Chunky Pear Sauce

I've been feeling a bit frantic lately. There's a lot of little things to do, a few big things to do (book proofs, anyone?) and a few things that I want to do, but don't know if I can do. The combination keeps me scurrying from desk to couch to coffee shop, and the coffee keeps me up at night. It's a dreadful combination, really.

Thank goodness, again, and again, for the forced slowness of cooking. Because much like the summer plums, this last week of October, I've had pears staring me in the face.

These pears were from a friend, a friend who had to go dashing off to Paris (the nerve!) and leave bushels -- and I don't think bushels are an exaggeration here -- of pears behind. She suggested making compote, which seemed like a fine idea, except for I never got around to finding the perfect compote recipe.

This is ironic, because not only is a good pear compote recipe not that hard to find, I was also house sitting for the pear giving friend, who has an amazing, covetable cookbook collection. But as I mentioned before, I was lost in manuscript proofs.

So instead this is what I did: Washed the pears, some green, some ripe to the point of rotting, and cored them and cut them into chunks, nearly slicing off my finger as my brain pondered sentences to rework, and book ideas, and love.

Next I put all the pear chunks into a huge pot. I added a little water, a little cinnamon, a little nutmeg, and some vanilla. Then I turned up the heat and walked away, back to desk and computer and to-do list. Soon the spicy smells started to penetrate the house. I tasted, added a bit more nutmeg, and a small amount of sugar.

Under heat, the pears were starting to soften and turn a lovely golden brown. Their flavor intensified, and they became buttery and caramel like. I cooked them some more, and then even a little longer, till I had a chunky sauce.

This chunky sauce was stirred into oatmeal, put on top of milk and cold cereal, served alongside after dinner cheeses, and warm gingerbread cake. This morning I fried a couple of sliced of seed bread, spread them with peanut butter, and topped them with pears.  An unbeatable start to the day.

I've never been a fan of applesauce, but man, this stuff was good, inspiring twice a day servings, and the occasional swiped spoonfuls from the jar. I pureed one batch, but I wouldn't do that again.

There's something about the imperfection of the chunks I love. It's rustic, fallish, perfect in its imperfection. Kind of like life right now. 

Late Summer Peach Jam

It is nearly the middle of September, but it seems that summer has finally decided to come to San Francisco. After months (months!) of grey and gloom, the sun is out. Today for lunch, I ate very thin crust pizza, watermelon salad, and arugula with white beans and fresh corn tossed in a cumin vinaigrette. There was a crisp white wine to drink. There were tank tops and summer skirts and sunglasses involved. It's about time.

Somehow, it seems just like San Francisco to pull this fashionably-late-to-the summer-season move. I would be annoyed, but it feels so good to finally have the sun on my arms, my toes in the Yerba Buena fountain, and Blue Bottle iced coffee to thirst for, that I really don't care.

The weather also explains the peaches. While everyone else is thinking about sweaters, and boots, and crisp apples, I've got peaches on the brain. I was given seven pounds of over-ripe, organic, saffron colored beauties the other night by a farmer with a bumper crop. "Take 'em," he told me. "And use 'em tonight."

So I went home, and amazingly had just enough jars, and sugar, and lemons around to make jam, which was what I wanted far more than a crisp or a pie. I set to work, cutting around brown spots and rotting cores.

The work reminded me of how sometimes, life is about taking time to enjoy the pleasures of living, and sometimes, it's about getting things done. I'm in the midst of my final book edits right now, which means everything that is not writing (eating, cooking, exercise, fun) is done as quickly and effortlessly as possible.

I was shocked at how quickly the jam came together, and even more amazed at how pretty it looked sitting in the kitchen the next morning. It's exactly what I hope will happen with the book. Rewriting is mind bogglingly hard and complicated at times, but I have this odd feeling that if I just work, sentence by sentence, it will all be beautiful at the end.

In the meantime, I've got peach jam for my toast, (did you know I eat toast every single day, sometimes more than once?) and am far less vitamin d deprived than I was a few weeks ago. I'm too tired to think about what to fix for dinner most nights, but I still have the sense that it is going to be ok.


*There's no recipe here. If you find yourself with a bushel of peaches, you'll figure it out. I did.

Plum Jam

It was a huge luxury to be able to ignore nearly everything in my life in favor of finishing the manuscript of my first book. But now I’m discovering the dark side of such irresponsibility: I’m disorganized in a way I’ve never been. I’ve missed phone calls, birthdays, anniversaries, and gotten numerous parking tickets.

And then there’s the plums.

Every summer for several years I’ve made jam. Usually it is berry based: strawberry, golden raspberry, ollallieberry. But early summer and berry season blew by, and all of a sudden it was late summer and the season of stone fruit.

I bought several pounds of Santa Rosa plums at the farmer’s market, and set them in a bowl to ripen. A couple of days passed; then a few more. Soon it had been over one week since I’d purchased the plums. If I didn’t do something with them soon, it would be twenty dollars of produce wasted.

It was no longer about wanting to make jam. I had to make jam. I trudged to the hardware store in the San Francisco cold for canning supplies, cursing my industrious nature.

But then I got home. I sliced the plums, sprinkled them with sugar, and set them aside to macerate. I gathered the necessary tools, prepared my jars, then placed the plums on the stove to cook. I’d forgotten how easy it was to make jam. And if you’re dealing with small amounts of fruit, it’s quick, too.

Yet in a busy world, jam making is also pleasantly slow. As I waited for the fruit to turn into jam, I stared out the window in my sun room and read part of a book. I realized my list was just that -- a list. There would always be more to do. No matter how quickly I crossed something off, there would always be something to replace it. And being overwhelmed? It’s just a function of being a grownup. I have so many things to do and so many things I care about, I simply can’t find time for it all.

But that jam: purple and sweet, but with plenty of natural tart, was delicious. And that day of making it was one of the best of the entire summer. My few jars are an important reminder of my summer: its harried days, unfinished lists, and, at the end of the season, the importance of doing a few things just for me. 

Plum Jam
2 pounds small plums, pitted and cut into 1/2-inch wedges
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 lemon, seeded

In a large, nonreactive saucepan, toss the plums with the sugar and let stand, stirring occasionally, until the sugar is mostly dissolved, about 1 hour.

Squeeze the lemon over the plums, add it to the saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Cook over moderate heat, stirring, until the liquid runs off the side of a spoon in thick, heavy drops, 20 to 25 minutes. Skim off any scum that rises to the surface of the jam.

Discard the lemon and spoon the plum jam into three 1/2-pint jars, leaving about 1/4 inch of space at the top. Close the jars and let the jam cool to room temperature. Store the jam in the refrigerator for up to 3 months. Alternately, you can cook the jam till it is set, ladle into clean, well- prepared jars, and process in a water bath. Then the jam will keep in the cupboard for about a year. 

Makes three, 12 ounce jars, plus a little more for tasting. 

Orange Marmalade

A few weeks ago I spent two days in sight of an organic orange tree. The fruit was small, perfectly round, delicate in color, but perfectly juicy and floral once peeled and gently pulled apart.

The fruit was in danger of going to waste; if I didn't pick it and do something with it, it would ripen, fall to the ground, and be lost in a mess of long grasses. I had to make marmalade.

I picked a giant bag of fruit, and a few days later, transformed a jumble of juice and pith into a delightfully sunny preserve. This morning I ate some plopped on top of my yogurt. It is tart and a little bitter, with big chunks of peel. It isn't the best marmalade for spreading, though I do plan to try to slather it on a slice of toasted walnut bread very soon. But if I made it again I think I'd put extra effort into cutting the strips of fruit slender and small. It might make for a more traditional marmalade.

As it is, it is more like an orange preserve. And really, preserving is such an apt word for this project. Not only did I save the fruit for future days, but I saved the memory of a little cabin tucked into Dry Creek Valley: spring sun and warmth, dusty vines, long walks and longer talks, too many glasses of wine.

Sunny Orange Marmalade
7 tangerines or oranges (do not peel), preferably organic, washed well, quartered, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
2 lemons (do not peel), preferably organic, washed well, quartered, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
4 cups water
Granulated sugar
Bring tangerines, lemons, and water to a simmer in a large saucepan over medium heat. Cook for 5 minutes. Let cool slightly. Press parchment directly on surface of marmalade, and refrigerate overnight.
Remove parchment; return saucepan to medium heat. Bring to a simmer, and cook until citrus rinds are very tender, about 30 minutes. Measure mixture, and return to saucepan over medium-high heat. For each cup of mixture, add 3/4 cup sugar. Simmer until a candy thermometer registers 220, about 30 minutes. (Tangerine and lemon flesh should be broken down, and rinds should be translucent.) Plate-test marmalade to make sure it is set. Divide among 4 pint-size sterilized glass jars, leaving 1/4-inch headspace at tops. Can in water bath for 15 minutes.
Makes about 4 pint sized jars.