Plum-Peach Jam and a Goodbye

I got into the Eat Local Challenge action promptly on September 1st. I started pitting plums and canning.

I do my darnest to eat local all through the year—with some exceptions, certainly (you’ll have to wrench the Maldon salt from my cold and dying hands), My produce for the most part comes from the farmers’ market, I use local products and merchants unless I simply cannot find any other option, and this year I even tried growing some of my own food. Hard to get more local that just outside my front door.

But the Eat Local Challenge month is an opportunity to take a little closer look at where my food comes from, what shopping habits I have, and to see if there are places where I can make some changes. And this month the challenge is all about canning and preserving the harvest.

An excuse to can things? Sign me up!



I had a few brief encounters with canning when I was growing up. One year, when I was about ten, a babysitter of ours attempted to turn a mess of overly ripe plums from our yard into jam, which never properly jelled. Later, when I was in high school, I spent a holiday season under the sway of Martha Stewart and canned jelly and chutney, fudge sauce and cranberry cordial to give away as gifts. I remember liking how all the jars looked nestled in their baskets ready to be given away, but I never did any canning after that.

It was last year that really got me hooked on canning—and the kiss of a certain Meyer lemon vanilla bean marmalade sealed the deal. This ambrosia of Meyer lemon with their fragrant sweet tartness and mellow rich vanilla won me over, but the experience of producing a line of jars, all gleaming and filled with food to sustain you through the months to come was a revelation. That pride and pleasure is pretty incredible—and addictive. I went through a brief mad canning phase, having much fun with preserves: peach, blueberry, blackberry. I still look for any excuse to can, whenever I can.



So early this September I broke out the heavy pots and Mason jars. I had found a recipe for Plum Vanilla Jam and wanted to make some. I particularly wanted to can a batch of jam on that day, for soon I would be leaving Seattle. The literary festival I help produce is drawing me back to San Francisco, at least for a little while (I know I said that last year was going to be it for me, but some ties are hard to cut). This would likely be my last weekend at the market.

Because I would be leaving, I wouldn’t be around when many of the farmers pack up for the season and stop attending the market. By the time I return, in late November, most of them will be gone. I wanted to do some canning so I could give gifts to the farmers who had fed me so well throughout the summer. I realize this is a little dorky, a little bring-an-apple-to-the-teacher, but it’s my way of letting them know how much I appreciate their hard work.

I would make plum jam for Taki-San, the Japanese farmer behind Mair-Taki Farm who has kept me happily in organic apricots, peaches, and plums all summer long; who sells the freshest shiso leaves I have ever tasted; and who, early this season, told me how to make umeboshi pickled plums. I always look forward to seeing him, and the sweet young woman who helps him. Every week we chat and joke a bit, in Japanese or in English, although talking with them makes me realize how very rusty my Japanese has become after nine years of non-use. They also remind me of how much I love the Japanese sense of humor. One day Taki-San’s cell phone rang as we were chatting and, looking at the incoming number, he said, “It’s my boss.”
“Your boss?” the girl asked, confused. Taki-San owns the farm, he doesn’t report to a boss.
“Yes,” he said with a mischievous grin. “My boss: my wife!”



I would make beet-pickled radishes for Joane of Rent’s Due Ranch, from the beautiful beets and radishes she grows. Joane is a delight to talk to each week, so full of energy and humor I have a hard time believing she has been farming for thirty years and is a grandmother. This summer she introduced me to the beauty of Chuckanut Drive, a gorgeous scenic route near Bellingham, and told me funny stories about when her kids were young and they could never go camping in the summer because of the farm work being so intense that instead they traveled in the winter and told the kids they were “indoor camping,” staying in hotels and such.



I’d also make pickles for Steve of Tolt Gardens, who has kept me in lettuce all summer long. The lettuces that Steve and his wife grow are amazing—huge heads in gorgeous greens and deep purple (a variety called Merlot that is simply stunning). They started farming after Steve had retired from a job at the university and now sell lettuces so flavorful they remind me of the lettuce from my mother’s garden when I was little (have you noticed that most lettuce barely tastes of anything these days?). And you might not believe me when I tell you but these lettuces are so fresh they last for up to three weeks in the fridge, I discovered this when I forgot about a partial head that got shoved behind something. Three weeks later it was still fine. I realize this does not say good things about my housekeeping skills, but holy moly, that’s one fresh head of lettuce.

When it comes to canning, all I can say is what a difference a year and a half makes. About eighteen months after my first batch of marmalade, canning seems like a pretty easy thing to do—at least small batch canning. In fact, it seems so easy that I might just whip up a batch of jam and some pickles on a Saturday morning before I go to the farmers’ market. And in case you’re wondering, no, I don’t wake up too terribly early in the morning.

While this may sound like a recipe for a canning disaster, it wasn’t. I went a little off track with the jam, adding chopped up lemon peel at one point because I am one of those who believes there are few things in life that cannot be made better with lemon. Turns out that Plum Vanilla Jam is one of those few things. So I strained the lemon peel out. Then I decided to add chunks of white peach, to give it a rustic feel. I don’t put pectin in my jams these days, as I like the softer more natural consistency, less jellied. The thing I’ve discovered about jam is that, once you start to feel comfortable and get a feel for it, jams are a bit like soups: very forgiving.

The pickles are a snap, sliced radish, cubes of beets, slivered garlic, chopped celery hearts and leaves. Best of all, it looks really pretty.



And when you pour in the brine, made simply with water and vinegar and a pinch of salt, it turns a lovely hot pink color.



There are certainly things to be careful about when it comes to canning. I always sterilize my empty jars, and boil them once they are filled to make sure they seal properly. I know there are those who don’t, but I’m a nervous nelly when it comes to these sorts of things and would rather be safe than sorry. Of course, if you’re making small batches, you could easily just keep the results in the fridge when you’re done and skip the canning bit all together. No shame in making refrigerator jam or pickles.

But I have to tell you, there’s something so satisfying, so pleasurable about hearing the popping noise that a screw band lid makes when it seals shut and you know your food is safe and sound and will wait until whenever it is that you want to eat it (hopefully within the next year). I imagine it must be the same sense of satisfaction that a squirrel has when he sees the nuts piling up in the corner, or the farmer with bales of hay. Winter may come and the winds may howl, but I’m set, thank you very much, at least when it comes to jam.



So I made my jam and my pickles, and I wrote my little thank you notes, and then it was off to the market. I even got there before noon, morning canning session and all.

My last day at the market was the most beautiful day. We’re at the cusp between seasons, the peaches of summer still sticking around while the apples of autumn begin to shoulder their way in. There are tomatoes still, and melons to boot, but the berries are winding down and corn is on its last legs as well. Soon it will be squashes and potatoes, apples and persimmons.





I gave my little jars to my farmers and told them thank you. Joane gave me a big hug and laughed when I said she’d be gone when I return to Seattle in November. “Yep,” she said, “I’ll be sleeping.” Taki-San wanted to know why I wasn’t going to be coming to the market anymore and his assistant, again exhibiting great Japanese humor, piped up and said, “She doesn’t like you anymore!” and we all laughed. Steve seemed surprised and thanked me warmly.

I have to say, it seemed wrong to be saying goodbye to these people I look forward to seeing each Saturday. I am not used to a seasonal market and the idea that my favorite farmers are not going to be there each Saturday to say hi to as I pick up my produce for the week. The University District Farmers’ Market does run year round (as of this past winter), but the number of participating farmers drops significantly in the winter; Washington doesn’t have the same year round growing climate that California does.

But how excited I will be when they all begin turning up again next spring.

I stayed at the market until the end, until there were only a few market customers left and vendors begin taking down their stalls and it felt like the circus was leaving town and I was as sad as any little kid would be. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave. In the same way that I felt heartbroken when I left the San Francisco Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market to come up to Washington, now I feel heartbroken leaving my Washington Farmers’ Market to go back to California. This being in love with two cities thing is rough on the heart.



But I have a little reminder of my Seattle market and my favorite farmers to take with me. I’ll stash them away carefully and save it for a day when I am really missing them, when the winter feels too long and I sigh and wonder if spring will ever come. Then I will break the seal and taste the food I put up so many months ago, and I will remember the good people who work so hard to bring it to me.



For more information on the September Eat Local Challenge
Good links to information on canning

PLUM VANILLA JAM
Adapted from Martha Stewart, original recipe here. Makes 2 cups

This is a very plummy jam, please only make it with a variety of plum whose flavor you really enjoy. This is not suitable for Italian prune plums or other thick skin variety.

1 1/2 pounds red plums, halved, pitted, and coarsely chopped
1 cup sugar, more to taste, depending on the sweetness of your fruit
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
3 large white peaches, peeled and cubed (1 inch cubes)
Pinch of salt
1/2 vanilla bean

Bring the plums, sugar, salt, and lemon juice to a boil in a heavy pot (this is important, don’t try to make jam in a flimsy pot; Le Creuset or similar brand soup pot or cast iron is best). Split the half vanilla bean lengthwise and scrape out the inner seeds. Add bean and scrapings to the jam. Cook on a low boil until the plums have softened and melded together and the jam begins to resemble a thick syrup. This can take 10-20 minutes. Stir frequently.

At this point you can strain the jam, to get any remaining peels out, or leave them in for texture. Add the peaches and continue to cook until desired consistency is achieved. Skim off any foam that rises to the surface. To test consistency, spoon a bit of jam onto a saucer and wait until completely cool (you can stick it in the freezer for a minute or three to accelerate this process). When this cooled off sample has reached the thickness you desire, remove pot from heat.

To can, follow instructions for your particular jars and canning equipment, but I’d recommend boiling water processing for five minutes at a full boil, then turn off heat and let sit for a further five minutes.

And if you have any of that foam you skimmed off the top of the pot, stir it into yogurt. It's lovely.