My favourite was the arugula. I am an arugula addict. I could eat it with every meal, and to have it there in my garden all fresh, ready to be picked and eaten each day for weeks on end was such a luxury. I found that I planted way too much bok choy. We ate it a few times, but then I ran out of inspiration to keep cooking it, so about half of it went to flower before we had the chance to eat it. The caterpillars got the brussels sprouts. I have cooked rhubarb six ways to Sunday, and I discovered a new favourite soup recipe made with the kale.
Just when I thought I was making headway with all the food in the beds, I returned from our summer holiday to even more abundance on the fruit trees than we had last year. I got through about 2/3 of the pears, eating them fresh and also making compote. I think I probably ate every single fig on the tree bar a few that got attacked by snails. But I have truly failed on the apple front. Hundreds have fallen to the ground. We have so enjoyed picking the occasional one off the trees and eating it fresh, and they've come in handy when the blackberries were ripe for making crumble. This week I am going to make as many batches of apple sauce as I can before they rot for good, but still hundreds will have gone to waste. I figure each year I make progress and next fall I'll be more prepared.
| I was elated when I walked into the garden one morning and realised my first crop of rocket (arugula) was ready to eat. |
| My favourite way to eat rocket (arugula) is in a salad with avocado, olive oil, truffle balsamic vinegar, and Ottolenghi's "seeds for salad. |
This summer when I was in New York, I had lunch with my mentor in life, love and fashion Diane Von Furstenberg at her studio. As I was leaving she introduced me to her personal chef Jane Coxwell and gave me Jane's new cookbook "Fresh, Happy, Tasty." I have always loved the food Diane serves at her home and was so excited to get my hands on some of her favourite recipes. I especially love this stewed rhubarb over sheep's yogurt for breakfast and have made it a handful of times in the last month. It's easy to cook and gets even better after sitting in the fridge for a day or two. Here is Jane's recipe:
1 1⁄2 cups agave nectar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise and seeds scraped out
One 1⁄4-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled
1 cardamom pod
Thin strips lemon zest, each about the length of half a finger
1⁄2 pound rhubarb stalks, cut into 4-inch pieces
Sheep’s milk or other plain yogurt, for serving, optional
1. Combine the agave nectar, vanilla bean and seeds, ginger, cardamom, and lemon zest in a medium saucepan with 4 cups water and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Immediately reduce the heat to low and simmer for 10 minutes.
2. Add the rhubarb and simmer for 3 to 5 minutes, until tender, depending on the size of the rhubarb. Be careful not to overcook or boil, or the rhubarb will lose its shape and fall apart.
3. Remove the pan from the heat and set aside to cool. It’s ready to eat! (I leave the ginger and vanilla bean in because they look pretty, but you don’t eat them.)
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I felt like a real city girl when I commented to my husband that the "pears" lying on the ground under one of the trees in the orchard were really large. "That's because they're quinces," he replied. There was just one tree, and I strongly felt that they shouldn't go to waste now that I knew about them. Besides, I had just bought myself Kevin West's great new book "Saving the Season" and I had noticed a recipe for quince paste, which I love to eat with cheese. Only trouble was that the recipe called for quince pulp which was a by-product of making quince jelly. I was excited by the idea of one batch of quinces making two separate products, and so I set about to make both. Below is a condensed version of the two recipes. If you want more detailed versions, they are in his book.
The quince is an ugly thing; a knobbly old apple-pear, too hard and bitter to eat; a country bumpkin; a coarse relic; perhaps a puzzle to some.
But here's what you do: rub off the fuzz until the waxy skin shines and exhales an orchard air. Chop the fruit into a large pot and add the cores in a muslin sack. Cover it with water to a shallow depth, and cook for 90 minutes or more until the fruit slumps. Strain off the pectin stock, and reduce it rather slowly with equal parts sugar and generous lemon juice. You will get a beautiful, rose-nostalgia jelly.
Now take the spent fruit, and press it through a seive, then reduce it with equal parts sugar, generous lemon juice, and white spices—dried ginger, coriander, and white peppercorns ground together. Cook it as slowly as you can for hours or even days until it's dense enough to ball. Pour it out hot to form a thick slab, and air-dry for days or even weeks. What you will have is quince cheese—membrillo where Spanish is spoken—and it is the heftiest treasure of fall.
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My quince paste, all wrapped up to give as gifts.
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My Sunday harvest from the big kitchen garden on the farm. I roasted the onions and carrots with the chicken I made for lunch. I used the tuscan kale for my new favourite soup recipe. And I juiced the beets with apples and ginger.
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| My favourite apple tree on the farm. |
One day in June, Christopher mentioned the abundance of elderflower blossoms on the farm. Although I love to drink elderflower cordial in England, I had no idea what the tree looked like. When he pointed to one right in the corner of our garden I climbed right up on the stone wall, picked a basket full, googled a recipe, and made my own cordial. I have since discovered that elderflower cordial is not only delicious when mixed with sparking or flat water, but it is especially delicious with champagne or mixed into a gin fizz.
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