Jelly Tots and Other Novel Sweets: For My Irish Girls

Just three months ago a troop of six Irish ladies arrived on our doorstep, encouraged by our handmade "Summer subletters - Rooms for Rent" sign in the window. I recall our first conversation with the lot of them to be lively, overwhelming, draining, and slightly confusing all due to their excited energy of being abroad coupled with their unfamiliar accents. We all laugh about it now when I recently confessed to them that I swore that half of our first conversation was actually conducted in Gaelic.

Within this short span I've been educated in a few things Irish: sweet little sayings I've unconsciously adopted, the proper ways of Irish tea (milk but never sugar), reaffirming how HFCS (high fructose corn syrup) manages to hide in all things edible (on that note the girls inform me that our beloved American milk is unnaturally sweet for their palate - I can't wait to try the milk in Ireland), and finally in the form of numerous care packages from home, a jackpot of Irish snacks and sweets.

From Tayto crisps AKA chips to creamy Cadbury chocolate Moments, which are rather less sweet and smoother than the American Brand (how can this be so?!) there are a host of similar yet distinctive treats to choose from. Best of the bunch for me has been Jelly Tots, (jellies for toddlers or toddler jellies?). The sugary gummy dots come in a variety of fruit flavors like green apple and black currant. I've requested a king-sized pack of these in MY care package from the girls when they return home. In return I'll be sending over some Thin Mints and Samoas when Girl Scout season rolls around.

(Green) Coriander?

Yes, green coriander, and I'm not talking about cilantro, the first stage of the Coriandrum sativum plant. Cilantro is quite common and pops up in a variety of cuisines, in the fresh bunch of herbs accompanying Vietnamese dishes, chopped into a stellar guacamole, as garnish for a salad and so on. Coriander, which is less commonly known, is the later stage of the same plant, after the leafy cilantro turns yellow and the plant develops seeds.

Since D. planted coriander in the garden I was able to follow the entire life cycle of the plant, which meant for me...the discovery of green coriander. You can't find fresh coriander seeds in the market, due to the short lifespan of the fresh seeds so it was a novel experience for me. Even on the plant, the seeds quickly dry into a nutty, brown striped seed that is typically ground into powder.

After checking online to make sure that the green seeds are not poisonous (doubtful, but D. wanted to be sure), I popped one between my molars and it erupted in a bright, tangy spray of flavor. It was a shocking discovery, combining the freshness of cilantro and the mellow toasty warmth of dry coriander. I'm absolutely hooked. We played around with different uses for this new secret ingredient, my favorite was lightly grinding it in a mortar and pestle with oil-packed anchovies and mixing it with olive oil as a savory dip for bread. The saltiness of the fish was balanced by the sharpness of the seeds' green flavor. We also pickled a cucumber with whole garlic and some blanched green beans from the garden in a spice combination of dill flowers, green coriander seeds, salt, sugar, and vinegar. It makes a great side to a sandwich. (Or for snacking on before making the sandwich when I'm starving).

I started writing this post a week ago and was distracted from finishing. In that time, the green coriander has pretty much disappeared. D. has tied up a large bunch of the seeds to dry under the back porch and the seeds are drying out nicely.

Hankering for English Muffins

I have a strong recollection of family vacations from childhood where we would occasionally check in to a local motel for a few days. My sister and I would head straight for the double queen beds to do our room inspection ritual of bouncing on and between beds before settling down to a quieter activity. Given our typically demure track records our parents would humor us a few bounces at the expense of our neighboring guests, even if we arrived in the late evening. For me, part of the excitement of staying away from home was the complimentary continental breakfasts awaiting us in the lobby in the morning. Somehow the combination of being on vacation and the buffet display of breakfast items made english muffins, in particular, a rare treat. I would always enjoy them split and toasted with a thin layer of butter and blackberry jam. These muffins trump bagels and toast any day.

A few days ago I developed a hankering for english muffins again (I had rediscovered the joy of english muffin mornings during my previous semester abroad) and was set on using my (neglected) sourdough starter to satisfy my craving. After browsing through a handful of recipes and english muffin commentary [sourdough / not sourdough / sourdough] I summarized my findings into a few main steps:

- basic ingredients: sponge (bread flour, sourdough starter, milk or water), additional bread flour, a leavener (baking soda), flavor (salt and a sweetener - sugar or honey)
- a long rise to develop flavor and texture
- rolling and cutting the muffins
- griddle cooking
* I ended up mainly sticking with the Sourdough recipe from The Fresh Loaf



Homemade english muffins are considerably easier to make than other yeasted breads but equally enjoyable to consume. Some recipes result in a sticky but stiff dough that is floured and cut into rounds with a round cookie-cutter, while others are soft and wet enough to require ring molds on the griddle. I followed the cookie-cutter version which yielded a slightly dense muffin filled with good nooks & crannies when fork-split. Adding the sourdough achieved a subtle, nearly sweet flavor that wasn't reminiscent of a hardy sourdough whatsoever, but hey it was delicious.



I savored my first english muffin hot off the griddle, spread with butter and a light sprinkle of sugar. As my friends abroad pointed out to me this is apparently not a common combination, but I grew up on it and find nothing else quite so satisfying. Next time I'll aim for a fluffier texture and a stronger sourdough flavor.

Chilled Zuke Soup

It's hard to fully appreciate the prolific nature of zucchini until you actually grow a plant or two for yourself. Starting from the beginning of summer and still continuing strong, our two plants produce nearly a squash a day. The life cycle of the vegetable is incredible to witness - wake up to gigantic blossoms in the early morning and come home to small budding squash that same afternoon. The question reemerges time and time again, what to do with nature's bounty?

The summer days are finally beginning to heat up, much to the tomatoes' delight. Recently, after sweating out an afternoon of weeding and planting in the garden, my mind was focused on a cool, light zucchini soup that had caught my eye in a Food and Wine article. The recipe by Alain Coumont uses fresh vegetables and herbs to create a simple and visually stunning, chilled soup. I was delighted to find that all the ingredients except for an onion could be gathered straight from the garden including one gigantic zucchini D. had allowed to grow to a monstrous size.

I picked arugula flowers, mesclun, cherry tomatoes, and shaved some remaining zuke to recreate Coumont's elegant garnish. It was a refreshing meal for a summer evening, followed next time perhaps by a slice of zucchini bread.

The Thriving Garden in Summertime

Organic, Pear-sized Figs

There are many legendary spots around town I've yet to visit as a Berkeley student (and am constantly teased about this by a particular friend). The Rose Garden and Botanical Gardens are still on my list, but I finally managed to hike my way up to the "big C."

Over the weekend I was able to check off another destination from my list when L. brought D. and I to the Student Organic Garden. From outside the fence overgrown with vegetation it's hard to make out the garden. However once inside, we faced a rambling overgrowth of heavy sunflowers drooping with half-eaten seeds, squash beds, blackberry brambles, several strawberry patches, colorful sprays of rainbow chard, and a sharp, ubiquitous scent of mint. It was obvious that the whole place needed a bit of upkeep, but it was still managing to produce edibles despite this. Smack in the center of the garden was a stately fig tree, which we naturally migrated towards for shade. I was taken aback when I saw figs budding from the branches like dark green water balloons. They ranged from the size of golf balls to small Barlett pears; I've never seen anything like it. About half the figs were spitting with nectar from their seams and were indescribably sweet, fresh, and perfectly soft. We harvested well over $50 worth of fruit (total head count 84 figs), not including the dozen or so we ate on site.



What to do with such a lovely, unexpected find? I am normally too protective of certain favorite fruits to cook with them - persimmons, figs, peaches, papayas - their flavor, texture, and image are ideally captured as fresh fruit. They're also expensive to experiment with. However having foraged more figs that we could manage to eat fresh, D. suggested I make jam from the overly ripe ones (about a quarter of the harvest). Nothing's easier than mashing figs together with some sugar and a splash of water, a quick boil before simmering for two to three hours until it reaches a thick consistency. I like mine more saucy than jammy so I omitted pectin called for in some recipes. I also added a quarter of a vanilla bean in towards the end for good measure. Some recipes call for cinnamon and / or a touch of lemon juice if desired, but I wanted to maintain the purest fig flavor possible.



The next morning I enjoyed a breakfast of plain yogurt topped with crumbles of soft chèvre and a few teaspoons of the fig sauce. I experienced the figs on a whole new level with this combination. The tangy chèvre was enhanced by the condensed sweetness of the figs and its small chunks contrasted with the creaminess of the yogurt. I made a second serving after finishing one small bowl and decided to have this dish for dessert later on in the week.

Other plans for the remaining figs:
- Crusty bread smeared with goat cheese and topped with fresh figs
- Goat cheese tart baked with halved figs
- Fromage blanc bavarian cake with fig sauce - recipe from the Tartine Cookbook

Splitting Plums: Packets for a 4th of July Celebration

This past weekend, S. & K. loaded me with Santa Rosa plums from garden-sitting for a friend. A car ride across the bay later, the dark purple beauties were splitting at their juicy seams and needed my immediate attention. That was on Friday the 3rd.


Carrot (from the garden) cupcakes

For our 4th of July bbq, while D. happily attended to his smoker, literally babying his dry-rubbed pork ribs, I brainstormed ideas for a picnic-friendly dessert. I had several criteria in mind for my plums. First, I wanted tidy, single-serving pastries, which would be easy to eat while guests mingled in the garden. Carrot cupcakes with maple cream cheese frosting were already on the menu (adapted from Smitten Kitchen's post here). My second guideline was to retain the orbicular integrity of the plums and somehow simulate biting into the ripe, whole fruit. That's when the idea for pastry-wrapped whole plum parcels tip-toed into my head.

I began with a basic short-pie dough. Flour, butter, shortening, salt, powdered sugar, and ice water. The plastic-wrapped mass was left to chill in the fridge while I put together the carrot cupcakes and frosting. Next, I trimmed the rolled-out dough into squares that would encompass an entire plum. Mine varied from small to mid-sized and my dough adapted accordingly. More and more I liked the idea of having this be a very impromptu, rustic dessert. I sprinkled each dough square with a pinch of sugar and shake of cinnamon, plopped a plum (pit intact) in its center, and topped them off with another half-pinch of sugar. Then I bunched the edges of the dough square together to form a money-bag-type parcel and sealed them off with a pinch at the neck. After twenty minutes or so at 350-400F (cranked up towards the end to bring out its color) the pastries were stained at their bases from the juices from a few burst plums. A dusting of powdered sugar and out into the sunshine to be enjoyed.


(Dough packets / Plum parcels post-baking)

* The pastries improve after cooling off since the tartness of the plums are exaggerated when hot.
** Also warn guests of the pits or insert "country" or "rustic" into the pastry names ;)