Blackberrying

The ubiquitous hedgerows, which seem to line every road and lane in England, are meant to harbor an astonishing variety of wildlife year-round . . . but there’s a particular moment in September when human foragers can be glimpsed picking their way through the bramble. When the blackberries start to ripen, to change from red to deepest purple, it’s one of those unmistakable signals that the season is about to change. I have this fanciful notion that their sweetness is a concentration of summer sun, because the blackberries begin to shrivel and fade away as the days of long light wane. 

I have an English friend who says that the blackberries disappear with the first frost.  This Indian Summer September has gone on and on, though, and there were still juicy berries for the plucking when we went walking this week.  Perhaps we can gather enough to make one more blackberry crumble before the summer slips entirely away.

Maybe it’s because I had the most suburban of childhoods, but I get an otherwise unaccountable thrill from edibles that come straight from the bush, tree or ground – as opposed to a plastic-wrapped, boxed bundle from the grocery store. There is something about foraged food that is particularly exciting; maybe because it plays on some pioneer fantasy that I had as a child, maybe because it is free!

The first summer that we lived in England, my youngest daughter and I discovered a footpath that climbs from our road to farmland at a higher altitude. At first the path is dark and densely thicketed on both sides, but as you climb the hill it opens up to pasture and cornfields that catch the sun. Occasionally we will run across a dog-walker, but usually we have the place to ourselves, and it has become our tradition to pick blackberries there.



We will fill one silver bowl each, and that is enough for some casual eating plus one large blackberry crumble. Although my daughter will sometimes eat a bowl of blackberries with a bit of sugar and cream, I think that they taste best when subjected to slow heat. After some experimentation, I have arrived at a crumble recipe that seems to bring out all of their best qualities. There are dozens of variations on the crumble -- not to mention the cobbler -- but this one is simple and elegant.  It is easy enough for a child to make, but delicious enough to serve to company. In England, it would traditionally be served after Sunday lunch. (If you are fortunate enough to have leftovers, they are delicious – cold or warmed-up – for breakfast.)


Blackberry Crumble
(slightly adapted from Tamasin’s Kitchen Bible)

Ingredients:
5 to 6 cups of blackberries (ideally, fresh from the hedgerows)
3 to 4 ounces of sugar (depending on how sweet you like them)
2 tablespoons of plain flour

Crumble topping:
8 ounces of flour
3 ounces of sugar
6 ounces unsalted butter

Method:
Preheat an oven to 190C/375 F.

Gently wash your blackberries in a colander. Transfer them to a baking dish – I use an oval corning ware. (The size of your dish is not terribly important for this recipe; the berries should fill it just past half-way.) Sprinkle the berries with the sugar and flour and gently mix through.

For the crumble: you can either go low-tech or high-tech on this one. If you have a food processor, put all of the ingredients in the bowl with the sharp blade and simply pulse until you have a crumbly texture. If you are using your fingers, rub the butter into the flour/sugar mixture with your fingertips. Again, when it achieves a crumbly texture it is ready.

Spread the crumble evenly on top of the prepared berries.
You will bake it for around 40 minutes, or just until the crumble is golden – very, very lightly browned.

The finished crumble should be as light and buttery as shortbread, with juicy, sweet berries underneath.  A blackberry/apple combination is also very nice.  Most people like some ice cream or custard on top, but I like it perfectly plain.


Bee

Crabapple Jelly

Last summer I made 100 teapot sugar cookies for the summer fête, and my mother (and several friends) told me I was mad (in the English sense of crazy) to do it. But as a thank-you, my daughter’s class unexpectedly gave me a voucher for the garden centre; and with this voucher, I bought a little crabapple (or “malus”) tree. So really, I think it all came out rather well, don’t you?

And by the way, aren’t fruit trees just so magical? Blossom in the spring, and then fruit in the fall? What a bargain. I can’t remember why I picked out a crabapple tree, but it was the right sort of size, and I liked the smooth bark, and it had a lovely pinkish blossom.

This September, even though my tree is still tiny, it brought forth a prodigious harvest of fruit . . . so much fruit, in fact, that the branches just drooped with it.

I asked an English friend what I could possibly do with my crop of crabapples, and she mentioned that her mother made crabapple jelly every year. The next day, she brought over a recipe scrawled on the back of an envelope. Although it seemed clear enough, and despite my fondness for a scribbled-down recipe, I decided that I better get a second opinion from one of my kitchen gurus – in this case, Tamasin Day-Lewis.

If you want a classic English recipe, I thoroughly recommend Tamasin’s Kitchen Bible. Its subtitle claims that it is “the one and only book for every cook,” and even though I wouldn’t dream of only having one cookbook, I will vouch for its comprehensiveness. Sure enough, it had a recipe for crabapple jelly – and not only just the recipe, but a family story to go along with it. Tamasin writes: My affection for crab apple jelly is a deep and enduring one. This was my father’s favourite breakfast treat, so it has to be mine. (For the record, Tamasin’s father was the British Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis. Just so you know that this is the jelly for poets!)

On the basis of Tamasin’s guidance, and that handed-over recipe from my mother’s friend, I am happy to go out on a limb and say that this is the definitive method for crabapple jelly. As it turned out, their directions were almost identical.

In brief (and it really is brief):

Ingredients:

Crabapples, as many as you have

Unrefined sugar – 1 pound (16 ounces) of sugar for each pint (20 ounces; this is an English pint) of juice. Further note on sugar: I used jam sugar which has added pectin. It worked beautifully, but I can’t say that it is necessary.

Water

Method:

Wash the fruit, and put it in a large saucepan or preserving pan. Cover with water. Bring to a boil, and then simmer, slowly, until the fruit is soft and pulpy.

*Then, you need to strain it.

Tamasin says to put it through a jelly bag, but here is my advice: Get your finest (as in the one with the smallest holes) colander (or strainer) and put it over a large bowl. Dump the fruit in the strainer, and let the juice run through. It won’t be entirely clear, which is why you are going to strain it a second time through a fine muslin cloth. (If you don’t have muslin, or any babies around, you could use something fine like a handkerchief (clean, of course). I didn’t have a jelly bag, so I just put a piece of muslin over a large bowl – and then I put a rubber band around to hold it in place. It drips through fairly quickly and THEN (voila) you have a perfectly clear liquid . . . with no mush to mar what will be your pink jelly.

Measure your remaining liquid and add a similar proportion of sugar. I went with Tamasin’s ratio, which is slightly less sugar to the fruit.

Bring to the boil, and as the whitish scum comes to the top you will need to scoop it off with a spoon. Continue scumming, and after about 10 minutes of boiling, you can test it to see if it has set.

The easiest method is to chill a small plate . . . and then drop a bit of the juice on it. If you cool it down quickly -- just stick it in the freezer for a couple of minutes -- then you can test it by pushing your finger against it. If the liquid wrinkles, then it has set; in other words, it is ready.

Now pour the well-strained liquid into a glass measuring cup with a spout and fill your (sterilized) glass jars. (You could also use a funnel for this job; if you have one, unlike me.)

It really is EASY to sterilize jars. I just run them through the dishwasher and then let them dry thoroughly in a low oven. Take the jars out of the oven (not forgetting to use a hot pad) when you are ready to pour the jelly into them. Then seal and cool. If you are that way inclined, make artistic labels as a final step.

Now, if you made it this far, you may be thinking to yourself: WHY would I ever want to do such a thing? I will admit that before I moved to the English countryside, and suddenly had crops that needed to be dealt with, it would never have occurred to me to make jelly, jam, preserves or anything else that required a sterilized jar. HOWEVER, there is something absolutely miraculous about the fact that fruit, sugar and water can be so easily (yes, easily) transformed into an entirely new substance. So far this year I have made chutney, orange marmalade, strawberry jam, and now this beautiful orange-pink crabapple jelly – each in its own season. I’m aiming to make pear preserves next week.

Preserving is one of those wonderfully old and useful skills that so many people have forgotten how to do, and sure you can just buy the stuff – and yes, it will probably be cheaper. But it really will not be as delicious. The taste of the fruit will not be as clear and true. And you will not have the satisfaction of doing something so gratifyingly wonderful.

Postscript:  I'm not much of a breakfast eater, which means that I have a tendency to require “elevenses.” Last week I was stuck on apple slices with peanut butter, but this week my favorite treat is a slice of good white bread slathered in butter and crabapple jelly. If you toast the bread until it is warm enough to melt butter, but still soft on the inside, the butter and the jelly will sort of merge and ooze together. The jelly isn’t overly sweet, and it has a tart “something” that is not like anything else I can think of. Unlike breakfast toast, which is always a rushed experience for me, I can linger over this delicious snack . . .