A Kentish Kitchen

One of the great joys of moving to deepest rural Kent has been our newfound proximity to fruit – and particularly, cherry, orchards. We’ve witnessed the whole cycle of the agricultural year roll on, day by day - from the budding of nascent leaves in the early Spring, then the flourish of frothy blossom, followed by the magnificent fruiting. More latterly, we’ve seen the leaves turn a spectacular flame-red before they’ve finally withered away and fallen to the ground.

The orchards are completely bare now, but during the summer, when they were laden with more fruit than was altogether seemly, I set aside a few cherries – regrettably not many, because they were too delicious to resist eating straight off the tree – to make a trial quantity of cherry vodka.

I say ‘trial’, because I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to vodka. If I have fruit in anything, it’s gin – and with gin, it’s got to be sloe and/or damson.

But this year, I felt the cherries were too special to wave goodbye to them after only a few short weeks of the season. Could I literally bottle their wonderful flavours in the hope of summoning up the sunshine in in the dark, cold winter evenings?

The answer? It is, I’m pleased to say, an emphatic yes.

I realise it’s rather too late in the day this year for you to make some, but I urge you to bookmark this recipe ready for next summer.

And now I’ve bottled the resultant liquor, I’m left with another edible ‘problem’ – what to do with leftover vodka-soaked cherries?

And that, of course, is what I’ll be posting next.

My first year back in Kent – after over twenty years away – has been extraordinary, not least for the incredible fruit glut brought about by the bizarre weather conditions we’ve had.

I’ve never seen, let alone picked or processed, so much fruit in my life. So much so that, frankly, I’ve struggled to keep up with it all. The acquisition of a third (yes, you read that right) freezer relieved some of the pressure, but still the fruit keeps coming.

Now, following hard on the peels of quinces are the fruit often mentioned in the same breath, and similarly evocative of autumn and times past – medlars. When we planted the garden earlier this year, a medlar was part of our grand scheme. It’s doing fine thus far, but I think it’ll be a while before we see any fruit from it. I was therefore thrilled to find medlars at the wonderful permanent farmers’ market in Canterbury, the Goods Shed, and quickly bagged a couple of kilos.

And then – the waiting game. While medlars can be used unbletted, their flavour is much improved by waiting for the rot to set in. Two weeks after I bought them, they were pretty much ready to go.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that medlars – rather like rosehips (medlars are, in fact, related to roses) – aren’t the juiciest of fruits. For that reason, they often have apples or quinces added to them in order to make jelly or ‘cheese’.

But, like quinces, their flavour is unique – somewhere between apples, dates, custard, and caramel is the nearest I can come to it – and I was keen to preserve that very special essence. To that end, I opted to make syrup from them. I cooked all 1.8kgs of them, let them drip through muslin overnight, and then added some unrefined caster sugar to the resultant juice (at a ratio of about 200g to 600mls – but add to taste).

A few stirs over a medium hob later, and I had my syrup. All 250mls of it. As beautiful as amber, and – from a cost/yield analysis perspective – almost as precious…

My next dilemma is to decide how best to use it. I’m thinking along the lines of soaking madeleines or friands with it – what do you think?

It’s no secret, not least because of my previous post, that I adore quinces. The way they change colour on cooking, their richly honeyed fragrance, their mallowy texture, their ambrosial flavours – is there a fruit more bewitching?

This year I’ve been lucky to benefit from a kind neighbourly donation – our 3 new trees are yet to produce a crop – and so, like a child in a playroom, I seized on them eagerly, and bundled them off to the kitchen.

I’ve recently bought a copy of @AlysFowler’s already well-received book, The Thrifty Forager (worth putting on your Christmas list), so I decided to give her recipe a trial run. I’m happy to report that it worked like a dream.

Here it is, with a few tiny tweaks:
about a kilo of quinces (I peeled and cored mine)
water
1 vanilla pod (I didn’t use this)
lemon juice and rind of one lemon, cut into strips
granulated sugar (I used unrefined caster)

Place fruit in a large pan, adding just enough water to cover the fruit. Bring to a gentle boil and simmer until tender – about 20-30 minutes.

Strain the juice through a jelly bag overnight (you can then use this for jelly). Put the remaining pulp through a sieve or mouli (I simply mashed mine thoroughly), then add the vanilla, if using, and lemon juice, rind, and sugar – the same weight of sugar as pulp.

Return the pan to the heat and bring slowly to the boil, stirring constantly until the sugar dissolves. Once the sugar has dissolved, increase the heat, and bring to a rapid boil until it reaches setting point – the paste will feel thick and scrape clean away from the edge of the pan. This will take about 30-45 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, and pour the paste onto greaseproof paper on a baking tray to dry. (I used a tray 6in x 10in x 1in, which was the perfect size.)

At this point, Alys recommends leaving the paste to air dry for several days – it should be slightly shiny and sticky to touch. I accelerated the process by putting the tray in a cool oven (no higher than 100C) for 3 hours, and then leaving in a cupboard overnight.

The paste is then ready to wrap in greaseproof paper and to store in an airtight container in the fridge.

I turned mine out…

… and then cut it into 5 slabs of roughly equal size.

 ”It will last for many months kept like this,” says Alys. To which I say – not in my household. Eat it with manchego or, if you want to stay loyal to these shores, Sussex-made Lord of the Hundreds.