Waffleizer
Yes, that’s a waffled cheeseburger in the photo.
A waffleburger is as good a way as any to introduce my next blog: Waffleizer.
I’ll be working alone in my kitchen and with top-notch chefs and bloggers in their kitchens to answer the question “Will it waffle?”
It’s going to be great.
And I don’t usually say things like that.
Follow Waffleizer on Twitter.
Next
It’s hard for me to believe that I’m wrapping up another season of Fruit Slinger.
Sometimes I can’t believe there was a first season of Fruit Slinger, let alone a second and now — really? — a third.
It’s hard to imagine a fourth.
You know, for a while I thought maybe the strongest component of the blog was the food. And for a lot of people, maybe that’s true. It’s true enough for me, too — to a point. I’ve also had a lot of people tell me that they like it when I write about interactions with customers — or that I should write more about my interactions with customers. The former is nice enough to hear; the latter is amusing because it assumes that I had any control over what I wrote about.
I just wrote about what happened.
I’m really lucky to have been in an interesting position and very fortunate to have been given the freedom to write about it as I did.
I keep thinking back to the formula for a good blog, which is as follows: obsession times voice.
That’s it. Remember that.
If you follow that formula, your blog won’t appeal to everyone, but it will appeal to the people to whom it ought to appeal. And that’s about as much as you can hope for. I’ve been asking myself lately what I might blog about next, a question which includes the curious supposition that I will blog about anything at all.
The answer is that I don’t yet know. To find out, you can keep the blog in your RSS feed, subscribe by email, follow me on Twitter, join the Facebook group or, you know, just reload the page constantly.
When I do figure it out, I hope that a lot of you will read that blog, too. I expect some of you won’t, though. That’s OK. That’s because whatever the next blog might be, it won’t appeal to everybody. Fruit Slinger never did.
I never did much care for promoting this blog — although I’m not saying I didn’t try. How many people read a well-read fruit blog, anyway? 100? 1000? What exactly was I hoping to achieve here? I always thought the blog worked best when it was a little more secret than not. Maybe you knew where I worked, maybe you didn’t. Maybe you had met me, maybe you hadn’t. If everybody knows about the blog, then somehow it’s not as fun anymore. Is that perverse? Yes, it is.
Really, it’s no way to run a blog.
I’m proud of this blog, but I’m also keenly aware of its limitations. If a good blog is the product of obsession times voice and if the obsession is fruit, then the voice is just … me.
And I’ve taken this blog as far as it can go.
Thanks so much for reading.
I put a lot into Fruit Slinger and got a lot back. I hope you got something out of it, too.
If I’m honest, I’m a little scared of writing about something else. Fruit Slinger and I fit so well together. It could take a while before I find a match as good as this one. It might be months. It could be years.
I hope it’s not. I bet it won’t be.
It’s like I said: I just wrote about what happened.
Who knows what will happen next.
Selected readings on everything from A to Q
In the cocktail party that I’m hosting in my head, I serve cider and Calvados along with canapés of quince paste and Spanish cheese (probably Mahón curado).
* * *
Michael Pollan’s book “The Botany of Desire” — highly recommended reading for anyone interested in apples — is now a two-hour PBS program. It’s airing tonight.
* * *
From the archives of The Atlantic magazine comes an article about apples by Corby Kummer. (Hat-tip to Jessica for the link.):
People travel from remote wooded parts of Maine (which is to say most of it), the state where [John] Bunker has lived for 40 years, to present him with orphan apples from trees on their property. Like found pets, the neglected trees seem to beg for adoption. Someone once planted and pruned them, and taught succeeding generations how to tend them. But then a link was broken, and the apple lost its name. Now visitors line up at country fairs to ask Bunker the name of their apple, and in the winter months boxes come in the mail bearing more mystery apples from all over the Northeast, for a total of 300 apple challenges a year.
* * *
In this brief New Yorker piece by Lizzie Widdicombe, a few apple trees give their life for art:
[Jennifer] Rubell, who is thirty-nine, was in her car, driving to the North Fork of Long Island to pick out a critical part of the dessert course: three large apple trees, which will be chopped down, brought to the gallery, and laid out on the floor, so that guests can eat fruit from the branches. Rubell acknowledged that some people might find it disturbing to eat fruit from a chopped-down apple tree.
* * *
God, I must be, like, one of the worst fruit bloggers. Fortunately, because of the narrow niche I occupy, I can also tell myself that I am one of the best fruit bloggers. Now you know what’s written on my bathroom mirror. Wait. Not that whole thing. Just the last part. Anyway, I write two posts about quince without explaining what the hell a quince is. I am willing to bet that the average reader of this blog (perhaps a contradiction in terms, I concede) already knows what a quince is, but I don’t want anyone left behind.
Fortunately, David Karp is, like, one of the best fruit detectives. In this piece for the LA Times, he spells out the past and present of the quince.
I don’t want to give anything away (spoiler: I’m about to give something away), but DAVID KARP GETS A QUINCE NAMED AFTER HIM and he is so bad-ass that he just tosses that off tangentially.
If I ever get a fruit named after me, you are never hearing the end of it.
Hard cider made easy, Part III (or The Attenuated Joy of Home Brewing)
I’m writing this post against the backdrop of the steady, cheerful gurgle of the airlock on my bucket of pear cider, the latest hard cider undertaking.
Glurp glurp!
The yeast are consuming the sugar in the juice, leaving behind carbon dioxide and alcohol. The carbon dioxide escapes through the one-way valve on the top of the sealed fermentation vessel, each time with a tiny burst of bubbles.
As I said: Glurp glurp.
Let me tell you that if making hard cider is not completely idiot proof, it is at least highly idiot-resistant.
A few days ago, my friend and I bottled the first batch. I could easily have botched the transfer from the secondary fermentation bucket into the bottling carboy when I let go of the siphon tube and watched cider shoot out onto the floor.
I could have easily botched the bottling when I discovered that the bottling tip on loan from a friend did not fit the tubing that I had purchased, or when I failed to research the question of how much head space we should leave in the bottle. (I left my friend standing with the tube in the bucket while I fetched “The Complete Joy of Home Brewing.” Complete must refer to the contents of the book, rather than modifying Joy. My friend yelled after me as I ran up the stairs: ”Don’t think this hasn’t happened before!” She’s a brewing project veteran.)
When I transferred the cider into the bottling container, I added honey to foster some sparkle in the final product.
Of course, we also tasted some. It was surprisingly dry, with barely any hint of sweetness. There was a slight effervescence. It’s pretty good for a first effort.
It’s sitting in bottles downstairs.
It’s better you not ask about the second batch, which I attempted to transfer into a secondary fermentation vessel yesterday. Unlocking the lid, I was smacked by the unmistakable acridity of apple cider vinegar.
Oops!
Maybe the airlock was faulty. Maybe — and I find the thought fairly horrifying and quite embarrassing — I failed to sanitize everything properly at the outset.
Either way, the bacteria that turn alcohol into acetic acid — which is what gives vinegar its bite — gave me several gallons of apple cider vinegar.
As I said: Oops.
The batch in question was a repeat of the first batch — same cider, same yeast. So the idea of experimenting with different yeasts and juices hasn’t been dealt a setback. There’s still another batch of apple cider with a different yeast (Lalvin 71B). And now then there’s this pear cider with the Côte des Blancs yeast.
Meanwhile, you’ll notice I went all out on labels for the first batch.
That reminds me. I have to label the vinegar.
Quince II: Dulce de membrillo
Can I tell you a funny story?
When I was in college, I lived in Spain for a year. Spain is a snout-to-tail country and I was more or less a vegetarian (at the time, more; in succeeding years, less). The markets were full of things I would have rather had for pets than for dinner.
Probably about twice a week I would see membrillo, a wobbly, pink brick locked in plastic and sold for cheap. God only knows what part of the pig that was.
Or wasn’t.
It was quince paste. At some point I realized that but, not knowing exactly what a quince was anyway, it didn’t mean much to me. And then I had some quince paste. And it was good (certainly better than the other paste that springs to mind: tooth). Even so, for quite a while, quince paste was to quince as Fig Newtons were to figs — a recognizable product of something I wouldn’t recognize fresh.
Oh, that funny story? Sorry. That was it. It didn’t really have a punch line.
I feel pretty bad about that.
I’ve been thinking about Spain a lot lately, and when the quince showed up at the market, I flashed to dulce de membrillo.
Working with food can be utterly transformative, almost alchemic. A sticky mound of dough turns crispy and crusty. Sweet apple cider turns dry and bubbly. Fruit and sugar turn spreadable and shelf-stable.
Bitter, rock-hard, cream-colored quince turn sweet, wobbly and rosy orange.
The recipe in Deborah Madison’s “Local Flavors” called for a pressure cooker. Pressure cooker?! I’ve got three jobs, a freelance career and a fruit blog. My whole life is a pressure cooker.
In the end, I didn’t follow a recipe. I chopped up the quince, cooked them until soft in a bit of water on medium heat, put them through the food mill and added sugar. (Most recipes I’ve seen call for equal parts sugar and quince. I added about half that.)
When the quince paste seized up on the stove top, I took a tip from this blog and finished it off in a very low oven, in a square pan lined with buttered parchment paper.
I have to say: It tastes exactly as I remember it.
Quince
“You can have some quince if you’d like.”
“I can? Thanks, Peter!”
“I thought that would make you happy.”
“And you’re not going to mock me for it later?”
“How could I mock you for taking quince?”
“I don’t know. It just seems like something you would mock me about later.”
“I’m not going to mock you.”
Time will tell. At least I have my quince.
They were pretty much grown without human intervention. I know they look like they’ve been beaten with an ugly stick.
Mado picked some up. Lula took some. The Publican claimed some. Kendall College took some. I took some. And a woman picked out the gnarliest-looking ones to use at a Halloween dinner.
That was it. The quince harvest this year was two bushels. They were gone before 10 am.
You can’t eat them raw and they’re still sitting on my counter.
This won’t be the last you hear of them.
* * *
I finished giving the man his change and he asked me a question: ”Are you involved in growing the fruit?”
“Eh, not terribly.”
From behind me I heard Peter say: “He just blogs about it.”
* * *
She was picking through the Northern Spy apples, having spent quite a few minutes hovering over the Bosc pears.
She was going to pay good money. I respect getting what you want to get. But, it has to be said, she was rejecting some perfectly good apples.
“Is this one all right?” She held up an apple.
I nodded. Most of them were all right. But I was saying nothing. It’s often the best policy. Then she spoke.
“Sorry I’m so annoying. You must think I’m the pickiest customer at the market today.”
Well. I only work at one fruit stand. So I’m not in a position to say.
* * *
If you found this blog through Time Out Chicago, welcome.
Peter runs the show. Lupe’s the backbone of the operation. I have a fruit blog.
Blush
It seems to me — and I could certainly be wrong — that the apples have more of a blush to them this year. Varieties such as the Mutsu and the Golden Delicious, which are ordinarily green and yellow respectively, can develop a blush.
But this year it seems more apples than ever are painted red — some of them with a faint, rosy tinge, and others with a striking, saturated blush.
Evidently cool nights and sunlight stimulate red pigment in apples skins. That’s discussed in this 10-page scientific paper.
It could also be that these apples have just spent more time on the tree than usual. It is getting late in the season.
* * *
There’s a tiny new section on this web site: the gallery.
Hard cider made easy, Part II
So everyone now knows where to go if the supermarket aisles are suddenly cleared of preserves.
As it turns out, I’m not done.
I have a Spiced Beer Jelly that I need to make. And while I was flipping through Mes Confitures to get to that recipe, I found the Pumpkin with Caramelized Lemon recipe. And then the Banana, Orange and Chocolate recipe. And then the Orange and Chocolate recipe.
Sigh.
* * *
When we press our apples for cider, we’re left with nothing but the solids. They are shot out the back of the mill and land in this trailer, which is hauled away by a man who feeds it to his beefalo.
* * *
The hard cider is coming along nicely, thank you. I have my first batch clarifying in a second fermenter. I don’t really care if it’s crystal clear or not, so I’m thinking I’ll bottle that Monday to move things along. That’s when I’ll transfer the second batch to the carboy to clarify. In the first two batches, I used straight apple cider and Côte des Blancs yeast from Red Star. In this third batch, I’m using 90% apple cider and 10% pear cider, with Lalvin 71B yeast.
Some of you have asked how my cider is coming along, and so that update was for you.
On the other hand, for a lot of you that paragraph was yawn-inducing gibberish.
So, I’m introducing you to one of the orchard’s new residents and serving this cider post with a kitten chaser.
Taking stock
I’m glad that’s over. Peter has returned.
Shuttling back and forth between the farm and the markets left me feeling faded and frayed.
Yesterday I was at the orchard no more than two hours before I turned around and headed back to the city. My house keys, however, decided to spend the night in Michigan. Oops.
* * *
The conversations have gone something like this:
I’ll say, “Hey, I’ll trade you a jar of that jam for one of mine!”
And she’ll say, “Sure, what do you have?”
Um. What do I have?
I have, like, three cabinets full of jam. But hell if I know what’s in there.
Today was jam inventory day. It’s becoming a bit of a bittersweet fall ritual.
Probably I’ll make a few jars of apple butter, but otherwise this is going to have to hold me until next summer.
- Sour cherry preserves: 1
- Strawberry preserves: 1
- Sour cherry and rose petal preserves: 5
- Sour cherry and almond preserves: 3
- Pear butter with vanilla bean: 5
- Grape jam: 7
- Spiced peach butter: 4
- Peach preserves: 5
- Lightly sweetened peach preserves: 3
- Peach preserves with vanilla bean: 3
- Peach preserves with pinot noir and cinnamon: 1
- Black raspberry preserves with chocolate: 2
- Ground cherry preserves: 2
- Apricot preserves with vanilla: 3
- Peach-raspberry preserves with cardamom: 4
- Black currant jam: 3
- Strawberry-rhubarb preserves: 2
- Red currant jam: 1
- Fraise des bois jam: 1
- Strawberry-raspberry preserves with balsamic vinegar and black pepper: 1
- Whole strawberries in very light syrup: 3
- Sour cherries in very light syrup: 1
- Peaches in medium syrup: 6
Now, obviously that’s not everything. There are the non-fruit items, as well: three jars of spicy tomato sauce, four jars of pickled asparagus, four jars of red tomato jam, and three jars of honeyed yellow tomato butter.
That’s everything.
I think.
I hope.
An embarrassment of apples
It is a damp, gray day at the orchard.
There is — somehow — a small basket of watermelons sitting by the cider mill, but mostly there are apples. Stacks of them. Bins of them. Trees full of them.
I’m at the orchard because Peter’s not. He’s out of town.
Do you realize that this is my chance to reshape this whole operation in my own, weird image? Well, at least until Tuesday. Peter’s only gone three days.
It’s a good bit of extra work for me to do Saturday’s market without Peter. On Wednesday, I said to him,”I think on Saturday I’ll just back the truck up onto the grass and sell off the back.” This is a recurring fantasy.
Peter wasn’t fazed.
“Eh, ” he said. “What I don’t know won’t hurt me.”
Today I’m going to get a new headlight for the truck, sort through some restaurant orders to pack, get supplies ready for our two markets tomorrow, no doubt talk to Lupe about a few things, and maybe snap a few photos.
I don’t pick any fruit that I don’t eat. I don’t press cider. I don’t pick weeds.
People always ask me what I do while I’m on the farm.
I really have no idea.
I just know sometimes it takes all day.
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