Jelly, David Mitchell, Japanese quince, the Helford and a bee
Abundance: Saturday 30 December 2023
I’m not much one for living in the moment1. Much of the reason I love these days that belong to neither Christmas or New Year is that they are often happily reflective, with so many of the festive rituals ringing bells from other times.
Fourteen Christmases ago, my daughter was lying in her bed being read to by her mother. I was in the next room reading about pecans and how - in sweet increments of success and failure - they’d made the long trip north from the river basins of the southern states of America into Canada. Gradually gradually, over generations and centuries, adventurous smallholders intent on growing their own had taken seedlings from the most northerly pecans and planted them a mile or two up the road in the hope they’d acclimatise.
I liked that spirit of inquisitive gardening. The smallholding I’d begun from two bare East Devon fields was filling with hundreds of species, many unusual or even unique in this country. Almonds, Nepalese pepper, Asian pears, American persimmons and more, and had some of that same feeling.
My daughter called me in. Trent, a fine man who had worked with me in the 3.5 acre vineyard I’d planted, had crossed the pond and we were all missing him.
Where is Trent, Dad?
Here. I lifted her new globe and pointed to where Trent was.
He’s near a place called Bellingham, just north of Seattle, close to the top of the United States.
And where are we?
I pointed to us on the globe.
Here we are, bean, right here.
I moved my finger between the two, spinning the globe to show we were - at least to the accuracy of a grown ups finger - at the same level on the globe.
We’re here and he’s there.
A penny dropped.
I tucked her in before going back to my office to google ‘pecan nurseries, Canada’, the globe still spinning in my mind between two points on similar latitude.
A couple of months later, 40 young seedlings arrived. I planted them over a weekend, close to the river of this southern state of the UK in the hope it reminded them of home.
5 years later, making my own gravy under the high summer sun, I sat against the thickest trunk, cool under the canopy. It occurred to me that I might be the first person on these islands to have sat in a pecan orchard, being shaded by one of its trees. And that peculiar as that realisation felt, I owed that feeling to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of smallholders and inquisitive gardeners, a huge ocean away, who had given the uncertain a try.
It is perhaps the thing I love most about growing: the connection to those enthusiastic others who improved, moved, communicated or planted what now gives pleasure.
That connection can happen on the smallest scale.
Below the dining room window, in a quiet corner of our small garden, grows a Chaenomeles - known variously as the flowering quince, Japanese quince and more - planted by the previous owner.
Chaenomeles generally grow low and wide2, flowering like crazy through spring. It is most definitely not March, neither is it April, yet it thinks it is. A bee stopped by just after I took this picture. Perhaps it too was confused by the plant flowering while carrying the previous year’s fruit. If ever we needed a sign of what’s coming, here is a small and striking one.
Along and beneath the tangle of spiky stems, are little clusters of green and yellow fruit. Hard as a hammer, the fallen quince brought together by the stony contours of the bed are undamaged. Their perfume is similar to tree quince though I find their scent spicier; similar to walnut leaves’ sherbet fruitiness. It’s impossible not to lift each one to your nose.
As with the more familiar quince, Chaenomeles fruit require warmth and/or sweetness to give up their charms.
Grate them into a large jar of vodka or gin and sweeten with an inch of sugar and the liqueur that results from a couple of months of steeping will make you very happy. I’ve made enough of those kind of infusions this year, so these made jelly.
And what a jelly.
This morning, in Cornwall with excellent friends we often share the turn of the year with, and ahead of a morning’s walk, I made porridge for 7. Porridge can be the worst of risotto-alikes without toppings: here, pumpkin and sunflower seeds, tahini, cream, an indecent amount of nutmeg, and a generous scoop of perhaps the best jelly I’ve ever made.
It fuelled us for a three hour loop of the southern bank of the mouth of the Helford; a perfect window of sunshine and calm in an otherwise stormy spell.
7 happy people will leave with a jar of that jelly, the taste perhaps reminding them of a sunny Christmas walk, another link in that chain of pleasure started by the person who planted that young bush under our dining room window.
Japanese quince jelly with star anise and white pepper
The weight of fruit doesn't really matter - this is all about proportions - though if it helps plan likely quantities, I had 3kg fruit, and used 2kg sugar (I used 3:1 caster to light brown).
I saw a recipe from the excellent food writer Christine McFadden3 some time ago that suggested including pink peppercorns; my festive obsession with white pepper (see here) had me trying it in half the batch and it is SO good that I encourage you to consider the peppercorns as essential rather than optional.