(Alright, before getting into the rhube, time to come clean: I’m ’bout to have a bébé over here. Any day now. Hence the slowing down of the blogging, right down to a trickle. Renovations and some frantic nesting have left me very little time to consider the pantry with. And just in time for canning season! All this to say that this blog is easing its way into a bit of a maternity leave. We’ll see what happens over the summer. I hope to still can and blog, but the whole thing may be rather more sporadic… Anyway, happy summer canning, jamming, pickling and preserving to one and all!) And now back to your regular scheduled programming:

Rhubarb heralds summer’s sweet beginnings. Makes me think of  Slip ‘n’ Slide, Orange Crush, above-ground pools, hamburgers with buns as moist and sweet as cake. Its tangy, slightly fibrous mushiness makes it one of summer’s comfort foods.

I came across a recipe for rhubarb-ginger jam in my copy of The Complete Book of Preserving from 1976 and I’ve adapted it slightly here, cutting the sugar a little since the crystallized ginger adds a lot of sweetness.

Here goes:

Rhubarb-ginger jam

2.5 lbs rhubarb cut into 1-in. pieces

3 cups sugar

1/2 cup water

juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tbsp crystallized ginger, finely chopped

2-inch piece of ginger

Bring your rhubarb, water, lemon juice and sugar to a boil, stirring often. Take your nub of ginger and beat it up a little with a meat hammer or some other implement that will help release its juices and add it to your bubbling fruit mix along with the crystallized stuff.

Cook until your reach the desired jammy consistency (I went for about 30 minutes), remove ginger bit and process as usual in hot, clean jars (I boil them for 10 minutes).

The Quebec asparagus season runs from about Mother’s Day until Saint-Jean Baptiste (that’s our “national” holiday, June 24). So: welcome, oh tall, skinny friend, oh gentle perfumer of urine. Yes, besides sprouts and lettuces, asparagus is about the only thing from Quebec at the market at the moment. Though I did spot a bit of mangy, early-bird rhubarb.

Anyway, it was thrilling to bust out the canning pot and get to work on these locally harvested green spears. This recipe is extremely similar to my cucumber pickle recipe. Here’s looking forward to cracking a jar in a few weeks, maybe pairing some with creamy scrambled eggs and grated parm…

Pickled asparagus

4 lbs asparagus

2 1/2 cups water

1 1/4 cups vinegar

1 1/4 cups white wine vinegar

2 tsp kosher or pickling salt

5 cloves of garlic, halved or slivered

5 good-sized sprigs of fresh dill (or more)

1 tsp each peppercorns, coriander seeds and red pepper flakes

Rinse asparagus under cold water and drain. Slice off tough, brownish bottoms, then cut asparagus in two (if you’re using half-pint/250ml jars, make sure you cut them to fit). Bring a pot of water to a low boil, blanch bottom halves for about 90 seconds, blanch the top halves for a minute, plunging both into ice water and swirling them around immediately after blanching. Set aside to drain.

Combine vinegars, water and salt in a pot and bring to a boil. Reduce to low heat and prepare your jars. This recipe makes about 10 half-pint (250ml) jars or 5 pint (500ml) jars. Distribute garlic, dill and spices evenly across your hot, clean jars (I wash then boil mine in the canning pot). Stuff as many asparagus halves as possible into each jar without crushing or bruising them (tightness is key as you don’t want any bobbing up and out of the pickling solution), then pour your water and vinegar over top, leaving about a 1/2 inch of head space.

Now you have the choice of boiling the jars for 10 minutes or using the slow pasteurization method, which I prefer for pickles: process your jars at a simmer, somewhere between 180-185F (82-85C) for 30 minutes. This really helps them stay crisper.

Alright, so this has blossomed into a sometimes semi-monthly round-up. So be it. I like to think of this blog as a slow blog, you know, like slow food. I take my sweet time doing the mise-en-place, put a post on the burner and simmer it, bake ideas for a week or more at low temperatures. And I promised myself when I started blogging that I would never apologize for not blogging “enough.” What is it with blogger’s guilt? How many times have you read a riffs on the “Sorry I haven’t been posting, I’ve been so busy with work/my baby/getting drunk, I promise I’ll try harder…” missive? Bloggers: blog or don’t blog but never apologize. Isn’t this online nerding out just for fun anyway? Say it loud: “I’m slow and I’m proud!” Wait. That didn’t come out right.

And now, a few newsy jar tidbits:

* Spring quickie pickles

Here’s a snappy selection of quick pickling recipes from Carolyn Maynard-Parisi who contributes to the NY Times‘ The Local New Jersey-related blog. For first-time canners and instant-gratification types, Maynard-Parisi offers up three vinegar-soaked quickies: quick-pickled red onions (adapted from a recipe by Molly Wizenberg of Orangette) quick-pickled asparagus (adapted from Sunset magazine) and pickled ramps (adapted from One Spice, Two Spice by Floyd Cardoz).

* Amish chic

Their motto says it all: “At Lehman’s, being old-fashioned is always in fashion.” Sweet. Anyone near Kidron, Ohio today can scurry down to this giant Amish general store to catch the tail-end of their 55th anniversary celebrations. Seems they’ve got 32,00 sq. ft of space, including a HUGE selection of canning and preserving gear (much of it you can order on-line), plenty of home butchering supplies, a home dairy section stocking butter- and cheese-making gear and a pantry that stocks such tempting treats as Amish popcorn kits, hickory hams and plenty of jams and fruit butters.

* Jars of light

Another Orangette reference – purely coincidental: Kitch’n posted about these pretty pendant lamps made from Weck canning jars a few days ago. They were custom made for Ms. Wizenberg’s Seattle pizza joint and now you can order them on-line here. They’re a little steep at $185 a pop, but any repurposing jars is always fun (I like using them as glasses, vases, candle holders). Another recent Kitch’n post involving those fetching Wecks, for esthetically discerning pantry keepers: the lovely look of Weck jars marked up in white pen.

With canning season just a month or two away, I’ve taken stock of last year’s bounty and have switched gears from rationing to gobbling and giving away my goodies to make way for this year’s crop of jars. So we’re ploughing through the brandied peaches, pickles, fruit butters, jams and relishes that have made it this far.

Which leads me to my latest kick: baking with jam. The Brits do this best, especially in retro delights like the jam roly poly (a.k.a. dead man’s leg), a pudding that’s loosely strudel-like in appearance, usually made with suet and spread with jam. Or in the Victorian-era pudding that goes by the name of general satisfaction (best name for a dessert, ever?), a creamy, meringue-y, jammy mess.

I was inspired to make my own jammy pudding (you know the Brits use the term ‘pudding’ as a catch-all term for dessert, right?) when I picked up a secondhand copy of Supper for a Song by Tamasin Day-Lewis the other day. Day-Lewis, sister of actor Daniel, is an accomplished food writer with a flair for conjuring up brilliant book titles (Tarts With Tops On, Good Tempered Food), who hasn’t much crossed over into North America. I dig her wild mane of black curly hair and arty bohemian vibe. I also have her excellent The Art of the Tart.

Here, then, is my adapted version of Day-Lewis’ almond cake with apricot jam, using up some of my own tangy apricot-plum jam from last August and making a few substitutions (vanilla extract and granulated sugar stand in for vanilla sugar, more jam is used in the topping). Really, you can use any of your jams to great effect in this especially moist dessert. The result is very almond-y, so marzipan-disdainers move on, or, if you want less of that intense almond flavour, simply omit the extract.

Almond cake with apricot-plum jam (adapted from Tamasin Day-Lewis’ Supper for a Song)

3 cups almond meal

2 sticks of unsalted butter, softened

1 cup granulated sugar

1 tsp almond extract (optional)

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

3 large eggs

zest of one lemon

1 cup flour

1 tsp baking powder

4 tbsp jam plus 3 tsp water for topping

Preheat oven to 320 F/160 C. Butter and flour an 8-inch/20cm springform cake tin or pan, or line with parchment paper and butter and flour the paper. Beat together eggs and sugar until light and feathery, then fold in almond meal, lemon zest and almond extract (if using). Beat in eggs one at a time, then sift together flour and baking powder and fold into the batter. Bake for 50-55 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the centre comes out clean.

Let the cake cool then turn onto a plate. To make the topping, melt the jam and water over medium heat and stir for a minute or two, then pour over the cake, allowing it to spread over the top and drip down the sides. Serve with whipped cream, ice cream or creme fraiche.

Just back from a month in South America. Yup, I made those last two marmalades before I left and posted about them from Buenos Aires. Pretty sneaky, huh?

While in Argentina and Uruguay, I picked up a serious dulce de leche habit. I had it twice, sometimes three times, a day. Smeared on toast in the morning. In the form of “panqueques de dulce de leche,” a dessert staple in most restaurants (crepes filled with warm dulce de leche). In alfajores (the national Argentine dulce de leche-stuffed cookie). Or in this impossibly rich square they make with a rich, buttery bottom layer, dulce de leche and lots of coconut on top.

In fact, pretty much the only gifts we brought back for friends and family involve dulce de leche. Behold the dulce treats:

To make your own dulce de leche you gotta reduce sweetened milk for hours and hours until you hit the spreadable caramel stage. Me thinks it’s one of those things that’s not worth the time and effort of making at home, like churning your own butter or pressing your own olives for oil (at least these things don’t seem feasible to an urban apartment dweller like moi).

A few more South American snapshots:

Steak from heaven at El Obrero in the futball-obsessed working class hood of La Boca in Buenos Aires.

Roadside stand selling hongo (mushrooms) and pickles along the highway between Montevideo and Punta del Este in Uruguay.

The menu at Casa Felix, a pescatarian closed-door resto in BA, where we had one of our favourite meals.

The chivito, Uuruguay’s insane national sandwich. These fine specimens incorporated thinly sliced steak, ham, cheese, egg, bacon, tomato, lettuce, olives, marinated mushrooms, pickled vegetables, hot peppers and some kind of very thick mayonnaisey sauce. Yes, please!

And, finally, a shot of a magical moment we had at a cafe called Oui Oui in the Palermo Hollywood neighborhood of Buenos Aires. That was the best alfajor EVER, crazy thick with dulce and the cookie bits were moist like cake. A pitcher of sweet, milky iced coffee sealed the deal.

Anyway, spring is afoot in Montreal now, it’s actually been a shockingly balmy one so canning season is just around the corner. Muy, muy exciting.

I’ve boarded the runaway marmalade train and can’t seem to jump off. And so we find our selves delving into this, my third marmalade-focused post in a row. Go hard or go home, right? To be honest, I’m a relative newcomer to the hallowed halls of marm, but here’s a lovely, poetic ode to this most Anglo-Saxon of spreads by Brit food writer Nigel Slater that appeared last year in the Guardian, accompanied by his Seville orange marmalade recipe. The taste of “sun on toast” – that’s exactly what I was shooting for.

Forging ahead with this citrus fest, fueled by the typical deep yearning that Canadians experience this time of year for some semblance or scrap of sunshine and warmth, I came across some peculiar orange specimens at the fruit shop. I was seeking the tastiest orange they had in stock and this happened to be a feisty Italian friend called the Oraninja.

He hails from Sicily and is nominally a blood orange, but really? He’s not so bloody. His skin nor his guts are crimson coloured, but if you look carefully there are patches of purplish red here and there. And he tastes incredibly sweet, leading me to believe that our Italian ninja is a Tarocco blood orange, the sweetest and least red of the common blood orange species currently dominating green grocer shelves.

The point is, the Oraninja is delicious and I knew he’d morph  into a mean marmalade. But this recipe can be used with any orange, really – Valencia, blood, whatev. With the ninja, it’s a rather sweet spread, but nicely balanced by the gentle bitterness of the peel. Pretty sunny, I’d venture.

(Slightly bloody) orange marmalade

Zest of 10 oranges

4 cups of juicy orange pulp

4 cups sugar

1.5 cups water

First, scrub your oranges with a vegetable brush under cold water. Using a very sharp peeler (I like my Oxo which actually has tiny little needle-sharp teeth) remove the thinnest possible slices of zest (no white stuff). Slice peel into matchsticks, or something like angel hair pasta, and put it in the water to soak.

Meanwhile, using a sharp knife, cut off all white pith surrounding the segments, then cut in half, removing the white clump of stringy pith at the centre and any seeds. Chop your juicy orange interiors and scoop them into a bowl until you’ve got about four cups.

Now mix this in with the water and zest and sugar, pour into a pot, put it on medium-low heat and stir to dissolve the sugar. Then bring to medium-high heat (something between a simmer and a low boil) and cook, stirring frequently until it sets. I cooked mine about 45 minutes, until it darkened a little and the house smelled like orange candy. Voilà!

Meyers are a cross between a lemon and a mandarin, hence their orange-y complexion and sweeter taste. Now, here is my take on marmalade: take it easy. Keep it simple. Since I only use the thinnest zest and no white peel, there’s no need for overnight soaking and the formula couldn’t be easier: just mix equal parts fruit and sugar with a little water, cook until desired set is achieved, and can. Done. Or refrigerate if not canning (and eat up soon).

It helps to use a good peeler, like my Oxo peeler with ferociously sharp metal teeth:

It’s like it was born to peel perfect, thin ribbons of citrus zest for marmalade.

Easy Meyer lemon and vanilla marmalade

14-16 Meyer lemons, maybe more (enough to make 4 cups of juicy fruit)

4 cups sugar

1.5 cups water

2 vanilla beans

Scrub your lemons with a vegetable scrubber under cold water, peel the thinnest layer of zest possible (no white stuff), then cut zest into very thin strips, like angel hair pasta. You can use the peels of all your lemons if you like, or, if you prefer use less (perhaps from 3/4 of the lemons).

Put the strips of zest in the water as you carry on with the recipe, to prevent them drying out and to soften them a little. Now, using a sharp knife, cut away a slice of white pith from both ends, thereby creating two flat sides. Sit your lemon on one of these flat sides, steadying it on your work surface, then work your way around the fruit, cutting away all the white pith that remains.

Slice open your lemon, cut away the thick white center bit, then remove any seeds and chop coarsely, removing any chunky white bits. Do this with all your lemons. Continue scooping the juice and fruit bits into a bowl or measuring cup. You should have about four cups. (You can also cheat and do the chopping in a food processor after removing as much of the white stuff as possible.)

Mix fruit with sugar, water and peel, pour this melange into a pot and cook over medium-low heat at first to dissolve sugar. Now bring it to a low boil/simmer over medium-high heat and cook, stirring frequently until it darkens in colour and begins to set (put it on a cold spoon and if it gels in a few seconds, it’s ready). I cooked mine about 40 minutes.

And there you have it: a vanilla-flecked Meyer lemon delicacy. It’s a gentle, de-clawed marmalade, a fine entry point into the world of marms for those who think they don’t like them because they’re too bitter. There’s no pungent bite, just dulcet, lemony goodness with tender, wispy tendrils of tangy zest and a vanilla accent that makes it taste like cake. Even non-marmalade fans will rejoice!

Well, Tigress in a Jam has sparked a flurry of activity among online canners with her monthly can jam challenge (this canner travels too much and couldn’t commit but I love the idea!). January was citrus month and the results were amazing – 19 marmalades were concocted. Check them out. This project is going to amass an incredible compendium – 2010: Year of the Can Jam.

* Strawberry-lemon heaven

How good does this sound? Strawberry-lemon marmalade. Mmmmm. It’s by Doris and Jilly, two lady goats who are rather talented canners.

* Heirloom citrus marm

My next posts will be about the marms I make with some blood oranges and Meyer lemons I just picked up at Jean Talon market. In the meantime, check out this fantastic article on Grist about uncommon citrus and the writer’s own marmalade obsession.

* Hello, Honeybell

I love Eugenia Bone, don’t you? Love her book, Well-Preserved and totally dig her blog of the same name in the Denver Post. Here’s her marmalade ode to the Honeybell tangelos (a.k.a. Minneolas or Honeybell oranges) that she orders every year from Juno Beach, Florida.

PS: Although I don’t really buy into this heart-stamped holiday… To all the lovers (that’s everybody): Happy V-Day.

OK, taste-test time. Fun. As previously mentioned, I brought some small French jams back from Paris in my very small bag. I’ve been meaning to start doing taste-tests on this lil’ bloggy woggy, so voila: the first one.

I firmly believe that jam is best appreciated on fresh baguette with a tiny smear of unsalted butter. So that’s exactly how this was done.

Our lovely contestants today -

Carla mango and passion fruit jam:

Smells lush, fruity, tropical. Top marks for full mango flavour, not too sweet, just sultry and equatorial, passion fruit brings the tang. However, the texture is lacking. It’s too thin and liquidy for my tastes. Refrigeration will help that, but still I think it could be thicker. Also: there was a hard disc of wax (paraffin?) covering the jam, which was tricky to get out of the jar – I thought this layer of wax was ixnayed by jammers years ago. Hmmmm.

Confiture Artisanale by L’Epicurien strawberry and mint jam:

This tastes like grandma made it. Smells like gorgeous, sunny, early summer, fleeting and full of possibility. I see seeds, I see little bits of shredded mint. A really nice homemade-tasting jam, and not too sweet, the mint is subtle, just a hint. Texture has that lovely uneven, homemade, slightly clumpy charm, with bits of stringy fruit. I like.

Christine Ferber white peach and Alsatian raspberry jam:

Alright, they don’t call Ferber the queen of jam for nothing. This is a textbook perfect jam. Not too much of a smell, but texture is perfect, set but not stiff, and even looks so photogenic spread on bread. Honestly, it’s a little too sweet for my tastes and the raspberry overpowers the peach flavour, but it’s still completely delicious, obviously made using the best-quality fruit and cooked with great care. Now I understand why this stuff retails for $15 at the chichi grocer up the street.

Vive les confitures Frenchies!

Well, lucky, lucky me. After all that complaining about Montreal winter, I got to jet off to Paris for a week. So, really, I have zero right to complain. Not that Paris was much warmer, but all the foie gras and other decadent delights distracted my love and I from the cold. January is actually a great time to visit Paris. There are far less tourists and restaurant reservations are much easier to come by.

Besides four nice bottles of wine, we brought back some south-western artisan foie gras by Jeanne Bertot, a small producer who uses no nitrites, and some duck rilletes with foie gras by the venerable Maison de la Truffe, founded in 1932, who specialize in truffles (duh) and  foie gras.

My small bag wouldn’t allow for a huge bounty of treats, but I did manage to squeeze in three jams, which I shall taste-test, compare, contrast and post about soon. I got one by Christine Ferber, one by Carla and one by L’Epicurien. Yes: jam session! Until then, here’s a shot of said treats on the mirrored coffee table in our hotel room (alongside some some of the best macarons in Paris: Pierre Herme’s little wonders in flavours like chestnut and matcha green tea, and white truffle and hazelnut) :

And a few more Paris snaps: