Onions. Not the most glamorous of vegetables, but cooking would be the poorer without them. “Occupe-toi de tes oignons!” is the snappy French retort meaning don’t stick your nose in/mind your own business, with one account claiming it stemmed from the importance of the onion patch in a French farmer’s smallholding - ie you have better things to be doing on your own ground. The foundation stone of mirepoix and soffrito, adding depth, flavour (and in hard times, bulk) to countless northern European stews, the star of one of life’s great soups, and if “British tempura” is your thing, the deep fried onion ring. Perhaps it was those sad circles of flabby battered onion that made shallots seem so much more sophisticated. Where a British pub had soggy onion rings, or pickled onions sharp enough to perform a tonsillectomy, France had the bordelaise sauce (founded on shallots and red wine), teeny-tiny snippings of shallot as a dressing with oysters, and shallot tarte tatin. How could we compete?
Shallots belong to the large class of plants known as Liliaceae (lily family) meaning they count among their relatives tulips, hyacinths, aloe vera and asparagus. Further down the family tree, shallots are in the allium genus, part of the Alliaceae family, along with onions, garlic, leeks and chives. The family’s precise point of origin is unclear, but their lengthy history undisputed. They are depicted growing in fields in paintings from ancient Egypt, and it it thought likely they then dispersed through trade routes to Persia, India and the Mediterranean. Amongst many other food treasures, cultivated onions were brought to England by the Romans, who had in turn discovered them in Greece. And ever since the échalote and its relatives have ruled supreme in our cuisine. Sweeter and less aggressive than onions, if your recipe calls for a multitude of shallots, find your favourite podcast and settle in for an extended peeling session - it is worth it. These gentle cousins of the big brown tennis balls which make us weep are also incredibly easy to grow, requiring nothing more than well drained soil and a reasonable amount of sunshine to ripen them. Storage is very satisfying too - you get to do that French plaiting thing with the leaves.
Having delivered both the shallots and a basket full of garlic, the sun then disappeared, leaving us with torrential rain and temperatures below 20’ for the last two weeks. As southern Europe currently broils under a heat dome which is making 40’ seem moderate, I am thankful for this northern temperance. The soil is finally, properly, deep down damp, and growth is responding accordingly. Climbing beans are sky rocketing off their supports, and the sweet peas trained up the apple espalier wires are now using those young fruit trees as additional climbing frames (this may yet be a serendipitous and stunningly fragrant deterrent to the deer - we can but hope).
The dahlias have put on a foot of growth, and the new scarlets and pinks of the west terrace bed have finally filled out as hoped.
It does all feel a bit autumnal though. A few weeks ago I was writing about the lime tree flowers, and now the lawn is carpeted with those blossoms, ripped off the tree by storm force winds. The skies have been so heavy that early evening requires the lights on indoors. Mornings have been hovering around 11/12’, sometimes even into single figures. So, the rain is most welcome, but rain plus strong winds can be a disaster for plants in full bloom, as stems bend and break under the weight of waterlogged blooms. I always have supports in for dahlias and other top heavy perennials, but was caught out by a buddleia, covered in magenta flowers, and now missing a large branch.
In the spirit of autumn, I set about making use of those currants mentioned in my last post. Our blackcurrant bushes (var. Ben Sarek) are only young, but give a decent crop every year, and certainly enough for a good few pots of jam. If you are new to cultivation and feel keen to fill the store cupboard with confitures, then currants are the very best place to start. They are full of pectin, the naturally occurring thickener and stabiliser found in the cell walls of fruits and vegetables. Citrus, apples, quinces, currants all contain a lot of pectin, while many soft fruits such as strawberries are low in it. If strawberry jam is your heart’s desire, then be prepared to buy so-called jam sugar (sugar with added pectin) and add lemon juice if you don’t want something more akin to a sauce. However, for the easy option, take a colander full of blackcurrants, a matching vat of bog standard granulated sugar, cook for about 30 minutes, and then after skimming off any leafy stalky detritus, ladle into sterilised jars and admire that imperial colour.
As for all those white and pink currants, they did end up as jelly. Not quite diamond clarity, but still a very pretty colour. Do not even consider jelly-making unless you have a lot of time and a fair bit of space. Contrary to the ABC simplicity of the jam, jelly requires simmering the fruit with a little water, then decanting it into a very fine net - traditionally muslin, now sometimes nylon - suspended over a bowl. The fruit juices then drip into the bowl. You must not press or squidge the fruit in the net, as this will result in a cloudy jelly. When no more drips are seen (which may be 4-5 hours later, or even the following morning), you decant and weigh the juice, add an equal weight of sugar, and then bring it to a rolling boil. If you were brought up by a jam-making mother like me, you check for the setting point with the wrinkle test, where a blob of the boiling liquid is dropped onto a cold plate, left for a few seconds, then pushed - if it wrinkles, the jelly or jam is ready. This overlooks the farcical potential inherent in large amounts of very hot fruit pulp arriving in Heath Robinson-type installations of nets over bowls. My few pots of currant jelly were a breeze: a small tripod over a regular pyrex bowl was big enough. Mum on the other hand used to make industrial quantities of crab apple jelly, the exquisite coral-coloured conserve made from tiny apples which are inedible when raw. Our tall oak stools were upended and large sheets of muslin attached to their legs, with sterilised buckets underneath. All well and good, but at any given time when I was growing up we had six or seven dogs, ranging in size from German Shepherds and Rottweilers right down to smaller fluffy things. And the kitchen was not large. Every morning saw a stampede to the door by dogs large and small all keen to get outside, resulting more than once in sticky, coral-coloured disaster. The cry of “Bloody dogs!!” would ring around the house, joyfully echoed by her African Grey parrot, who would then hoot with laughter, call the dogs’ names (in pitch perfect duplication of Mum’s voice) and then cackle some more. Happy days.
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