By Eileen Woodford
It’s hard not to be bedazzled by the jewel color of ripe red currants. Here at Shirley Place, our red currant bushes have come into season with a rich abundance of berries. Heavy clusters hang like ruby pendants, burdening the bushes so much that the branches strain to hold them up off the ground. They are begging to be picked. So, last Saturday, with President Bill Kuttner in tow, I set about harvesting some of the ripest clusters to make into jelly.
Life Lesson Number 1: Always wear long sleeves, even when its 90° out.
With Bill standing willingly in the noon sun and holding the bag for the berries, I put on my gloves and pulled out my shears and started clipping away. I was in a sleeveless top. I’m snipping away when I realize that the arm that I’m using to hold back the branches is itching fiercely. I look down and see a nasty patchwork of welts swelling up, looking angry. On to the pharmacy for Benadryl lotion, and then to home with the harvest.
After the welts receded (and in the meantime frantically searching the internet for any lethal contact allergies to red currant bushes–don’t worry, there are none) I noticed little tiny bite marks in the middle of each welt. Spiders bites. The spiders that have made the Shirley Place currant bushes their home were clearly annoyed at my invasion–and had turned me into their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I should have known better. I’m a gardener of sorts at my home and have learned the hard way–including receiving a bite from an annoyed garter snake when I moved his home of brush. Long pants, long sleeves. Always.
Life Lesson Number 2: Read the directions thoroughly… and many times.
I used to be a middle school teacher. I should know this. “Did you read the directions?” was one of my most oft asked questions, preceded only by “Where is your homework?” So, one should assume that I read directions. Well…maybe not.
Oh, I should add that I have NEVER made jelly before. EVER.
I find a French recipe. I choose it because the pictures of the little old man at the stove stirring his grand-bassin and the jams poured into an odd assortment of reused jars made it look so easy.
I get the berries de-stemmed, wilted in water, and pureed through a food mill. Now, to mix the puree with the sugar and boil.
The sugar. I don’t have nearly enough sugar because I didn’t read the directions closely enough. I need an equal weight of puree and sugar. Red currant jelly takes a lot of sugar. In fact, almost any jelly takes a lot of sugar. Who knew? Well, people who read directions know.
The good news is that my neighbor, Robin, is a person who reads directions closely and is prepared. She gave me all of her sugar, which I used up completely.
Finally, the puree and sugar are boiled and it’s time for canning. The directions said, “Ladle the jam into clean jars up to the top and screw on the lids firmly. Turn the jars upside down and let cool completely.” Well, I really didn’t read the word “firmly” and assumed that the “finger tight” rule of canning applied. I turn over the first jar and immediately molten red jelly begins to ooze all over the counter. So, of course, I immediately grab the very hot jar with my bare hands to turn it upright. My windows are open. My neighbors hear choice words.
And then, after all of the de-stemming and stirring and boiling and ladling and oozing, I end up with three partially filled 8 ounce jars of jelly. Three little jars. They are beautiful jars, but there are only three. Partially filled.
I doubt that Madame Eustis stood in what must have been a swelteringly hot kitchen and ladled boiling jam into crocks and jars for preserving. She may have. Regardless, I would have loved to have had a peek into that kitchen during preserving time. I would have loved to see the staff transform heaps of berries and fruits into jams and compotes and syrups and maybe even chutneys. I have many questions: Did the cook write down an inventory of what they made? Did they sneak small pots home for their families? We know that Mrs. Eustis loved to entertain. Did she take pride in her preserves and jams and serve them in dainty dishes to her guests with tea and cakes? Did she send pots of her preserves as gifts to friends? Or, did she save them for herself to enjoy with her morning toast and eggs?
In my blog last month on gooseberries, I blithely wondered if “some of us will rediscover the joy of taking the time to care for and prepare the fruits of those old curiosities that were once so part of the American garden.” I’m not sure, in the moment, that I would have described my experience as joyful; however, I take great pride in my three little jars of jewel-red jelly. The gooseberries are ripening. I am ready to try again. This time, when harvesting, I will wear long sleeves. And I will read the directions on the recipe–before I begin.
End Note: You can find David Lebovitz’s recipe that I used here.
Bring on the Fools
No, this is not about politics, though it might be fun to write a blog about the political shenanigans of the times in which our governors, Shirley and Eustis, lived. This is about culinary fools, the sugar-laden dessert made from the currants and gooseberries now ripening in our garden. The Saturday Evening Post published several 19th century gooseberry recipes on their website. All of the recipes were remarkably brief and peppered with lovely spellings, terms, and turns of phrases that have long passed out of our language. Instructions such as, “Wash a quart of full-sized green gooseberries, put them into an enameled saucepan, cover it tightly, and set it on a trivet some distance from a slow fire…beat…the yelks of three well-beaten eggs…mash them thoroughly with a wooden beetle, and…add four pounds and a half of powdered loaf sugar” abound throughout.
One of my favorite recipes from this collection is for Gooseberry Wine, originally published in The Saturday Evening Post, June 8, 1867:
Take 40 pounds of nice large gooseberries before they commence to turn ripe, but not before fully grown; remove the blossoms and tails; bruise the fruit without crushing the seeds or skins; add to the pulp four gallons of soft water, stir and mash the fruit in the water until the whole pulp is cleared from the skin; let it stand for six hours, strain it through a coarse bag or sieve that will not let through the seeds; bring the water and juice to boiling heat, and dissolve 30 pounds of white sugar, and add it to the liquor; pass a gallon of water through the mass, strain, and add it to the mixture; measure the wine, and add soft water until it measures 10 gallons. Let it ferment as currant wine. Leave the barrel tightly bunged after the fermentation has ceased, until it is drawn off to bottle.
First of all, 40 pounds of gooseberries and 30 pounds of sugar? Who keeps 30 pounds of sugar in their house? Then, “add soft water…”. How does one add soft water if living in a hard water area? Is there a recipe for softening water? Did people living in the 19th century know how to “soften” water?
Given my recent adventure in making red currant jelly, I think I will stick to making Gooseberry Fool, though I will be cooking mine on an electric stove rather a “slow fire.”