Blueberry Muffins

Blueberry Muffins

It's more years ago than I care to remember.  It's my first visit to the USA, it's Labor Day and we're driving south from Boston.  Cape Cod beckons but it's getting late and we decide to stay overnight in Hyannis Port.  The bustle of the City is well and truly left behind.  The hotel corridor is bare breeze block.  An ice machine fills the space with a persistent hum, its contents in high demand we were to discover as crashing cubes of ice hitting plastic buckets punctuated our sleep into the early hours.  Dinner at 10pm?  Forget it. A bottle of soda from the vending machine on the 'High Street' is all the sustenance we can find tonight. We go to bed hungry.  Next day we're lurching, the way American cars do, or did, along empty roads under a perfect blue sky, breakfastless.  Then we pull into Chatham - all white clapboard and grey shingle and picture postcard pretty.  We smell the bakery before we see it and declare it good, though frankly we'd eat anything by this point.  There are real muffins and pound cakes, made with butter rather than ? And they taste so good.  

Blueberry Muffin

Now that the English blueberry harvesting season is gathering pace and the price is finally coming down, it's blueberry muffin time.  I yield to no one in my love of a good blueberry muffin but it took me some time to find a great blueberry muffin.  I can't claim this recipe as my own as the only hand I had in it was to convert it from US measures but I've made it many times, tweaked it every now and then, so I know it works.  It may only be a muffin but, like many foods, it evokes memories.

Blueberry Muffins (makes 12)

200g caster sugar

115g butter (at room temperature)

2 medium eggs

250g plain flour

1 level teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon bicarbonate soda

¼ teaspoon salt

115ml soured cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 tablespoon milk

Grated rind of half a lemon

200g blueberries

Crumble Topping

50g plain flour

25g cold butter

25g soft brown sugar

Pre-heat oven to 190OC/375OF/gas 5. Butter a 12 cup deep muffin tin - I like to line the cups with greaseproof paper squares too.  

Make the crumble topping by rubbing the butter into the flour and mixing in the sugar then place in the fridge while you mix the muffins.

Cream butter and sugar well. Beat in eggs gradually. In a separate bowl, combine dry ingredients and fold into wet mixture alternately with the soured cream. Add vanilla extract, milk and lemon rind and blend lightly until smooth. Gently fold in blueberries. Fill tins almost to the top.  Add a spoonful of crumble topping then bake the muffins for 20 minutes.  

Allow to cool for 5 minutes before lifting them out of the tin.  

Syllabub & boozy cherries

Syllabub with eau-de-vie cherries

Winter's chill is not something we want to think of when market stalls are piled high with the sweetest English strawberries, peas in their pods and sharp, grassy gooseberries.  When the English cherry harvest joins the party, around the third week in June, the cold months seem a long way off. But if you are a preserver, you always have a thought for those little jars and bottles you can squirrel away at the back of a cupboard.  The bitter orange marmalades and quince jellies, glowing like stained glass when you hold them up to the light; perfumed apricot jams and black as night damson; slabs of fruit 'cheese' and sharp fruit vinegars.  The cherry harvest is short and sweet. Within 6-8 weeks the harvest has moved from white Napoleon to deep-dark Regina and the time has come to decide how best to preserve some fruits to bring out in the depths of winter.

Cherry jam is good but there is only so much jam a family can eat.  Cherries in eau-de-vie is better. Not only do you have delicious, boozy cherries to eat but there's cherry liqueur in time for Christmas too.  You can use kirsch or vodka instead of eau-d-vie, or even brandy, if you like. General guidance for the method comes from Jane Grigson.  Fill a jar almost to the top with washed and dried cherries, pricking each fruit 2 or 3 times.  Pour in enough caster sugar to come about a third of the way up the jar then fill to cover the fruit with eau-de-vie.  Close the jar and give it a shake.  Leave in a cool dark place for at least 3 months (I've done so for more than a year), shaking it from time to time to fully dissolve the sugar.

I don't ever remember eating cherries as a child growing up in northern England.  I've learned they grow best in Southern and Central England which would account for it.  My early experience of them was limited to those jars of ruby red maraschino cherries which made an appearance at Christmas time, always brought out by the Auntie who liked a cocktail.  The one who was the most fun.

With a history going back to at least the 17th century, originally syllabub was a frothy drink made by milking directly from the cow into a bowl of wine, cider or ale which caused the milk to curdle.  As you can imagine, it was intended to be consumed on the spot.  Syllabub progressed to a firmer textured cream by whipping in sharp fruit syrups or wine.  This dish was more stable than the original, so, it was possible to keep it for a day or two.  Hannah Glasse  in her book The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, first published in 1747, describes a recipe for 'Everlasting Syllabub' which calls for  "Rehnish wine, half a pint of sack and two large Seville oranges" to join the milk.   She also stipulates the addition of calf's foot jelly.  The sturdiness of the finished dish can only be imagined.

The recipe for syllabub below is the one I always turn to since it was recommended to me years ago. I'm sure I was told it was a Katie Stewart recipe from when she wrote food columns for newspapers.  I vary the wine/liqueur depending on what I am pairing the syllabub with - sometimes I reach for white wine or sherry or, maybe, elderflower cordial instead.  This time I wanted something to match the almond quality of the cherries which comes from steeping them with their stones intact, so, Amaretto seemed right.  The toasted almonds, which provide a necessary crunch, could be replaced by an almond biscuit.

The dish is light enough to make a Christmas meal dessert and you can prepare it in advance.  I know if you want to replicate this recipe right now you'll need to buy some cherries in eau-de-vie. But next year, when the cherry season arrives, you won't!

Syllabub with eau-de-vie cherries and almonds

Syllabub with eau-de-vie Cherries
(Serves 6)

Around sweet 40 cherries (drained from the eau-de-vie)
250ml (10 fl oz) double cream
100g (4 oz) caster sugar
Grated rind and juice of 1 lemon
2 tablespoons Amaretto liqueur
25g (1 oz) toasted almonds

Cut the cherries in half and lift out the stones.  Place all but 6 pitted cherries in the serving glasses/dishes.
Whisk the cream, sugar, lemon rind and juice and the liqueur together to the consistency of mayonnaise (should happen very quickly) and divide between the 6 glasses/dishes.

Place in the fridge for at least two hours, but it will keep refrigerated for up to 24 hours.  Top with the toasted almonds before serving.

Gooseberry and hazelnut frangipane tart

Gooseberry and hazelnut frangipane tart

I'd like to say this 'rustic' look was deliberate but, in truth, I overfilled the tart case and just got away without a Vesuvius-like eruption all over the oven floor.  As it turned out, it was definitely worth the risk.

For the first year I can remember the start of the gooseberry harvest didn't coincide with the blossoming of the Elder trees, at least not on my allotment.  Gooseberries and Elderflowers are linked so intrinsically in my mind that when one appears I look, and expect to find, the other. There is no arguing with some seasonal pairings.  The pulling of the first garden rhubarb calls for the leaves of Sweet Cicely which I grow alongside the rhubarb; the arrival of the first peaches makes me look for sherbetty Lemon Verbena which each year sprout from the most unpromising looking stems, and the best high-summer tomatoes co-incide with the short time, in our climate, when we can grow basil outside.

The elderflower being over before the gooseberries were ready meant reaching for the Elderflower cordial for a flavour of flowery muscat in syrup form this year - arguably even better!  Right now we can't pick gooseberries quickly enough.  Containers of green to honey-coloured globes are being passed to friends to feed a need for the unique, grassy, tartness.

I've posted a few recipes for gooseberries before but here's a new one inspired by some particularly delicious frangipane tarts recently eaten, but cooked by others.  I often pair hazelnuts with gooseberries - sprinkled on a compote topped with a creamy syllabub, or with hazelnut meringue and cream so the frangipane here is made with ground hazelnuts rather than the more usual almonds. 

Gooseberry and hazelnut frangipane tart slice

Pre-bake the tart case really well and, if the compote is very loose, sieve out excessive juice before adding the elderflower cordial to prevent  too liquid a bottom layer.  You could, instead, use gooseberry jam if you have it.  Out of Gooseberry season you could dispense with the whole gooseberries and use compote or jam for your base.  You'll get the flavour of gooseberries but without the sharp tang of the unsweetened whole berries which does add an extra dimension.  I've adjusted the recipe since that first attempt and these quantities perfectly fill a 20cm x 3.5cm deep tin.  The following photo is from my last bake.

Gooseberry and hazelnut frangipane tart

Gooseberry and hazelnut frangipane tart

(Serves 6-8)

PASTRY (makes 2 x 20cm x 3.5cm deep tart cases – you’ll need one for this recipe, but raw pastry freezes well):

250g (10oz) plain flour
25g (1oz) ground almonds
Pinch of salt
150g(6oz) cold butter
75g (3oz) icing sugar
Grated rind of half a lemon
1 egg yolk
3 tablespoons milk

FRANGIPANE:
100g room temperature unsalted butter 
100g caster sugar
1 large or 2 small eggs (you want close to 100g shelled weight)
100g ground hazelnuts 

GOOSEBERRY COMPOTE:
150g gooseberries, topped and tailed
20g butter 
30g caster sugar
1tbsp elderflower cordial (optional)

WHOLE FRUIT: 100-150g whole gooseberries, topped and tailed

Make the compote by melting the butter and adding the berries.  Place a lid on the pan and cook for about 5 minutes until the berries turn yellow.  Remove from the heat, mash lightly with a fork and add the sugar and elderflower cordial (if using). Put aside to cool.

Sift the flour into a mixing bowl and add the ground almonds and salt. Add the butter and rub in with fingertips. Sift in icing sugar and add grated lemon rind and mix. Lightly beat the egg yolk and milk together and stir it into the dry ingredients. Mix just until the dough just comes together then turn out and knead gently to smooth the surface.  Wrap half of the pastry and rest in fridge for just 30 minutes (wrap and freeze the other half for another time).  

Pre-heat the oven to 200C (180C fan oven) Lightly butter a 20cm x 3.5cm deep loose-bottomed tart tin.   Roll out the pastry thinly and line the tin, smoothing off the top and pricking the base. Rest in the fridge for a further 15-30 minutes.  Line with greasproof paper and dried beans and bake the tart blind for 12 minutes.  Remove the lining and beans and return the tart to the oven for a further 5 minutes or so to make sure the base is cooked and lightly browned.  Remove from the oven and put to one side. 

Turn the oven temperature down to 180C (160C fan oven).  
Mix the butter then add the caster sugar and mix really well.  Mix the egg(s) and add gradually to the mixture beating really well.  Gently fold in the ground hazelnuts.  
Spread the gooseberry compote over the base of the tart.  Spread the frangipane right to the edges of the tart.  Push the whole gooseberries into the frangipane.  
Bake in the centre of the oven for 30 minutes then check to see if it's browning too much - if it is, place a piece of foil over the tart and continue cooking for a further 10-15 minutes.  The filling should be set almost to the centre of the tart.

Links to other Gooseberry recipes:

Gooseberry Elderflower Syllabub
Gooseberry Polenta Cake
Gooseberry Meringue Pie

Lemon Cake

Lemon Cake sliced

We all need no-nonsense cake recipes.  The sponge cake recipe that always rises to the top of the tin; the perfectly-spiced Carrot Cake; the most chocolatey Brownie and flourless chocolate cake; the retro Upside-Down Cake; the please-don't-be-dry fruit cake; and, these days, the failsafe Gluten-free Cake (thank you Moro the Cookbook) - essentials all.  I would add to that list a luscious Lemon Cake.  In fact I'd put it at the top of my list of go-to recipes, but then I'm a sucker for citrus.

Helena Attlee in her book The Land Where Lemons Grow tells us that Sicilian growers "call their beautifully cultivated lemon groves Giardini or even Paradisi".  As a grower - sadly not of citrus - this appeals to my bucolic senses.  Dipping into her book, which covers all types of citrus grown in the areas of Italy where cultivation is suitable, has just made me check my stash of marmalade now the season is coming to an end.  Helena reminds us that only the British are somewhat fundamentalist about what goes into marmalade, demanding Spanish Seville oranges when there are plenty of other bitter citrus fruits that do just as well, if not better.  This year my own favourite marmalade contains bitter orange, mandarin and lemon, but Seville Marmalade has a place on my shelves too.

Sicilian Lemons

I've hardly scratched the surface of Catherine Phipps's book Citrus: Recipes that celebrate the sweet and the sour but enough to be awakened to how much I take lemons for granted - the dressings and syrups; the curds and lemonades; the sorbets and marinades; the puddings and preserves; the stuffed chickens and braised chicories.  Enough to identify with the truth that "If a dish seems muddy or flat, with indistinct flavours that are not quite gelling, the chances are a squeeze of lemon will sort it out." Rachel Roddy in Five Quarters puts it most succinctly, I think.  Lemons "lift, cut, sharpen, encourage and brighten"  And she has a star recipe for Ciambellone di Ricotta e Limone (Ricotta and lemon ring cake), which vies for my attention with Carla Tomasi's recipe for Cassola (Lemon Cheesecake).

Which brings us back to cake.  I picked up the original of this Lemon Cake recipe when visiting the USA around two decades ago.  It's been tweaked and turned on its head many times since - I remember originally it contained poppy seeds and sometimes it still does.  Like so many recipes I make again and again I thought it wasn't special enough to merit a posting.  But if I've learned anything, it's that those are the recipes that we should be sharing.  I value this recipe as I value those lemons.

So here is what I think I can now call my Lemon Cake recipe.  Even after all this time I feel another tweak coming on.  Searching my bookshelves for a Jane Grigson quote on 'lemons' I noticed a reference to lemon syrup to be poured over a pound cake with a suggestion to add a "measure or two of gin"!  Maybe next time I will.  This one is just made for a cup of tea.

Lemon Cake

Lemon Cake
(21 x 11 cm loaf tin)

100ml milk
100g soft butter
175g caster sugar
2 medium eggs
175g plain flour
1½ teaspoon baking powder
Grated zest of 2 lemons
¼ teaspoon salt

Lemon Syrup:
60g granulated sugar
60ml lemon juice

Preheat oven to 180°C (160°C Fan)/Gas 4.  
Lightly butter and flour the loaf tin.
Cream butter and sugar well.
Add the eggs, little by little, beating well.
Combine the flour, baking powder, salt and lemon zest.
Add the dried ingredients to the creamed mixture in three portions, alternating with the milk, mixing each in briefly just until smooth.  
Pour into the prepared loaf tin, making a slight indent down the centre so the cake doesn't rise too unevenly.  
Bake until golden brown and a skewer comes out clean - 55-60 minutes.  Remove from the oven.
Gently heat the lemon juice and sugar for the syrup until the sugar has dissolved.  
Pierce the loaf with a skewer around 12 times and pour the hot syrup over the cake in the loaf tin.  
Allow the cake to cool for 30 minutes before turning out onto a cooling rack.  Cool completely, wrap in cling film and leave at room temperature overnight.  Keeps well for 3-4 days.

If you would like to add poppy seeds, add 3 tablespoons to the milk and allow to soak for 1 hour before making the cake as above.

LINKS YOU MIGHT LIKE:

Sweetmeat Cake

Spiced courgette and lemon cake

Courgette Soup

Cucumber Salad

Rosie's Blackcurrant and lemon posset 

Tarta de Santiago

Warm plum and citrus compote

Quince Cheese

English Quince

Quince, a fruit of the Cydonia oblonga tree, is gritty, hard and astringent.  Only its fragrance hints at what it can become with cooking.  Bringing out the delectability of a quince takes time, effort and sugar.  These three added ingredients result in a luscious ruby coloured fruit confection.

There is one variety of quince, the Mulvian which was mentioned by Pliny the Elder, that can be eaten without cooking but it's not one most of us are likely to encounter.  Sugar is the key to palatability.  Tasted by the English during the first Crusades of the 11th century, most sugar later arrived here in the form of conical sugar loaves.  Sugars boiled and mixed with finely powered flower petals were considered to be good for colds and other ailments.  Mostly sugar was reserved for the royal table or the greatest households to produce spiced and sweetened confections for close of dinner digestives.  This, as Peter Brears in Cooking and Dining in Medieval England reminds us, is a practice we still indulge in with after dinner chocolates and liqueurs and other sweet morsels.

By the 15^th century, Brears tells us, the confectionary served to end a meal centred around sweetened apples, quinces, wardens (an old variety of cooking pear) in dishes like Pears in Syrup.  Honey as a sweetener was also employed and Brears gives recipes for Chardequince, Chardedate and Erbowle – employing cooking quince, dates and pears respectively.  All three recipes bearing, to my mind, a very close affinity to what in England we’d now term a fruit 'cheese' or paste.  Of these fruits the quince transformed into a paste is a love shared with other nations.  In France they have their pate de coing, Italy has cotognata, Spain is well-known for its membrillo and Portugal has marmalada.  Recipes are all very similar, though the Portuguese paste is made looser than others and was the original marmalade. 

Quince Cheese

Some quince fruits are more fragrant than others.  I have no science to back up my preference but personally, when I buy, if it's not fragrant it doesn't go in the bag.  As I write, two English-grown quince are perfuming my workspace.  How to describe the scent?  Sensual, almost musky with rose and tropical fruit notes.  Apple and pear fragrances are in there too.  It almost breaks my heart to think of taking them to the kitchen to be cooked - almost. 

Quince Cheese is simple to make but does require constant attention in the puree stage of cooking as it burns easily.  With basically only two ingredients, the recipe is straightforward.  Some like to cook the quince whole but I prefer to chop it up.  The 'cheese' is a thick paste which sets to a firm consistency.  It's good paired with many cheeses but particularly goat and blue cheeses, melted into a lamb or game stew or tagine, or cubed and rolled in granulated sugar to serve as that end of meal digestive.  Moro restaurant uses membrillo instead of egg yolk to make the 'quince aioli', serving it with their delicious roast pork.  The recipe can be found in Moro the Cookbook by Sam and Sam Clark.  

Quince Cheese

1.5 kg (3 lb) quince
Around 1.1 kg (2 lb 4 oz) caster or granulated sugar (see method)
Lemon juice as desired

Line with greaseproof paper whatever dishes you want to use as moulds  - I use 2 loaf tins so I have slabs of 'cheese' which I can slice as needed and end up with around 1.8 kg (3 lb 12 oz) of 'cheese' in total from the quantities above.

Wash the quince well and cut into chunks, peel, core and pips included, and place in a large pan.  Cover with cold water and bring to the boil. Simmer until the fruit is soft. Strain and put the fruit through a mouli or mash then press through a sieve.

Weigh the puree and put in a large pan with the same weight in sugar.  Cook on a low heat, stirring almost constantly for the whole cooking time as it can 'catch' and burn easily.  Allow the mixture to bubble slowly until it turns a deep amber colour.  This will take at least 45 minutes.  When you drag a spoon through and the puree doesn't close up straight away, it's ready.  Taste and add a little lemon juice if you find it too sweet.

Pour the mixture into your lined loaf tins or dishes to a depth of about 5 cm (2 inches). Leave to stand in a dry place, at room temperature, for about 24 hours to cool and set.

Turn out and wrap tightly in fresh greaseproof paper, baking parchment or, even better, waxed paper.

The 'cheese' should keep in the fridge in a container for at least 6 months but check it from time to time as the more moist the mixture is, the less well it will keep.  I have been able to keep mine for longer with no noticeable deterioration to it at all.

You might also like:

Quince
Poached Quince
Quince and Ginger sponge pudding

The Blackberry Patch Rules

Freshly churned
Blackberry Ice Cream

It's mid-August and the sun is on our backs at last.  In a summer when we've seen so little of it, it's far more welcome than it would normally be on a summer allotment visit.  Hot, unrelenting sun is not ideal when there's back-breaking work to be done.  But in truth there's been a bit of an uncharacteristic lull on Plot 45.  Though, even at this late stage, there are signs of a possible surge.

Peas and broad beans have all been harvested, their mottled stems cut down to the ground for the last residues of nitrogen to disperse into the soil.  The crop to follow on next year - Brassicas - will benefit.  The garlic planted last autumn is lifted and hangs in the cool, dry conditions it needs to be useable right into late winter with any luck.  All the early La Ratte potatoes have been eaten - a few not by us, it has to be said - as Salade Niçoise has been a constant request this summer.  We have started harvesting the Charlottes and most of the storing onions are drying on the balcony while we make successive forays into the Florence Red onion bed.  These long-necked non-keepers, grown from seed, cook to an unmatched silky smoothness and make a wonderful Onion Tart Tatin (thank you Fern Verrow) and a sweet partner to salty anchovies in Pisssladière.

Harvest of Blackberries, Raspberries
and fragrant sweet peas

This year we confidently constructed extra cane wigwams for Runner and Borlotti Beans.  Hubris met its nemesis in the form of slugs and snails, their population has exploded this year and we're still waiting for our first climbing bean crops.  Chard, spinach, beetroots, courgettes and pumpkin plants have also battled to recover from constant cropping by armies of these gastropods.  But we have had an abundance of extraordinarily fragrant roses and sweet peas to compensate.

Blackberry Ice Cream
with blackberry fruits

Strawberries, gooseberries and blackcurrants are now but a memory - though the freezer is stuffed with pots of fruit and purees for making ice creams and sorbets.  We've moved on from 'summer' to 'autumn' raspberries but the ripening blackberries are a godsend in this lean year on the allotment.   You can buy blackberry plants to cultivate, some are even thornless, but why would you when they grow so prolifically in the wild.  That said, not all 'bramble' patches are equal.  Find one with large, juicy berries and remember where it is for next year is my advice.

This day we circle 'our patch', searching for spots where the fruits are particularly wine-dark and plump.  This year, they look full of promise but taste is all so, of course, we try a few to make sure. They live up to our hopes.  Their flavour is, I think, so much more intense than the cultivated varieties and it's that intensity I want to preserve.  We try not to take too many.  They can be good until late September so there's time aplenty.

Blackberries are undeniably seedy, more noticeably when they fruit after long, dry spells.  Last year's crop was exceptionally seedy here, the year before we hardly noticed seeds, and this year the fruits fall somewhere in between.  As fond as I am of a Blackberry and Apple Crumble, sometimes it's better to sieve out the seeds and make a puree that can be used straight away or kept in the freezer. So, let's make ice cream.

Blackberry swirl

In the UK we tend to think of ice cream beginning with an egg custard base, but as Caroline and Robin Weir point out, in their invaluable book Ice Creams, Sorbets and Gelati - The Definitive Guide, egg yolks in ice cream didn't appear in England until the middle of the 18th century, probably influenced by the French who wanted to enrich the original Italian recipes.  This recipe from the book dispenses with eggs because, as the authors point out, "Blackberry is a flavour that is all too easy to lose" and in a no-cook ice cream "it comes over loud and clear".

Blackberry Ice Cream 
(makes about 1 litre/4 cups/32 fl oz)

450g (1 lb) Blackberries
150g (5 oz)unrefined granulated sugar
Juice of half a lemon, strained
2 tbsp Crème de Mûre (optional, I find)
500ml (16 fl oz) Whipping/Heavy cream (around 36% fat), chilled

Pick over the blackberries and rinse in cold water.  Drain and place them on a double thickness of kitchen paper then leave to dry off.  
Put them in a food processor or blender with the sugar and blitz for 1 minute.
Strain the pulp through a nylon sieve into a clean bowl, rubbing until all that is left are the seeds.
Add the lemon juice (and Crème de Mûre, if using) to the puree.  Taste and add a little more lemon juice if you wish.  Chill in the fridge.
When ready to make the ice cream, stir in the cream and churn according to the instructions for your ice cream machine.

If you're not eating it straight away, keep in the freezer but allow 30 minutes in the fridge to soften for serving.

I'm off to pick more blackberries.  There must be a bit more space in the freezer to preserve this special taste of summer.  With any luck I'll need my sun hat, and, who knows, there may be beans, chard, spinach and courgettes on Plot 45 at last.

Sweet-sour berries

My Strawberries Balsamic

The 18th century French philosopher Diderot described strawberries as being like 'the tip of wet-nurses' breasts'.  Thankfully he was referring to small wild strawberries, the large cultivated varieties we mostly eat today being some way in the future.  I owe this knowledge to Jane Grigson, who in every chapter of her Fruit Book serves up exquisite gems of information that add enrichment to the recipes she offers.  Recipes including classics such as Strawberries Romanov, Strawberry Shortcake and Soupe aux Fraises.  But, this time, I turned to Jane Grigson not for one of those recipes but rather for that 'gem' to lead me in to a dish I tasted in America two decades ago.  I loved it so much as soon as I got home I recreated it and have been making it every summer since.

I'm sure I'm telling you nothing you don't already know in saying strawberries benefit from a little added acidity - wine, lemon or orange juice all help to bring out their flavour.  Strawberries with vinegar seemed like a step too far when I first visited San Francisco a couple of decades ago and tasted them married with syrupy, sweet/sour balsamic vinegar.  Later I learned that in Emilia Romagna, the home of Aceto Balsamic production, they had been flavouring strawberries with it for decades.  Bringing things right up to date, Modena chef Massimo Bottura recommends aged balsamic to season not only strawberries but peaches and cherries too.

Strawberry munching slug

The very best Aceto Balsamico is made from a reduction of pressed white Trebbiano grapes aged for 12, 18 or 25 years (or even more) to a thick, dark viscous syrup and is, not surprisingly, expensive. Cheaper  'balsamic vinegar' exists but it's likely to have been made from wine vinegar thickened with guar gum or cornflour and enriched and coloured with caramel.  They are different beasts but all have their place, I guess.

The fact I still have strawberries on my allotment patch (the slugs, thankfully, having lost interest) and that the raspberry canes are now fruiting abundantly means the time has come to make this recipe again.   The good people of Emilia Romagna may not approve of including raspberries in the mix, and what Massimo Bottura would think I don't know, but this recipe is based on a particular memory of two decades ago, and raspberries were certainly involved.  So, I can't call this a classic but it is a recipe that takes me back to that first visit to San Franciso. It's also particularly good for perking up less than perfect strawberries - something we growers are well acquainted with.  

First pickings of the year
Raspberries on the allotment

My Strawberries Balsamic

(serves 4-6)

About 1kg (2lb) strawberries

100g (4 oz) raspberries

50g (2 oz) caster sugar

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons water

Clean and hull the strawberries and put in a large bowl.

Put the raspberries and sugar in a bowl suspended over a pan of simmering water. Cook until the sugar dissolves and the fruit breaks up.  Remove the bowl from the heat, blitz briefly with a hand blender and sieve out the raspberry pips.  Mix in the balsamic and the water.

Pour the raspberry syrup over the strawberries and mix gently to coat the strawberries.  Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours before serving.

I think this needs nothing else.