Cherry Tomato Jam

The closest I came to tomato harvest glory this year was listening to inspired tales from co-workers about all the different recipes they were trying with their crop of homegrown juicies, and looking out my bathroom window at my neighbour’s verdant pot-planted crop. If I had planted cherry tomatoes in the British summer and received a delightful crop that was ripened by the sun (if only), I would make cherry tomato jam.

My earliest memories of such a jam was when I was a teenager. My dad was given a jar by the wife of a friendly farmer in the Natal Midlands, from whom he’d bought a few specialist foul – Rail Road Red hens or something like that. There was a time when we were kids when our back yard was filled with all kinds of foul – many varieties of chickens, turkeys, ducks, geese…but I digress. The jam was a mystery to me – a teenager who was not that fond of anything that was not apricot or melon, in a South Africa where there didn’t seem to be much variety (or adventure) in the way of shop-bought jams. Although, you might argue that melon jam is pretty adventurous… (I was never fond of red coloured jams because they reminded me of blood.) Anyway, I was about to give this red-coloured jam a go cos I was intrigued, plus it was given to my dad by bona fide white farmer’s wife. I clearly had some strange ideas about the world back then, but that’s what you get from growing up in Apartheid South Africa!

My sister and I polished off the slim jar in a matter of days and begged my grandmother to make us some more. My gran, excellent cook that she was, dug up a recipe she felt could be easily modified and graciously let me use her small harvest of cherry tomatoes. She helped me every step of the way from cleaning the tomatoes to storing in a jar. Can’t remember exactly what we did or where she got the recipe from but it was an absolute disaster. The jam turned out bitter and was completely inedible. Plus, it went off in a few days.

As you could imagine, that experience put me off making jam – I thought, for life. But when a friend was talking about what more she could do with her tomato crop, I thought, hey, wouldn’t it be nice to make some cherry tomato jam?

I have not been able to find a plain cherry tomato jam recipe and will probably have to modify a recipe – will let you know how it goes. By the way, these recipes look really interesting:

1.Three kinds of tomato jam – spicy; with ginger; with thyme
2. Italian style recipe with garlic and basil:
3. Tomato jam with cinnamon
4. Thai inspired sweet tomato and chilli jam

To have earth under foot and fingernails

Peeled apple, sweet potato and carrot

I am constantly disappointed with the quality of the ‘fresh’ produce available in many supermarkets and local shops. Unless you buy organic straight from the farm, like Riverford or Abel & Cole box schemes delivered to your home, you are at the mercy of bland, ripened-in-storage fruit or vegetable that is often about to expire even before they even put it on the shelf (Sainsbury’s). 

 

Some days I just long to be able to grow my own and come Spring each year, I enviously eye out the allotments in my area, knowing that the waiting lists are long and that chances of getting my paws on one are pretty slim. Yesterday I was eyeing out my neighbour’s tomato and capsicum plants which have trebled in size almost overnight, and wish I had more time to have potted a few plants like those. But seeing as I’m still adjusting to life with baby, I celebrate when I get a chance to mow the lawn or rake up leaves, and getting to scamper around in potting soil is a dream.

When I was growing up, I took for granted the bounty of fruit and veg available in my family’s oversized back garden, at one stage also filled with foul ( chickens, ducks, turkey, geese) and not just mango, banana, avocado, lychee, orange, lemon, guava, satsuma trees. We also had sugar cane, passion fruit, chilli, curry leaf, a variety of herbs and beans and gourd, mustard seed, aubergine, carrot, radish, wild garlic and mushroom… And all of it what is now called organic. Those were the days.

I think I have a gardener’s instinct to care for and nuture plants. And I’d like to think I have green fingers, even if all my indoor pot plants, including a much-prized bonsai tree, have slowly passed on in our current flat. I blame it on poor ventilation and damp. We are moving again soon, hopefully the air is better in a new place.

Baby on board

It’s just over three weeks before our baby is due and I’m contemplating what staples, pre-prepared dishes and food items we will need to stock the store cupboard, freezer and fridge with to see the husband and I through those tough first weeks of bleary eyes and sleeplessness.

I don’t want us to just be eating easy stuff, though, like fish fingers or Swedish meatballs – I want a good nutritional balance, with colour and vitamins and protein, and taste!

For someone who can spend days contemplating a dinner party menu, this simple task is a right challenge, and I’m not feeling very creative… So far, I have jotted down the following: Chicken and lentil soup, chicken curry, bolognaise sauce/ or a nice chilli, meatballs(!), burgers, dhall (yellow split peas/ or red lentil) curry, a veggie pie.

But there’s also the limited freezer space to think about…

Swedish cinnamon buns (Kanelbullar)

These are my absolute favourite when it comes to buns – they look pretty and taste heavenly, and are delicious with an ice-cold glass of milk, or a strong caffeinated brew. In Sweden they drink coffee so strong it’s sometimes like molten tar, but a good, strong brew offsets the fragrant spices in the buns, and complements the sweetness of the filling and the loaf/ pearl sugar sprinkled on top.

I tasted these for the first in a coffee shop in Haga, Gothenburg’s arty quarter, brimming with little shops and cafes. Anyway, I managed to find a fab recipe in a Swedish cookbook, which I’ve modified slightly.

 

Swedish Cinnamon Buns
Makes about 30 buns

50g fresh yeast (or equivalent of dried active yeast, according to the pack instructions)
1-1.2kg flour (or slightly more depending on moistness of dough)
100ml white syrup (or golden syrup)
100g butter
400ml milk
2 tsp sugar
2 tbsp freshly ground cardamom seeds

Filling
120g butter, softened to room temperature
4-6 tsp cinnamon
6 tbsp granulated sugar
1 tsp freshly ground cardamom seeds

To brush & decorate
1 egg, beaten
Pearl/ loaf sugar

32 bun/ large muffin cases

Method

If you’re using a block of fresh yeast, crumble this into a large bowl, or if you’re using re-hydrated dried active yeast, pour the mixture into said bowl. Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the milk and heat gently until hot to the touch. Add this to the yeast and mix well, then add the syryp and stir until dissolved.

Add the flour and salt a little at a time and mix well until the dough comes away from the side of the bowl. You may need to add additional flour at your own discretion if the dough is still a little sticky after the addition of the amount of flour the recipe calls for. Cover with a cloth and leave to rise for about 30 mins in a draught-free spot.

After 30 minutes, punch the air out the risen dough and knead for about 15 minutes until shiny and elastic. Divide into two balls and roll out into rectangles about 5mm thick. Make the filling and spread onto the rectangles with the back of a spoon. Roll these up lengthways, then cut into 16 segments per roll and place in the bun papers which you will have lined up on baking sheets. Leave these to rise for a further 30 mins (however, this step is not essential if in a hurry).

Brush with the egg and sprinkle with the loaf sugar. Bake for about 6-8 minutes at 250 degrees Celsius until buns are golden brown on top.

Staple Food of Mayan Gods

The humble potato is more than just a ground vegetable named after a king (King Edward) or a comely Lincolnshire aunt (Maris Piper). Sometimes the story linked to a spud can go back centuries, as I recently discovered, and need not me named after a single person, but rather an entire civilization.

Working on a daily magazine show which covers a generous span of topics means that sometimes, you can get your hands on some really interesting stuff that are being researched for possible inclusion in a film or as a studio item.

A little while back, there was this box of fresh potatoes kicking about, among reams of standard issue photocopy paper and used TV scripts. Now these were, I was assured, no ordinary spuds but Mayan Gold – a gourmet potato hailing from, as the name suggests, South America (Peru, to be precise) and “bred from species found growing on the wilds of Peru, some of which are over 7,000 years old”.

What’s special about this edible tubor is is unique yellow flesh and delicate nutty flavour. The commissioning editor who assumed ownership of said box, patiently explained their history and speciality to little groups of people preparing their mid-afternoon contemplation about dinner menus, providing detailed instructions on how to steam them briefy before roasting them in a hot oven, and offering a few suggestion on the best roast potato. Sufficed to say Nigella Lawson did come up, as did the use of semolina. They were meant to be handled with care, the kind of treatement, I thought, which would pay tribute to their celestial-sounding origins.

Despite being exceedingly sceptical about his promise of golden, fluffy flesh and taste of nuts, I escorted the spuds home, stripped them of their basic covering and gently placed them in a bamboo steamer for a few minutes. Taking a peek a few minutes into the steaming process I was delighted to see them exhuding a heavenly yellowness. I then bruised them with a little fine grained semolina and roasted them in a hot over for about 20 minutes.

In the food show, Barefoot Contessa, Ina Gaarten talks about Yucatan Gold potatoes in much the same way as our commissioning editor did. They (the potatoes, of course) are clearely related and probably share the same gourmet-tastic status. Either way, they tasted gorgeous and I was tres pleased.

My Year of Meat

The above is actually the title of a book I read a few years back (by Ruth L. Ozeki), and one I recently recommended to a work colleague for her book club. Every time I see large cuts of beef sprawled on neat trays in butchers’ windows, decorated with plastic lettuce-lookalike, the title of this book, masquerades before me like (sticking with the theme) a prize bullfighter and I am immediately reminded that beef does not spontaneously enter my recipe boudoir.

Rather, beef arrives in my shopping trolley with much contemplation, frowning and lip pursing, and me vainly wondering what could I do beyond perfectly grilled steaks (lines from my prized, square, Le Creuset griddle pan, artfully imprinted on the meaty palms – served with discs of peppery garlic butter), hearty gourmet burgers (spiced with no less that seven secret spices – served with fat handcut oven baked chips, skin-on) or feisty chilli – with aduki beans and fresh majoram.

Did the book put me off eating meat, my colleague asked. Not really, but it did prolongue my gravitation towards the species respectful Hindus did not slaughter and feast on.

If truth be told, I made my first roast beef dinner on the weekend from a topside of organic Argentinean rump (no pictures unfortunately, so eager was I to sample a slice of what also looked like silverside, and so smug that it was a success). But I digress.

My Year of Meat is a fabulous book that will definitely make you think a bit more about juicy – or charred, but once bloody morsels. Before landing on our plates, with or without a garlicky red wine gravy, our slices of prime rib roamed verdant pastures, and perhaps in many cases, if not bred by purists for organic principles, had vast chemicals – of synthetic hormone or antibiotic origin, keeping its body fluids company… But Ozeki’s offering is so much more than a treatise on food conspiracies, or modern farming methods accompanied by unusual recipes – it joins up feminism, food consumption, cross-cultural misunderstanding, and equally, the pursuit and dissemination of Western (read American) values, with lashings of humour. It’s a great read – no additional salt required.

Days of breakfasts, dinners and sweet

Ever since starting as a job as a producer on daily magazine show, I have had close to zero time to update my blog. I have still been cooking and taking pictures of some of my humble fare, though…

Raclette with friends

These days, I find, food and friends go together like nightclubs and hangovers may have done way back when we were twenty somethings; hunting for soulmates and good times, with scant thought about what we were doing to our bodies. Yet with food, the pleasure derived does not guarantee a mind-numbing headache, panda eyes or dryness like the Kalahari the morning after. The pleasure of food is immeasurable and for me, a meal of memories is a bottomless cup.

In my 30s food has become a panacea (well, almost) and that seemed to be on my mind down in Borough market last weekend in the easy company of two Saffas (South Africans) and a Zimbo (Zimbabwean). No doubt, this market is a foodie heaven, and I love it, but I feel that with notoriety comes a slightly bloated sense of self that fame brings. But it’s not really the market’s fault. The faint sheen of celebrity seems to have created a hub of gastro wannabes, pseudo foodies, genuine foodophiles, culinary vultures and voyeurs of all things edible. But the energy is addictive and the delights hard to resist.

After fighting the crush and tasting as many tiny morsels of cheese as we could, we gravitated towards a crowning glory of the dairy world – the much sighed about foodstand serving sumptuous Raclette. Without exaggeration, I heard more than one person say: “Let’s find the raclette.” or “Have you tried the raclette?”

Raclette is a dish that originated in Switzerland and involves a semi firm salted cheese made from cow’s milk. It has its origins in the Swiss canton of Valais but is now also produced in parts of France. The term raclette is derived from the French word racler, meaning “to scrape”. The raclette round is heated and the melted cheese is gradually scraped onto a plate. It is often served with baby potatoes, salted meats, gherkins or pickled onions.

This version involved scrapping glorious soft cheese, melted beneath purpose-built gas-powered grills, over griddled new potatoes, served with cornichons. It’s a rustic fare, and like most things as simple, it was both delicious and comforting. Sitting in the neighbouring churchyard, we devoured our meals, Clayton telling a story about photographing a police incident involving a naked lunatic, Joanne filling us in on her recent trek in the Bhutan and me becoming reacquinted with Brigid after not seeing her for years, despite us both living in London all this time!

Nutty Granola Muesli

I absolutely love muesli – granola as well as the unsweetened variety. I have been known to have a bowl of muesli as a midnight snack and can happily have a few bowls a day, swimming with nuts and seeds and coconut and fruit and doused with ice-cold milk. Heaven. The leftover milk at the bottom of the bowl, infused with the honey and toasted flavours – even more divine. Sometimes I even just sneak out of the kitchen with small handfuls of the nuts that have had a good roll in the syrup and sesame seeds, or the nuggets of oats and honey and coconut that clump together.

The granola that favours our kitchen shelf is a reciped adapted from something I tasted years ago as a student at a healthy breakfast stall at an art and music festival held in South Africa’s Drakensburg Mountains. The rest comes from Nigella, the Barefoot Contessa and my store cupboard.

Indressa’s Granola Muesli

400g rolled oats
100g porrige oats
50 oatbran
50 dessicated coconut
50 sunflower seeds
50g pumpkin seeds
50g sesame seeds
100g whole skin-on almonds
100g walnut quarters
3 tbsp runny honey
juice of 1/2 lemon
1 tbsp vegetable oil
3 tbsp golden syrup
pinch of maldon sea salt
1 handful each of sultanas, dried cranberries and chopped dried apricots

1. Except for the fruit, place all the ingredients in a large bowl and mix well for a few minutes. I use a large spoon and fold it all through thoroughly.

2. Line a deep roasting tin with grease proof paper before evenly spreading the mixture out in the tin. Bake at an oven preheated to 350F for about an hour, stiring the mixture around every 20 minutes or so. This will ensure the granola browns evenly thoughout, rather than just on the top, bottom and sides of the tin.

3. Once golden brown all over, remove from oven and leave to cool. Once it is completely cool empty the granola into a large airtight container, and stir in the cranberries, chopped apricots and sultanas. Store in a cool place.

A Raw Deal

Currently reading Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, and roughly in the middle now, where the protagonist Pi, castaway on a survival raft with a man-eating Bengal tiger, describes at length and in vivid detail the killing and wild devouring of sea life – sea turtles, sharks, flying fish, algae, birds, mostly raw and unseasoned (well there’s salt) – in his bid to survive and one day be rescued.

The situation is so desperate that Pi doesn’t rule out ingesting tiger poo, if that staves off the sea-bleached hunger, even for a little bit. I gagged when he descibed this and speaks about drinking a generous helping of fresh, warm turtle blood – quickly before it coagulates, or feasting on the raw brains, lungs and heart of a seabird.

While I have eaten a few strange things in my life, like mopani worms, the caterpillars of the emperor moth, native to southern Africa, this by no means compares to gnawing at raw bird meat from a carcass, or drinking reptile blood (even if the story is fiction). I suppose you never know how far you would go until faced with two options: death by starvation or survival for a few more days if you eat your own foot.

Okay, okay, that’s getting a little bit too dark for a sunny London day, and I’m going to apply my mind to tasty dinner ideas. Nothing like thoughts of gamey bird flesh and reptile blood to make a mouth water.