Making lemonade

When my father had a heart attack many years ago, my brother rushed to be at his side. After the initial crisis had passed, my father started bemoaning the fact that he had left his tools lying in the field; they might rust in the spring rains. My brother responded, and trekked out to the remote acreage where my father had been putting in fenceposts when his heart sent up a red flag. It was a chilling sight, reports my brother, seeing the path of tools marking the ascent to the car he used to drive himself to the fire station.

My brother called me at the end of the busy week, and on the eve of our departure to California for a visit to Gramma; he had been taken to the hospital, and thought I should know. I thought of the times he has magically appeared when I was in need, and after a brief consultation with Darling Husband (now even more so), we threw things into the car and headed to Portland to see him. After we had heard the play-by-play and we reassured that his condition was not critical (though still puzzling the doctors), he mentioned that it would be great if we could go to his house: he’d just bought a flat of apricots, and was afraid they’d go off before they got eaten.

We found them on the top shelf of the refrigerator, ripe and juicy. Several went into Darling Husband within minutes, who pronounced them delicious. Then life got busy, and before we knew it, we had to head home to pack for our trip. I threw them in the back of the car, since the white coats weren’t going to let Big Brother out any time soon. There was a whirlwind of activity on our return: laundry, packing, emptying the fridge of leftovers. And there it was, a flat of apricots on my kitchen counter. My brother loves apricots, ever since we had an orchard in Saratoga. But he won’t be eating them or anything for some time to come. Out came the jam pots and sugar, and I put together two batches: one with honey, the other with Gewürztraminer and vanilla beans. I cooked it down this morning before we hit the road, and the jars sealed as we loaded the car.

One jar is in the back; I’ll leave it on my big brother’s kitchen counter, so he can still have his apricots when he is healed.

Harbingers

The mother robin outside (or rather, above) my office door has hatched her eggs. Every year, a family of robins returns to this successful nesting spot, in a ladder suspended under the overhang. It’s a sure sign of summer for our family.

Another harbinger of the change to the warm season is the strawberries; the ones we now have are the tiny alpine strawberries, sweet as candy. There are never more than a few at a time, little treasures to be savored in passing, or to garnish the morning oatmeal.

And every year, on the last day of school, we eat ice cream, topped with strawberries prepared by the kids. This year, we had an excess of berries, and not just a pint or two. Nope, we had more than ten pounds of hulled, cut berries (and only a spoonful of strawberry ice cream) left over after the kids headed home for summer break.

But I am a jammer, and the appearance of strawberries in the market and in the fields marks the beginning of the jam season. By putting up the excess now, we can enjoy a bit of sunshine on our toast in the dark days of February.

Because the school kids have done most of the work, many of the jars will be destined for our school auction in the fall. I know there is one woman in particular who will bid up her favorite all-fruit, so I measure out the ingredients for three batches.

But there are still more berries. I crack open some books for inspiration: my Larousse suggests a nice dessert of softly whipped cream and mint. I put a good portion of berries and sugar in a pot with a couple of sprigs of mint, and juice a lemon for pectin. A few cups slide into a freezer bag, awaiting some rhubarb that I know I will find at the market my next visit.

I stop to think a bit. At this point, Darling Husband nonchalantly drifts through the kitchen, and a large handful of berries disappear into a bowl of ice cream. Since he is a wine lover, I find my inspiration. The remaining berries are unceremoniously dumped into yet another pot with a large dose of a Napa Valley Pinot Noir and a bouquet garni of wintery-type spices (cinnamon, anise, cloves and nutmeg). A chopped apple will gel this batch.

While I cook up the all-fruit at the end of a long day, I am grateful for the preserving power of sugar. The other batches can macerate until I have an few moments during this busy weekend.

The season is officially open!