are all heaved open and the screen doors shiver in the first inklings of autumn weather that's creeped in. It's the kind that feels cold and wet, and causes the remaining squash blossoms to lazily unfurl at ten in the morning.

Last night, like I said, was a night of drinking cocktails with too much lavender and not nearly enough soda water. A night melding with the Playstation - I used to be a gamer, but now I'm jaded by nostalgia - and becoming terribly addictied to Orange is the New Black. 

I also got my first magazine review for the book. Culture magazine called it, "a scrumptious page-turner... this book is well suited for turophiles craving cheese science and historical facts as the background for each recipe." I'm pretty darn thrilled with that. Only yesterday I did my first magazine interview, which was exciting and sort of alarming because after years of conducting interviews this was a bit of a switch. I'm still learning what my answers are and once or twice I had to say "off the record" because I was talking myself in circles and getting off topic, and apparently "off the record" is a thing people actually have to say. Who knew?

God Damn It: Pumpkin Butter

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

-Sigh.-

So today - this day that I am writing this and not the day this post is going up - is one of those days. One of those days where a string of unfortunate events all seem to connect and painfully pull each other along like a anal beads out of a virgin butthole. Let us go over the last few hours:

1. Decide to make pumpkin butter.

2. Hack open pumpkin and begin processing it. Somehow completely forget that I am totally allergic to raw pumpkin flesh. Hands, understandably, begin to swell and burn. The skin on my palms begins to peel away as if I have been scourged with leprosy.

3. Wash hands thoroughly with plenty of soap and vinegar - which stings like a bitch when you don't have a lot of goddamn skin - to get the proteins and amino acids that are doing this to me off.

4. Now wearing latex gloves, I rub the pumpkin flesh with olive oil. Pumpkin roasts in the oven. Mini-migraine now sets in. Rest for a while.

5. Dog finds errants pumpkin seed. The dog, apparently, is not keen on pumpkins either and promptly throws it up along with the rest of his stomach contents onto the bathroom rug.

Favors: Cranberry Jam

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

-A bit of thanks for everyone.-

"So what kind of ceremony were you planning to have?" asked Kate, my and Fiance's friend and wedding planner. A tall brunette with librarian's glasses and a designer's wardrobe poignantly market with Kate Spade (natch) I watched her mentally tick off various aspects of the big day as she took stock of what then, depending on our answers, needed to be done.

"Um, just a short one I think?" Kate gave me a rather concerned glare. I looked to Fiance who had conveniently turned away and proceeded to examine the rather impressive and near-to-scale and intimidating recreation of Stonehenge that our host, John, had built a few years back on a gardening whim so as to appear unaware of the question. I turned back to Kate, "Like, ten minutes long. Or so?"

"Yes, but what kind? Like a sand ceremony or what?" she queried harder, hoping her example would spark some kind of flame in my nuptial noggin. Sadly, her flint was weak. Or, more likely, I lack the tinder.

-Or a bit of both...-

"Kate, I have no idea what the words you are saying mean."

"Okay, how about a chocolate and wine ceremony?" The C-Word got Fiance's attention but he didn't know the question. We met her, this time together, with blank stares. She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Okay, it's a ceremony that uses chocolate to symbolize the bitter times and wine to celebrate the sweet times. Very fun, very unique, very foodie. I'd think you guys would like it."

Fiance and I exchanged looks, nodded, and gave our assent to the planner that yes, that sounded lovely. She then began to talk about processions (we'll have a short one), corsages (just for me as Fiance will be in military dress), wedding party (none, it's a guest list of 50 for Christ's sake), and so on. The bulk of the exchange was poor Kate lobbing darts at the board of our collective likes and dislikes and seeing what stuck.

I began to suspect that my lack of answers to apparently the most basic questions about various wedding considerations was beginning to exasperate her. The entire concept of planning a wedding to us is probably more confusing to us than reading sanskrit, contemplation of the universe and our place within it, and Michele Bachman. Still, she just mostly smiled through the whole thing and like a mother leading a toddler through a crowded place delicately made sure I knew what I was doing and that Fiance and I made sound decisions that would be right for us.

Who knew so much went into one of these hooplahs?

Personal Religion - Part 2: Blueberry-Apricot Jam

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

-Because some things are easier to sort out than others.-

Hovering over the jamming pot is the place I do my deepest thinking. I make jam the labor intensive, slow way. I cook it on medium heat and stir, stir, stir until my hand begins to shake and, even then, I continue to stir, stir, stir. It ensures that the fruit doesn’t sit and scorch and that it all cooks up perfectly - evenly - every time. All this stir, stir, stirring grants me the time to mull over my thoughts, turning them over like shiny baubles lost long ago in the attic and found once again, and ponder their meaning.

The last time I made jam I discussed my history with religion. It’s rare that I ever give a topic more than a single post - my attention span won’t ever really allow it – but my most recent batch of jam left me to thresh out exactly what my beliefs are. Sure, I was raised to be a good, if not relaxed, Lutheran whose practice has waned like a the shrinking taper of a dinner candle these past many years.

So what is God to me now? I wonder...

Personal Religion: Cherry-Rhubarb Jam

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

-Prayer in a jar.-

My brother and I were raised to be good Presbyterians. We went to church every Sunday where my brother and I would draw on the back of the pamphlet for that day's sermon and generally cause a fuss for 60 minutes as our parents attempted to shush us into quiet obedience. Eventually, frustrated at the lack of any sort of child-related religious education (read:babysitting), my parents picked us up and moved us to a nearby Luthern church that had a well-dispositioned Sunday school and preteen and teen programs. From then on we were raised to be good Lutherans.

Lutheranism is the Diet Coke of Catholicism: Same great flavor. None of the guilt. What I mean is that we used the same general catechism, the book of rules on how to be a good Christian. Young kids have to memorize it, take classes, and learn to be good people in the eyes of Jesus.

In Lutheranism there are no Saints to pray to, which I liked because from the outside it seemed there were too many of them. I never understood why Mary got respect but Joseph didn't, so for a long time I assumed the Catholic church was sexist against men. (Silly me.) Actually, the Vatican is still a mystery to me in many respects. As a child I interpreted it as a miserly old man with too much money telling people to be miserable for this would make God happy. (Ever since Martin Luther decided to graffiti a church door, Lutherans have always been against suffering and self-inflicted angst.)

Lutherans are generally a very laid back lot. Where as Catholicism might encourage you to say five Hail Mary's on Easter Sunday, we're more likely to drink five Bloody Mary's on any given Sunday. This is probably what influenced the waned sense of piety and religion that I possess today.

Much of this attitude was influenced by my pastor at the time of my youth, Pastor Kim. Our Senior Pastor, Pastor Tim, a disgruntled man in his forties who had the disposition of a codger in his eighties, was a miserable guy. For a Lutheran he was very fire and brimstone, and seemed to have a deep rooted hatred for Buddhists who he insisted were "Dead inside for praying to a stone statue of a man," which made many of the parishioners cock their heads in question as he said this in front of a three story tall, polished wooden cross. Considering all this, you might be able to see why it was odd that of all people he hired to be his Assistant Pastor, he hired Pastor Kim.

-Pastor Tim: Taking the fun out of religion since Westboro Baptist Church and the National Organization for Marriage.-

Kim was blond, sweeter than a Sundae, and sickeningly perky. She was that girl you knew in high school who was prom queen, track star, and got a perfect SAT score. Part of you wanted to hate her, but she was so damn nice to you and everyone else that you couldn't help but give her the utmost admiration.

I recall when I was talking to her one day when I was still struggling with the whole sexuality issue. I was worried that what I might be doing (i.e., liking boys) was sinful. I poured out my heart while trying to hold back the tears, wondering why a God who made me like this wouldn't like me the way I am.

She looked at me thoughtfully, then got up and walked over to the TV that she kept in her office and turned it on. She then bent over and opened the cabinet of the television stand to reveal a Nintendo 64 gaming system.

"You're stressing too much about this. You're fine," she said as she began to unravel the cords from around the controllers and set the system up.

"Really?" I sniffed.

She turned and sighed, "Yes. Look, do you want to do good in the world?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel like you've actually done anything wrong?"

"Um, no?"

"Okay, then just try to be a good person. If you do do something bad then ask for forgiveness from God in a spirit of contrition and you'll get it. After that you go do more good in the world. That's the way to live a holy life. That'll make you happy. That'll make God happy. That'll make others happy. Who you take home to meet mom doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things."

"Uhhh, okay."

"Now, let's play some GoldenEye 007." Then for the next hour she proceeded to whoop my ass at video games, trash talking me the entire time. (E.g., "Maybe you should pray to Jesus not to suck so much!")

-She cheated, too. She would just camp out in a corner with the sniper rifle and - BOOM! - headshot. Every. Damn. Time.-

This sort of attitude reflected that of the entire youth congregation, which I was an active part of all until I left my hometown for college. Indeed, on my last day there when I told all my friends in the Youth Group, people I had known now for over 10 years that I was gay, the general response was, "No duh." A few actually had someone they wanted to set me up with. One person did actually water balloon me in the face, but then again she was water ballooning everyone that summer day.

These days, I'm bad Lutheran. I don't pray that much. I go to the occasional Church service, but my belief is that standing in a church makes you a Christian as much as standing in a garage makes you a car. To me, faith is a personal thing and best practiced alone in your own way.

For me, I guess, cooking is now my Sunday morning routine. The methodical process requires thought, practice, and action. It's the combination and transformation of things. Cooking becomes appreciation of life and what it has to offer.

My kitchen is my church. Here, I feel close to God, my family, and my friends. I attend regularly. The wine is way better than the stuff Pastor Tim used to serve and I generally prefer cookies to communion wafers.

-Also, I sing songs from Glee. Not musty old songs that are sung by a congregation with all the joy of horsewhipping.-

Even more so, the kitchen defines what faith is. In the kitchen there is only so much you can control. At times, you simply have to have faith that your oven won't run too hot or that the fruit you picked up won't be too bitter. Jam requires skill, yes, but it requires faith and knowledge of your ingredients. Coax your jam all you want, but any seasoned jammer will tell you the same thing: the fruit will do as it sees fit. You simply have to accept the outcome and make the best of it.

I've learned some of the best life lessons in a kitchen. In fact, I feel that I've learned them better in the kitchen that in the pews listening to someone preach from the book of Psalms. I learned patience waiting for a cake to rise. Humility when it didn't. Respect in the presence of great teachers. Affability in the presence of eager novices. Thankfulness for bounty, and temperance when gifted with it.

Jam teaches you a lot of these lessons that we learn hovering above a pot with a wooden spoon in hand. And, so, I think God, in a way, is in the food we cook.

God tastes delicious in this jam, by the way. The cherries and rhubarb create a brooding, sweet and sour jam that just rings loud in your mouth and that echoes through you. I encourage you not to skimp on the vanilla as it lends the jam a creamy flavor.

It may not make the most sense or be the most expected way to practice one's faith, but it works for me. Personal religion is just that: personal. We all have to find the way it works best for us. In the end, I feel if you're trying your best to be a good person then you're doing all right in The Universe's eyes. Making food and feeding people is just one of many ways to go about that.

It is certainly the most flavorful.


Cherry-Rhubarb Jam
Makes 5 8-ounce jars

2 1/2 lbs cherries, pitted
1 1/2 cups chopped rhubarb
1 lb.sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon butter
1/2 vanilla bean, seeded and scraped

1. Place all the ingredients in a stainless steel or copper pot, or an enamel-lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot). Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking and burning to the bottom.

3. After about 20 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

Escape From Anxiety: Strawberry & Wine Jam

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

-In order to bring about a calming sensation...-

I peered across the room to the see the clock on the kitchen oven. By this time of day the sunlight was blasting its way into the apartment completely annihilating the dull green glowing time. I finally had to get up from the couch and delicately tip-toe around the piles of papers and research that stacked like a miniature skyscrapers around my feet. Once in the kitchen I cupped my hand to block the light and check the time. 10:32 AM.

“Oh hell,” I muttered. I had woken up at 6 AM to start working and already four hours had flitted away without my notice. My head, buried in the collected works of Karl Marx and Carlo Petrini and fueled by an exaggerated cup of black tea, had been too preoccupied.

My stomach growled a low bass rumble that shook the kitchen. I felt exhausted, stressed, and completely empty. I grabbed a piece of bread and smeared it with a bit of butter before wolfing it down to fill all the nothing inside me. As soon as I swallowed some of it a ripple of nausea took over. I felt my throat beginning to contort and my tongue instinctively taking a sluice-like position. I turned on my heel and threw myself over the sink and spit out the bread I was still chewing. I immediately braced myself for what was sure to come.

I waited. My stomach churned. My diaphragm sent my torso heaving. Nothing came. I waited some more. Nothing.

-Pictured: Not vomit.-

I dragged myself up and wiped the tears out of my eyes. A deep breath followed by another, heavier breath. I forced the rest of the bread down. I washed it all with the rest of my tea, which by now was hoarse and cold but I wanted the bitterness to nullify the lingering gastronomic vertigo that my stomach seemed to be recoiling from.

It was time for a break.

The anxiety attack had been caused by, unsurprisingly, the thesis. I had finally received feedback on my last chapter from my second reader. Most of it was positive, but she had noted a few places where she thought my arguments rested too much on broad generalizations and needed some more concrete evidence, preferably Marxist.

I had avoided learning anything more than the basic premises of Marxist critique and theory during my academic life because I had found it rather dull and uninspiring. Now, at the end of a nine year run of undergrad and grad school, Marx came bum-rushing in right before the finish line to kneecap me with a lead pipe. I had spent the previous 32 hours reading through most of Marx's major works attempting comprehend his theories. (Which, now, I will admit, are kinda intriguing.) I was mentally drained and physically exhausted.

-Is making jam a marking of the proletariat? Is it Petit Bourgeois? These are not questions one asks oneself when trying to prevent sugar and strawberries from scorching.-

I was doing my best to do a three day turnaround on my thesis and get a near-perfect draft to my final reader. With only 5 weeks left in the semester I needed approval or else I was doomed to enroll in a regular semester instead of enrolling in continuous enrollment semester of which I was currently on my last semester of.

Here’s how it works and the situation I find myself in: Each student gets three semesters of continuous enrollment where you aren’t really taking classes. It’s just more time to work on your thesis or project. Continuous enrollment costs about $200. If you go past three you have to re-enroll in a regular semester which costs about $2000.

I’m trying to get the thesis fixed and approved under a tight deadline so I can finish this semester. The reason for the anxiety is that if my reader requests a revision I probably won’t have enough time to fix it and get it to her. I would have to wait 6 more months and pay thousands of dollars in order for her to spend a few hours reading a revision. Her hands are essentially tied as she is disallowed to legally or contractually do any work outside of school time and read it when she is not on the clock else she get in trouble with the school.

I had appealed to the school for an extension, citing that the house fire last January during my first continuous enrollment semester had destroyed most of my research along with everything else and that I hadn’t dis-enrolled at the time simply because it wasn’t on my mind. Homelessness will do that. The graduate department (aka: The Bastards) perplexedly concluded that this was not a valid reason. So now I'm trapped in a web of bureaucratic yellow tape and deadlines. I imagine the dean of the college simply lying in wait deciding on when to plunge its mandibles into my wallet and soul (it’s not a matter of either/or, but of which one first).

-Screw you, graduate studies office. You get no berries. Just the finger.-

I was now on day three of trying to revise and perfect a 160-page document on that not only did my graduation hinder on, but another six months of my life and thousands of dollars of possible tuition money that would come out of my pocket. Hence the anxiety attack.

Staring into the sink I knew that there was only one thing to do right now. I got out my good pot and my canning materials, and pulled out the hefty bag of strawberries I purchased the other day in preparation for this. I would make jam.

Jamming is my mode of escape from stressful situations. It’s methodical work that requires all of your senses and attention. You have to diligently cut and chop every piece of fruit to similar size. You're constantly touching, smelling, observing, and tasting. Jamming requires you to be intimate with your produce as each batch will have a different personality. Yesterday’s may be slothful and bubble for hours in a syrupy mess before coming together, while today’s may be unripe and unruly, and tomorrow’s batch may be quite keen on you and jam with little more than a click of your heels. Each batch requires supervision and an always stirring hand in order to ensure uniformity.

Jam, thank god, requires that you think and focus on nothing else but jam.

This is why I find it to be such a grand escape. Plus, the bonus of jam making in order to escape is the jam. Your effort results in a rich, concentrated fruit that envelopes the eater.

As I pushed the strawberries into the pot I noticed a bottle of Bordeaux sitting on the counter. BF and I had opened it last night and capped the rest off for later. Without much consideration I grabbed the bottle and poured a few steady glugs of it in the pot. I immediately then put the bottle to my lips and finished the rest. It was dark, fruity, and with a taste of berries and pepper; but without exposure to air the wine was also harsh and burned at my negligence. I twitched a little and felt better as my body warmed.

-Booze makes everything better. This includes breakfast.-

Time passed and the jam came together. It tasted as red probably should, full of spring and precociously sweet fruit. I processed it and licked the spoon clean.

The wine began to take hold and the work had relaxed me. My stress began to wash away and my brain relax as it pushed out concerns of superstructures and deadlines and thought about lid sterilization. Ah, lid sterilization. I pondered about how utterly simple and wonderful lid sterilization is. No rhetorical questions are involved in processing jam. You just preform the task with attentive care.

As I write this days later the anxiety is still present, but tamed. My thesis is now sitting in a professor’s office awaiting judgment. I’m still on the verge of throwing up half the time when I think about it or open my e-mail knowing that a fateful e-mail may await me. The well wishes I have received are hopeful, inspiring, and greatly appreciated, but now it rests on my work and the approval of a single individual. I have no inkling on what her impressions will be.

Still, I have jam. I can eat that and momentarily, even for just a split second, relax. Those split seconds matter to me. That is why jamming, then, is so damn important. Any escape is.


Strawberry & Red Wine Jam
3 1/2 lbs. strawberries, hulled and diced
1/4 cup red wine
juice of 2 lemons
1 lb. sugar
1/8 teaspoon butter

1. Place all the ingredients in a stainless steel or copper pot, or a enamel lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot as this will leach). Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking and burning to the bottom.

3. After about 20 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

The Company You Keep: Kiwi-Lemon Jam Recipe

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

-A simple Saturday breakfast without a side of crime.-

We’re judged by the company we keep. Some may argue that it’s unfair that we be ancillary critiqued based on the actions and words of those we associate with. However, it stands to reason that if we willingly befriend people who can hardly be considered upstanding, then we too must be. Why else would we be friends with people unless we we approved of their actions or behavior? We pick our friends because they possess traits we enjoy and admire. Judging someone by the company they keep, then, is completely practical.

Shortly after turning eighteen and graduating high school I found myself at UC Davis for freshmen orientation week. It was a chance to familiarize myself with the campus and its resources, take placement exams, and learn how to pick classes using the incredibly complicated class guide. More importantly, it was a chance to socialize and make friends. Most everyone was coming from all corners of California, others from various other reaches of the U.S., and a few from overseas. People from practically every race, gender, religion, sexuality, ability and so on were present causing some people to engage with individuals of certain communities whom they had never interacted with before. It was week of social mixing and everyone was a little awkward.

-Kiwis are best when their skins are wrinkled and the fruit is dark green. November is the season for them so hit up the Farmer's Markets. I got 3lbs. for $3.-

Of course, the first person I bonded with was my assigned roommate for the week in the dorms. I can’t recall his name but I recall my interactions with him and the people he quickly associated with and, thus, I associated with. They all seemed normal enough. We spent the first night at the dining commons talking about our potential majors and backgrounds. Who had a girlfriend, if we thought we placed well in the chemistry placement exam, and if there was a decent coffee house nearby were all fair topics. Nothing anyone would red flag.

The group seemed normal enough, though we seemed to have established ourselves as the popular kids (I understand now that no such thing exists on a college campus) and as expected began to act in condescending manner towards the other students. Nothing extreme or too offensive, more along the lines of picking out who was wierd and making a point to convince every other freshmen how that person should be shunned else their new collegiate reputation be tarnished.

Having been one of the super-weird people in high school who had been on the receiving end of this sort of treatment - I played the flute in marching band and founded the anime club - this should have been the first warning. Still, I was in a new environment and, gosh darn it, I wanted to find some friends and fit in. If some poor shmuck with a bad haircut who climbed trees in the middle of our campus tour had to suffer our roundtable mocking, so be it.

-Buttered bread is equally tasty. Either way, though, you'll end up snarfing it down like a starving wolf.-

Later that night we ventured into downtown not looking for anything in particular. We eventually meandered into a convenience store for what I assumed was something to drink. It was dark out and I had no idea where in the town I was so more than anything I was just trying to get my bearings.

I have an intense need to know exactly where I am at all times in foreign places, and not having a map I was more concerned with landmarks, star positions, and street names than whatever the others were doing. While downtown Davis is set up as a grid, if you aren't familiar with the town every block looks exactly the same. Compound that on top of the fact the campus itself was a strange maze of mismatched and awkwardly placed buildings and that it was dark out I realized I was totally lost. I certainly wasn’t paying attention to what anyone was buying or, in this case, not buying.

The group moved out back to the street and we meandered over to what seemed to be a park.

“Walk faster,” said my roommate in hushed panic. I just looked at him curiously.

“Why? We don’t have to be back for a while.” I looked up ahead to the rest of the group and called out, “Hey, does anyone know where the hell we are?”

“Dude, shut up!” hissed the guy with the punk-look ahead of us, pink hair in spikes and boots that looked like the belonged to The Starchild. I couldn’t recall his name, and had begun to address him as Punky.

This was the point when I knew something was up. It was the same feeling you get when you find a letter in the mail that can only be bad news, or that split second after you hear your car make a sound that you unequivocally know will cost you $300 to fix.

“Dude, hurry up!” said my roommate. He, Punky, a blonde girl, and the German guy we met a lunch began picking up speed.

Suddenly, a few blocks away, we saw a police car turning the corner.

“RUN!” someone called.

So, I ran. The reaction was automatic. If someone suddenly yells “Heads up!”, you look up and brace for falling objects. If you see people crowding around on the street, you’re likely to investigate in order to see what's going on. Humans are creatures that are good at following the pack and taking directions in a primal sense, especially when our brains tell us it’s for self-preservation. So, I ran. I took off like scared teenager in a horror film, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

-This should be the first lesson in orientation.-

We were in the park by now and there was zero lighting nearby thanks to the City of Davis’ aggressive light pollution policy. (You can see the stars, just not the serial rapist hiding in the bushes ahead.) Following the lead of the people in front of me I leaped over a stone wall and took cover, flattening myself against the ground. The others were doing the same, all of us still as statues and no one breathing a word for fear that the slightest whisper would sound like a siren. A few minutes later we heard the car drive up, pass us, and slowly drive away. We hadn’t been seen. Even more, I realized that they weren’t even looking for us.

“What the hell?! Why were we running?! Why am I dashing two city blocks and hiding in shadowy corners from the cops?!” I yelled.

“Dude, we stole some beer and Jack from the store,” said Punky. My roommate looked at me and smiled. He grabbed the bottle of Jack and offered it to me. I looked at it in my hand and stared down at the Captain, a knowing look in his eye as if to say, "See, yer' a pirate. Just like me. Arr."

"You stole liquor? On our first night in college? Wait. No. College orientation?" I stared at them all. I was shocked and horrified that people really could be this stupid. "Just how much crack did you smoke before we went out tonight?"

"Dude," said my roommate, "it's fine. It's just a bottle."

"And beer!" I screamed louder than I had probably intended.

"It's just a small adventure. Nothing to freak about," said the blonde.

"You made me run from the cops! I've never run from the cops! I like cops!" I looked back down at the Captain. Without any thought I unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to my lips and began to drink.

And, then, continued to drink. And drink. And drink. This was my first drink ever, in fact. Conicidentally, it was also the first time I felt I ever really needed a drink.

"Whoa! Don't take it all," cried the roommate.

I ignored him and continued. I could feel the peppery liquid sear down my throat and burn my stomach. Pain as punishment.

Finally, more for the desire of air than rather to stop, I put down the bottle and gasped. My body began to violently cough and my back arched over as it reacted to the burn. My lungs attempted to suck in air as quickly as possible. I put my arm out in a gesture for someone to take the bottle away. The blonde grabbed it and whined about a third of the bottle being gone or something. At that point I didn't care. I got up and meandered in what seemed to be a familiar direction. I just hoped that my young, healthy liver could process this and that I could find my way back to the dorm.

-Combined they equal pure awesome.-

The next day, my side sore and my head pounding, I befriended the strange tree climbing lad. We hit it off fabulously. By the end of orientation week he and I had made arrangements to become roommates in the dorms once the school year started. We celebrated our arrangement with other new friends who weren’t thieving bastards with a simple picnic in the quad of fruit, cheese, and bread picked up at the Farmer’s Market.

It was during that picnic that I learned the importance of association when it comes to food as well. My new friend, Sarah, showed me how to pair fruit with cheese, particularly slices of fresh seed-studded kiwi on chunks of bread smeared with chèvre. Food, too, can be judged by its pairings, friendly flavors that highlight and encourage its most endearing and exciting qualities.

At that picnic I found foods I was happy to mix together, but even better I found people who supported me . These friends were company I was happy to be judged by.

This kiwi-lemon jam is just as easy to judge through association. It also reminds me of some of the lessons I learned in that first week of college. A wild, somewhat precocious accountrment on a cheese plate this jam is sure to garner attention while simultaneously fawning over anything else your serve. Tangy chèvres and triple cream, ultra-buttery cheeses like Délice de Bourgogne or Red Hawk mingle best with it. It's particular perkiness lends it self well to waffles, yogurt, and ice cream as well.

Of course, this jam shouldn’t be judged by association alone, but on its own merits as well. Bright and sunny, it’s not the kind of jam you expect Fall bounty to produce. The kiwis’ tropical, almost strawberry-ish flavor is best if you can find them at peak ripeness when the skins are wrinkled and the flesh is dark emerald green, which means the fruit will be sweet and aromatic. Ripe, soft kiwis are a whole different flavor than hard, pale green ones that offer too much tang and too little flavor. The strong suggestion of lemon offers a slightly sour compliment to the beryl fruit.


Kiwi Lemon Jam
Adapted from The Art of Preserving
Makes 2 1/2 pints


1 Meyer lemon
3 cups sugar
3 lbs. ripe kiwi fruits

1. Cut off the ends of the lemon. Quarter the lemon lengthwise and remove the seeds. Place the lemon and 2 cups of the sugar in a food processor and process until well pureed Transfer to a nonreactive bowl and let stand at room temperature for four hours or overnight.

2. Peel the kiwis and slice them into thick rounds, about 4-5 per kiwi. Gently toss with the remaining cup of sugar. Cover and let sit at room temperature for 3-4 hours.

3. Transfer the lemon mixture to a large nonreactive saucepan and place over medium-high heat, stirring frequently until the sugar is dissolved and the lemon is translucent. Add the kiwi fruit mixture to the pan, reduce the heat to medium, and cook uncovered, stirring frequently, until the jam is thick. About 15 minutes. (This will be a loose jam. Overcooking it until it become very thick will scorch the kiwi fruit.)

4. Ladle into sterilized jars and process. Processed and canned it will keep for a year in a dark, cool place. Otherwise, place in the fridge and use within two months.

-Easy and affordable, this is a good starter jam for you canning newbies.-

Mirabelle Plum Sauce

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

-It's awesome having the hookup.-

One of the best kind of friends to have are the friends who know people. Whether this means connections in your line of work, access to back stage, or getting you hooked up with the best hair stylist having a buddy in the know is always a plus. I'm happy to have many such people in my life who are able to educate me, connect me, and help me blossom in both work and play.

My food blogging buddy, Lynn of Sacatomato, recently helped me with the latter. She knows a guy who has some trees that bear too much fruit. With this connection she was able to score me 8 pounds of plums to play with. Satsumas and Mirabelles, no less.

I've talked about Mirabelle plums here before. They're hard to locate in the U.S. and unless you know someone with a tree your chances of finding them are slim to nil.

For the most part, Mirabelles are a tad too sweet for me. Sugary, flowery, and just plain intense. After eating one or two I'm usually good for the year. That's why I spun them into a delectable spiced plum sauce perfect for ice cream, cheese plates, and pancakes. It's warm, floral, spicy, and fruity - everything a good fruit sauce should be. While you can use overripe plums of any variety for this I encourage you to try Mirabelles if you can find any.

-Star anise, cinnamon, and vanilla flavor this sauce. However, the flavors of the plums still stand out.-

Mirabelle Plum Sauce
I didn't skin these as the plums were too ripe to do so. However, Mirabelle skins are very thin and break down for the most part in cooking.

5 cups Mirabelle plums, chopped
3 cups sugar
1/2 vanilla bean, seeded
1 cinnamon stick
1 star anise
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon butter

Combine all the ingredients in a pot. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Skim off any foam that forms. Continue to stir for 30 minutes until the mixture has thickened. Pour into sterilized jars. Process for canning if you so desire or simply store in the fridge. Makes 4 1/2 - 5 cups.

-Excellent with blue cheeses as a stand-in for honey.-

The Steamy Story of Blueberry Jam

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

-Jam making with loved ones can be a bit messy.-

To my knowledge BF wasn't much of a cook before we met. He can fire a mean grill but I don't think he really had much kitchen panache. However, in the last few years or so through a combination of curiosity, observation, and osmosis he seems to be picking up quite a bit. He can make a mean banana bread, his blondies kick ass, and his ability to whip together an astounding marinade to slather on any of God's tasty creatures gives me goosebumps.

When he recently got back home after a few weeks of medical training he saw the ludicrous amount of jamming I had been pounding out. Jars of mint jelly, rhubarb ginger syrup, blackberry jam, apricot jam, apricot vanilla syrup, plum conserves were stacked high in the kitchen. Indeed, to anyone, cook or not, it was quite a sight.

-Isn't it odd that blueberries cook up violet and indigo?-

"Did you make any blueberry?" he asked.

"No, sadly, I haven't gotten around to it. It's been on my to-do list for about two years now. I always seem to put it off," I said.

"Well, then let's make some."

"You want to learn to make jam?" I was surprised.

He said that he did. I was giddy. The man can make buckwheat pancakes, fix a shower head like nobody's business, bandage my clumsy ass up, and has a desire to learn jam making? Oh yeah, definitely a keeper.

We got lucky in our berry search as we found huge cartons of organic berries for only four bucks each - a steal in blueberry economics. Three pounds ended up costing us around $13. We grabbed a lemon and an extra sack of sugar and headed home.

-Behold! A sea of blue.-

It was a steamy batch of jam to say the least. With the weather being in the triple digits outside and the water bath boiling away inside as well as the oven running at 200 degrees to sterilize the cans it felt like a Louisiana summer. We went about our work dressed only in shorts and aprons teasing and flirting as we went back and forth across the linoleum floor. As I measured the sugar he zested the lemon, I weighed the berries while he readied the lids; each task preformed with a little bit of posing. Witty repartee and coy tête-à-tête played in our tiny galley kitchen which we normally bemoaned about. Now the cramped quarters were suddenly quite intimate.

As we went about mashing and mixing our jam the occasional indigo splurt of juice exploded onto the counter, the floor, and ourselves. The latter wasn't so bad as it was excuse enough to wipe it up with our fingers and taste the jam to see how it was progressing. The jam had condensed the flavors of the blueberries into a winey nectar that was rich and intense, the essence of blueberry harnessed into a more potent preserve.

We quickly ladled the finished jam into jars, popped on their lids and rims and dunked them in their water bath. Tens minutes later and after a bit of cleanup we had six jars of dark Cabernet-colored jam. The heat and humidity was finally too much and we collapsed on the couch under the breeze of the air conditioning armed with tall glasses of iced tea. It was too miserable to cuddle up as body heat was the enemy. Instead we popped in a disc from Netflix, propped our feet on the coffee table and let our toes touch in what I can only call an affectionate manner.

It seems a good relationship is like a good jam. A little time and attention is all it takes to make one successful. Though some heat in the kitchen helps too.

-Perfect on pancakes, toast, muffins, and scones.-

Blueberry Jam Recipe
Blueberries are high in pectin so you won't have to reduce this until it has a jam-like consistency. Do it to just under so it still looks a little bit too liquidy. It will set up plenty solid.

3 lbs of blueberries
1 lb of sugar
three tablespoons of lemon juice
zest of one lemon
1/4 teaspoon of butter

1. Wash the blueberries and toss them into a stainless steel or copper pot, or a enamel lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot as this will leach). Mash the berries with a wooden spoon. Add the rest of the ingredients and stir. Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking to the bottom.

3. After about 20 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

-Good enough to eat with a spoon.-

Blackberry Jam

Monday, July 5, 2010

-Jamming season has begun.-

When the dreaded fire started back in the old apartment the very first thing to go were all the jams, syrups, pickles, and preserves I had made during the Spring and Summer. The fire, starting at the stove in the apartment next door, quickly ate through the kitchen wall and into my kitchen cabinets; right into the four flats of homemade canned goods. They did not survive.

The cabinet was apparently one of the few things that was sturdily built because even though the walls and pipes were consumed by the ravenous flame the cabinet stayed up leaving behind the evidence of what ate through the wall. The jars had literally exploded from the heat, black shrapnel scattered across the cabinet floor and even embedded itself into the walls. The jams had splattered and boiled down to a dull pitch crisp as if every surface has been caked with muddy obsidian.

Ironically, it wasn't supposed to have happened. Almost all of that jam had been destined to be turned into Christmas gifts but I had forgotten them back in Sacramento on my drive to Southern California, only remembering somewhere in the middle of a Central Valley drive-thru. I told my family I would mail the jams off to them when I got back. The fire was kind of the epic head-slap after a "D'oh!" moment in this regard.

So the past few weeks I have been on a jamming spree. I've churned out many batches of my apricot and Riesling jam at this point, a batch of apricot vanilla bean (those little bean specks give me such joy), and some rhubarb preserves. The windows are constantly fogged up from the steam of the cans' water baths creating a Floridian microclimate in my apartment. Still, through all the sweat and haze it's quite worth it. The jam is superb.

This last weekend I was lucky enough to have come across blackberries, bulbous and juicy, concentrated in flavor, for cheap at the Farmer's Market. Six overflowing baskets for $10 is something that demands to be jammed. I paid up and quickly took them home in a rush excited at this unique opportunity. Normally, I jam whatever fruit my friends' trees and gardens simply have an overabundance of, rarely do I buy a ton of fruit just to jam. However, this particular fruit situation demanded proactivity and I had never had the chance to jam berries.

The base recipe I used was Lindsey Shere's boysenberry jam recipe in Chez Pannise Desserts. However, I decided to play with it just a little. Blackberries seem to have two popular pairing as of late that I seem to be seeing everywhere: Bourbon and violet (the latter via actual violets, Creme de Violette, or violet extract). I decided to go with the Bourbon as the Creme de Violette was too delicate in flavor to stand up to these ballsy berries.

I measured out a shot glass of Bourbon and tossed in a bit of homemade vanilla extract into a pot of barely mashed berries and enough sugar to comatose a six year old. About a half hour later I had jam. Amazing jam. The bourbon added a subtle spice behind the fruit, and the vanilla added a slight creaminess. Just... oh lord, the best blackberry jam ever. So good you giggle to yourself when you taste it.

To you jammers and canners out there with access to black or boysenberries be sure to give this a shot. You won't be disappointed.

-Tasty trio of jam. (I ate all the rhubarb ones already. Oops.)-

Blackberry Jam (With a Hint of Bourbon)

2.5 lbs of blackberries
1 lb of sugar
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon of butter (this helps for clarity and prevents foaming)
3 tablespoons of Bourbon (or one shot glass worth)
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Wash the blackberries and toss them into a stainless steel or copper pot, or a enamel lined dutch oven (not an aluminum pot). Lightly mash the berries with a wooden spoon. Add the rest of the ingredients and stir. Let macerate for about 10 minutes. Place a small plate in the freezer as this will be used for testing later.

2. Turn heat to medium-high. The mixture will bubble and froth vigorously. Skim the foam off the top and discard (or save it and put it on cheese or yogurt; super tasty). The boil will subside to larger bubbles, but still bubble vigorously. Be sure to begin gently stirring the jam frequently to prevent it from sticking to the bottom.

3. After about 25 minutes begin testing the jam by placing a small amount on the cold plate. Allow 30 seconds to pass and then run your finger through it to see what the cooled consistency will be. Boil for a few minutes longer if desired for a thicker jam.

4. Ladle into hot, sterilized canning jars and seal leaving 1/4 inch of head space. Wipe the rims of the jars clean before applying the lids. Screw on the rings to finger-tight. Work quickly. Process in a water bath to ensure a good seal. If you want you can skip the water bath and just screw the lids on tight where the heating-cooling process will create a vacuum seal, but the water bath is a surefire method for a secure seal.

*To sterilize the jars, rinse out clean Mason jars, dry them, and place them, without lids, upright in a 200°F oven for 10 minutes. To sterilize the lids put them in a shallow bowl and pour boiling water over them.

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