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.

Raspberry Clafoutis

Raspberry 'Clafoutis'

It's the way the word rolls off the tongue - c l a f o u t i s - that does it.  It's like a loving endearment or reassuring pat on the back.  So many times I've been seduced into taking a little slice of 'cherry clafoutis', hoping against hope that this will be the one to live up to all my expectations.  So many times my optimism has been rewarded with a stodgy or desiccated disappointment, made palatable only by pouring on copious amounts of cream.  Yet still, I search for the holy grail of the perfect 'clafoutis'.

The clue, I think, is in the usual description of 'clafoutis' as a "thick" batter pudding.  Personally I prefer my pudding to be thick, or dense, with fruit rather than flour so each year when the cherry season comes round I try again to find the recipe that's right for me.  The norm is to use cherries, unpitted so as to impart a little bitter almond-like flavour.  I've had a mirabelle plum version that was excellent, though some would say if it's not made with cherries then it's a 'flaugnarde'.  I'm perfectly happy to accept it as clafoutis.  I just wish I'd asked for the recipe.

With at least another couple of weeks of cherry picking to go, I haven't given up on this summer's quest for the cherry clafoutis of my dreams.  Meanwhile, here's a lighter batter pudding I came across last summer.  It offers not only a different treatment for the batter, but uses raspberries.  As I'm currently frantically harvesting berries from my allotment, I'm grateful to revisit it.  Nothing beats eating the fruit straight from the canes, warmed by the summer sun, but they're peaking now and so are destined for the kitchen.  If they are truly ripe, they travel badly.  This is when you need a recipe where looks matter less than taste and there's only so much jam, cordial and puree I can make - and take.

Summer Raspberries

CLAFOUTIS: from the verb CLAFIR 

meaning: 'TO FILL"

The delicacy of raspberries calls for light cooking.  This recipe is adapted from Second Helpings of Roast Chicken by Simon Hopkinson.  It's somewhere between a custard and a batter pudding.  He calls it a "clafoutis" and that's fine by me.

Raspberry Clafoutis
(Serves 4)

250ml whipping cream
a pinch of salt
1 vanilla pod
about 25g of softened butter
about 250g raspberries
1 whole egg + 2 egg yolks
100g caster sugar
1 teaspoon potato flour
a little icing sugar
a little raspberry eau de vie (optional)

Pour the cream into a pan.  Split the vanilla pod and run the back of a knife down the cut surfaces to extract the seeds.  Add pods and seeds to the pan along with the salt and stir.  Bring almost to the boil.  Take off the heat, cover and leave for 30 minutes.
Heat the oven to 180C (160C fan)/Gas 4.
Butter 4 shallow oven-proof dishes (or 1 large one).  Divide the raspberries evenly between the dishes and place them in a roasting tin.
Beat together the egg, egg yolks, sugar and potato flour.  Remove the vanilla pod from the cream and pour into the egg mixture, whisking gently.  Carefully pour the batter over the raspberries.  Sift the icing sugar over the surfaces.
Add hot water to the roasting tin to reach at least halfway up the sides of the dishes.  Place carefully in the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes (about 35 minutes for a large one) until slightly puffed-up but still a little wobbly.  Turn off the oven and allow the puddings to settle for a few minutes.  Remove and serve when just warm sprinkled with a little eau de vie (if using) and some whipped cream.

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserve

Rhubarb & grapefruit

I've previously mentioned Jane Grigson's declaration that only "pink" rhubarb is worth eating. She was, of course, referring to the 'forced' kind where the plant is grown under cover of a pot or in the gloom of a candlelit forcing shed.  Forced rhubarb is very different from outdoor grown rhubarb and, generally, I have agreed with Jane Grigson's sentiments.  Certainly if you are looking for a beautifully evenly coloured compote with delicate flavour it's worth buying the early, forced, kind. However, this growing-year has made me appreciate the merits of the more robust and vigorous form of the plant.

A member of the Rheum genus of plants, rhubarb is related to both sorrel and buckwheat.  We add sugar to rhubarb to make its natural astringency more palatable and it's easy to forget it's actually a vegetable.  In Persian cooking, rhubarb is used in lamb dishes as a tenderiser.  In Europe, barely sweetened, it's used as a foil for oily fish like mackerel or fatty meats like pork.  In the UK in particular, rhubarb is enjoyed in compotes, crumbles and pies, in much the same way as we use gooseberries.  Both share a mouth-puckering sourness before tempering with sugars and flavourings.    

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserve
Batch 1

I felt like the laughing-stock of the allotment group, as the only person unable to get a decent crop of rhubarb.  Then, last year, I split the crown of my plant into four sections.  Replanting each in a new location has rewarded me this year with a spectacularly good crop.  There's nothing so guaranteed to make you appreciate a vegetable as a bumper harvest.  So what to do with all that bounty?  Personally I find rhubarb releases far too much water to ever make a good pie but, thanks to the Fern Verrow - A year of recipes from a farm and its kitchen, we've been enjoying bowls of Rhubarb custard fool and bottling up Rhubarb cordial for summer's promise of glasses of Rhubarb gin fizz, Pink lemonade and Rhubarb Bellini.

But it's a recipe for jam I want to share with you here.  A recipe for Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserve from Alice Waters' Chez Panisse Fruit book (no, not the Chez Panisse Vegetable book).  It's not a combination that would normally have caught my attention.  Maybe it was because I'm in the midst of reading Bitter by Jennifer McLagan, which goes into the subject of bitter foods in forensic detail.  Though grapefruit is clearly a "bitter" food in her view, indeed the fruit was the starting point for her taking on the subject, opinions she sought were divided as to whether the flavour is bitter or merely sour.  Personally, I go with bitter and the idea of pairing grapefruit with sour rhubarb seemed a bit of a leap of faith.  Maybe it's something about the British palate, as inhabitants of the North American continent seem to have a taste for citrus with their rhubarb.  And then I looked at Grigson again - "... with citrus fruits it makes a delightful jam".  Sugar can transform the bitterest citrus into delectable marmalade, and the sourest rhubarb into luscious compote, so I swallowed my scepticism and I'm so glad I did.

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserve
Batch 2

The first time I made this preserve, I took it a degree or two over jam set-point.  The colour changed from jewel-like to reddish-brown in the blink of an eye.  If this happens to you, what you lose in colour you'll gain in a delicious marmalade quality to the taste.  Stopping the cooking at exactly jam set point will give you a ruby-red preserve with the rhubarb flavour to the fore.  I'm still not sure which batch I prefer, so really you can't go wrong in my view.

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserve (adapted from Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters)
(makes 40 oz/1.125 kg)

2 lbs (900g) Rhubarb, washed, dried and cut into 1cm dice
2 grapefruit (I use red)
4 cups (900g) granulated sugar

Place the rhubarb in a large heavy-based stainless steel pan.
Peel the grapefruits, slice the peel thinly and juice the flesh.  Add the zest and juice to the pan of rhubarb along with the sugar.
Let the mixture stand for at least 30 minutes for the rhubarb to release its juices and the sugar to dissolve.
Sterilise your jars and lids.  Put a small plate in the freezer for testing the jam.
Over a high heat, bring the pan of mixture to the boil, stirring to make sure it doesn't stick.  The mixture will bubble high up the pan.  Skim off any foam around the edges.  Soon the mixture will subside and bubble thickly.  Stir frequently and start testing with a sugar thermometer and/or by using the cold plate for the 'wrinkle' test.  When it has reached set point, take the pan off the heat and pot up the jam.  Will keep for up to 1 year in properly sterilised jars.

Raspberry Ripple ice cream

Raspberry Ripple Ice cream
in the making

It's February.  Why on earth am I making ice cream?  Because I have a bag of frozen raspberries in the freezer and a great recipe.  In any case ice cream warms you up.  Really, it's true.  OK, the reason it's warming is that the body has to produce energy to digest the protein and fat content and, as every schoolchild knows, energy produces heat.  So, you see, it's good to eat ice cream in winter.  Personally, I don't need any persuading.

Last year we had a glut of raspberries so bagged a couple of kilos for the freezer. The thing with raspberries is, no matter how carefully you freeze them - yes I have tried spreading them on a tray - you end up with a soggy unappealing mush when they defrost.  Options for using them are limited, though I did find this Nigel Slater recipe worked pretty well.  Later in the year they'd be fine in a Summer Pudding, but I needed to start clearing space in the freezer now.  Making a raspberry syrup concentrates the flavour of the fruit, and it's perfect for swirling through vanilla ice cream.

Raspberry syrup

Adding salt to ice to lower its freezing point was known to the Arab world as early as the 13th century.  Using this technique, a container of fruit essence placed in the ice could be frozen.  Fruit ices were described in Italy in the early 17th century but the first written reference to "ice cream" appears in a 1672 document from the court of King Charles II.  If the recipe was written down, it remains undiscovered.  A hundred years later, the French found that frequent stirring of the ingredients gave a smoother, less crystalline result.  They are also credited with being the first to add egg yolks to enrich the mixture.

La Grotta Ices in
The Observer Food Monthly

I love ice cream but it's something I rarely buy from the supermarket as a quick look at the ingredients list most often shows sugar content way too high for my liking.  When you make it yourself, you are in control.  If you have a good recipe your ice cream won't be stacked with ridiculous amounts of sugar.  This recipe comes from La Grotta Ices who not only use the best quality milk, cream and eggs, but make a point of adding only as much sugar as is necessary, and not a spoonful more.

I've mentioned La Grotta Ices before, so if you want some background just click on the name.  I'll just say that I've never tasted better ices than those coming out of Kitty Travers' La Grotta ice cream shed.  Kitty's recipe for Raspberry Ripple Ice Cream, below, appeared in The Observer Food Monthly (OFM) magazine on 16 June 2013.  This is the first chance I've had to follow it and I can confirm it's a great recipe.

Raspberry Ripple ice cream

I made extra quantities of the raspberry syrup, and some meringues from the leftover egg whites. This gave me the opportunity to produce individual meringue desserts by lightly whipping up some cream, adding broken meringue and some syrup and freezing for later.  When you want to serve them, if you have more puree, you can pour a little over the top.  Note: I used dariole moulds but, if you prefer, the mixture can be frozen in a block and sliced for serving.

Frozen Raspberry meringue puddings

I'm giving Kitty's recipe for Raspberry Ripple ice cream here but you can follow the link to The OFM for the original with Kitty's invaluable insights on ice cream making.  Her advice to start making your mixture a day ahead does make all the difference to the result.  In case, like me, you don't have an ice cream machine, I've given the instructions for making it with or without a machine.

La Grotta Raspberry Ripple Ice Cream
(Serves 12)

400ml whole milk
200ml double cream
1 vanilla pod, split and seeds scraped out
Small pinch of salt
6 large free-range egg yolks
120g unbleached granulated sugar

For the raspberry syrup (yields 430g):
400g raspberries
150g sugar

Ice cream:
Pour the milk and cream into a pan.  Add the split vanilla pod its seeds and the salt.  Place on a low heat and, stirring occasionally, until it just begins to simmer.
While the milk is heating, briefly mix the sugar into the egg yolks.
Pour most of the milk into the egg mixture and whisk to combine.
Return the pan to the heat and pour in the egg and milk mixture.  Slowly heat, stirring constantly, to a temperature of 85C (it will start to thicken at 65C).  Take the pan off the heat immediately and place it in a sink of cold water with ice cubes in it to cool the mixture quickly.
When the mixture is at room temperature, cover the pan with cling film, put the lid on the pan and place in the fridge overnight or for at least 8 hours.

Raspberry syrup:
Place the raspberries in a bowl with the sugar and set it over a pan of simmering water.  Cook until the fruit bursts and the sugar dissolves.  Remove from the heat, blitz with a hand blender and push through a sieve to remove the seeds.  When the syrup is at room temperature, chill in the fridge overnight.
(Kitty suggests stirring the raspberry seeds into a jug of water, leave in the fridge until the seeds settle, then sieve.  It gives you a delicious juice drink).

Next day:
Put a large, preferably metal, bowl in the freezer to chill.
Sieve the ice cream mixture into the bowl to remove the vanilla pod.  Blitz with a hand whisk for 30 seconds to re-emusify.

If you have an ice cream machine: Start the machine churning and pour the mixture into the ice cream machine.  Churn for about 30 minutes or until the mixture looks dry.

If you don't have an ice cream machine: Place the bowl in the freezer.  After 90 minutes take it out and whisk the mixture vigorously.  Repeat this procedure twice more.

Pour the syrup over the mixture, fold and swirl.  Scrape into an airtight container and freeze.

The ice cream will keep for up to a month in the freezer.

England Preserves

Seasonal Specials
at England Preserves

The renewed interest in home preserving is a trend I hope will long continue.  A desire to be more self-sufficient and, hopefully, a little less wasteful has in recent years sent many more of us foraging and gleaning, reaching for the jam pan and bottling our finds.  Eliza Acton, Constance Spry, Jane Grigson and the Women's Institute were where most of us turned for guidance when faced with a hedgerow harvest or a glut on the allotment.  Often, these days, the first port of call is the internet. However, some good preserving books have hit the shelves over the past couple of years.  Diana Henry's Salt Sugar Smoke is one of the best I've found.

Allotment harvest

Having an old tried and tested recipe for strawberry jam is a wonderful thing, but, in the pages of these more recent books lies inspiration for preserving the less obvious pickings.  These recipes are also more likely to retain the flavour of the prime ingredient at the forefront.  This may mean the preserve won't keep so long.  Times change and our tastes change too.  

Bergeron Apricot Jam
from England Preserves

Preserving is not all about jams.  However, as the fruit:sugar ratio of that preserve has excited so much debate recently, I will come off that particularly sticky fence and declare myself in favour of using less sugar.  I'm more interested in tasting the fruit than having jars of sweet unidentifiable spreads lining my larder.  My level of preserving is modest so I'm no expert and I'm always on the look-out to see who's doing it well.  It's a crowded market and I've tried and tested aplenty before settling on a personal favourite.

Sky Cracknell and Kai Knutsen began making jams in their home kitchen in 2001.  Selling initially on Farmers' Markets, their England Preserves are now stocked by an impressive list of food shops, cafes and restaurants.  Fruits are sourced as close to their Bermondsey base as possible.  At this time the focus of their attention is the apple, pear and quince harvest.  They take full advantage of the fantastic crops from Brogdale in Kent.  Fruit butters such as 'Salcott Pippin & Cinnamon' and 'Beurre de Beugny Pear butter with Vanilla' are favourites in our house right now.  We are also just coming to the end of our stock of Bergeron Apricot Jam.  The vibrant colour and stunning apricot taste of this jam convinced me I'd found my favourite preserve-maker.  Jams, fruit-butters and fruit-cheeses (Damson, first this season, and now Quince) are made in small batches, cooking the fruit gently to retain "flavour and colour" and using as little sugar as possible.  It's a sympathetic approach which I can relate to.  When my own fruit harvests are exhausted, England Preserves is my larder.

England Preserves
See website for list of stockists.
Also open Saturdays for direct retail sales from their production unit at:
Arch 4 Spa North
London SE16 4EJ

Warm Plum & Citrus Compote

Warm Plum & Citrus Compote

Jane Grigson wrote in 1982 of the ubiquity of the Victoria plum.  Since 1840, when a stray seedling was found in Sussex, the Victoria has been grown for its qualities as a good cropper rather than for its flavour. Even today, more than 30 years on from publication of Jane Grigson's Fruit Book, we seem reluctant to acknowledge its inferiority and so we have reached a point where it's difficult to find other varieties of plum. That's not to say Victoria plums can't be made palatable by cooking, but to eat one straight from the tree is invariably disappointing.  Grigson agreed with Edward Bunyard  (Anatomy of Dessert).  He said, of plums intended to be eaten uncooked, that there was little "encased in red, black or blue" worth growing.

Neither Edward Bunyard nor Jane Grigson seem to have rated the dark, dusky Damson plum.  It is a personal favourite of mine, not just for making Damson gin.  In a Damson souffle its sharp, bitter qualities are hard to beat, but a yellow- or green-skinned plum is my first choice for most other plum dishes.  These range from the tiny intensely sweet Mirabelle, its yellow skin blushed with a fingertip of rouge as its season progresses, to the honeyed flesh of the green/gold Greengage.  I've previously written about Greengages so rather than repeat myself, here's a link to that post which includes a recipe for Plum Tart

The recipe below is based on A Warm Compote of Plums with Honey and Orange from The Art of Cooking with Vegetables by Alain Passard.  Unsurprisingly, Passard uses French Reine Claude plums (Greengage) for this dish, as do I.  The citrus fruit pairs surprisingly well with the Greengages.  However, I've found, if the plums are a little on the tart side, then the quantity of lemon needs to be reduced.

I think it's time I planted a Greengage tree.  Perhaps it should be a self-fertile 'Early Transparent Gage', or, better still, the elusive 'Coe's Golden Drop', if I can only find a source.

Warm Plum & Citrus Compote
(Serves 4-6)

1kg (2lb) ripe Greengages or other plums
40g (1½oz) salted butter (or unsalted with a pinch of salt)
2 tbsp caster sugar
2 tbsp runny honey
1medium unwaxed (or well-scrubbed) orange, cut into segments with skin intact
1 small-medium unwaxed (or well-scrubbed) lemon, cut into segments with skin intact

Choose a lidded frying pan large enough to eventually take the plums in a single layer. Gently melt the butter (and salt if using), honey and sugar in the pan, stirring to amalgamate.  Add the orange and lemon slices.  Partially cover with the pan lid and cook gently for 15 minutes. Wash the plums and add them whole to the pan in a single layer. Partially cover again and cook gently for 30-40 minutes - the fruit should be tender but not mushy.  Take off the heat, remove the lid and leave to stand for 10 minutes.  
Serve warm with vanilla ice cream or double cream.  An almond biscuit goes well too.

Gathering the last of the berries

Blueberry & Raspberrry Mascarpone Pot

On this day of the autumnal equinox the temperature is hovering around 20 degrees C throughout most of the UK.  Plums, apples and pears have made a welcome appearance but English blueberries are still in the shops and I can't be the only person to be still happily harvesting Autumn Bliss raspberries.  These two berries go together so well and need only the lightest sprinkling of sugar to marry the sweet of the raspberry with the slight tartness of British blueberries.

I have absolutely no idea where the recipe at the end of this post comes from.  It's one I've been making for years and, try as I might, I cannot discover its origin.  Having spent a happy hour searching through my favourite go-to books for inspiration on fruits does, however, give me the excuse to share a peek at the work of Patricia Curtan.  I have a bit of a thing about food illustrations and, if only I had the talent, I'd probably abandon photographing - and maybe even talking about - food, swapping it for the illustrative life.  One of my favourite artists is Patricia Curtan who's best known for her beautiful colour relief prints which illustrate many of Alice Waters' Chez Panisse books.  The two below appear in Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters.  You can luxuriate in more of Patricia Curtan's work by going here 

Photo of Raspberries Illustration by Patricia Curtan
Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters

Raspberries are not just for summer and they really are the easiest of fruits to grow.  The trickiest thing about raspberry canes is curtailing their ambitions - they love to spread their roots and produce new canes if you let them.  Planting an 'autumn' fruiting variety can extend the season right up to the end of September or even early October.  'Autumn Bliss' is a great choice, producing large flavoursome berries.  The canes start fruiting before 'summer' raspberries are quite over.

Photo of Blueberries Illustration by Patricia Curtan
Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters

Blueberries are a fruit I've toyed with growing but they need light, free-draining, acidic ground to grow well. London clay won't do and I'm not a great fan of trying to change the pH balance of soil.  An alternative is to grow the plants in pots filled with ericaceous compost and apply a high potash feed.  There's still the problem that birds love them even more than raspberries.  Hmm, maybe one day I'll grow them but for now I'll leave it to the experts.

Here's the recipe.  It's got to be the easiest in my repertoire and perfect for when you have to knock up a quick dessert.  If anyone does recognise where it comes from, do let me know as I'd love to be able to attribute it.  If you have by now moved on from soft fruit, I think some stone fruit would work for this dish - a barely-sweetened compote of plums for instance.  The grill warms the fruits beneath the molten mascarpone just enough to bring out their fragrance.

Blueberry & Raspberry mascarpone pots
(Serves 4)

A 50/50 mix of blueberries and raspberries (quantity depends on the size of your ramekins)
250g mascarpone
50g demerara sugar

Wash the blueberries and mix with an equal quantity of raspberries.
Fill 4 ramekins to just below the top.
Spoon mascarpone over the fruit 
Sprinkle with demerara sugar.
Place ramekins under a hot grill until the topping starts to caramelise.

Serve with a crisp biscuit, if you like - an almond one will go well.

Almond, Polenta and Lemon Cake with blackberry compote

Almond, Polenta and Lemon Cake
with blackberry compote

Blackberries, or brambles, are probably the most widely foraged foodstuff in the UK.  This is probably a dangerous claim as we seem to have rediscovered our passion for "foraging", but during their season it's hard to take a country walk and not come across someone picking blackberries.  Speak to any seasoned blackberry picker and they'll tell you they have a favourite spot they return to year after year.  That's not to say they'll tell you where it is - blackberry patches are jealously guarded - but it is the spot they will head for each year to try their luck.  That first picking is invested with more hope than expectation.  Will the fruit be plump or seedy?  Fit for a blackberry and apple pie or destined to be sieved for a fruit jelly?

Wild Blackberries

A late, wet start to spring has turned out to be perfect for fruit growing in the UK.  From gooseberries through berries, cherries and currants, all have cropped well this year.  Now plums and gages are starting to arrive and tasting sweet as nectar.  Apples and pears are expected to produce bumper crops too.  Right now it's the turn of wild blackberries, so much better than cultivated ones and they're free.  Foraging is by its nature anarchic but my own written rules are 'leave some for somebody else'.

Almond,  Polenta and Lemon Cake

Blackberry is a fruit I would never plant on my allotment.  It's a bit of a thug and will take over if you let it. Besides, wherever there is a bit of uncultivated land, there is likely to be a bramble patch.  Birds disperse the seeds very efficiently.  If you want a better behaved option, go for loganberry which is a cross between a blackberry and a raspberry.  If you do pick wild blackberries, folklore has it that you shouldn't take them after Michaelmas (29 September) as the Devil will have spat on them.  Superstitious or not, by the end of September in the UK you're unlikely to find berries you'd actually want to eat.

Almond, Polenta and Lemon Cake
with blackberry compote

My first pickings this year proved to be packed with juice, making the seeds barely noticeable.  Half of the berries were the basis for a classic apple and blackberry crumble.  The rest I warmed with a little sugar to enjoy as a compote which would be good, I thought, with a little almond 'something'.  I had almonds; I had polenta; and I had lemons.  With those ingredients, The River Cafe Cookbook was the first book I reached for. Their recipe for Torta di Polenta, Mandorle e Limone is the basis for the recipe below.  I know it's sacrilege, but I did change a few things.

Not wanting a cake as large as 30cm, I cut down the recipe to suit a 17cm x 6cm round tin.  It produced a beautifully light cake which is also gluten-free.  I found the lemon didn't come through quite enough for me so I increased the amount of lemon zest recommended.  I should mention the finished cake is fairly fragile so take extra care to prepare the tin.  The cake keeps well for a couple of days but it will lose its crunch.

Almond, Polenta and Lemon Cake
with blackberry compote
(Serves 4-6)

150g (6oz) unsalted butter, softened
150g (6oz) caster sugar
2 medium eggs
150g (6oz) almonds, skinned and ground fairly finely (or use ready-ground almonds)
Half a tsp of vanilla extract (or qtr tsp of vanilla powder - Ndali brand is very good)
Zest of 2 lemons
Juice of half a lemon
75g (3oz) polenta
Half a teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt

For the compote:
300g (12oz) blackberries
25-50g (1-2oz) icing sugar (depending on sweetness of berries)


Preheat oven 170C (fan 150C)/Gas 3.
Lightly butter a 17cm x 6cm round tin and dust with polenta.
Cream the butter well with the caster sugar.  Add the ground almonds and vanilla and mix briefly.  Gradually beat in the eggs. 
Gently fold in the lemon zest and juice, followed by the polenta, baking powder and salt.
Spoon the mixture into the prepared tin and bake for about 30 minutes or until a skewer comes out fairly clean (under-cooked is better than over-cooked).  Leave to cool in the tin before turning out.

While the cake is cooking, put the blackberries in a heavy-bottomed pan with no more than 1 tablespoon of water.  Heat until the juices flow.  Remove from the heat and mix in 30g of icing sugar, adding more if the compote is too tart.  

Spoon a little compote alongside a slice of cake.  I don't think it needs the addition of cream but it's up to you.

Rosie's Blackcurrant and Lemon Posset

Rosie's Blackcurrant and Lemon Posset

Blackcurrants don't have the jewel-like appearance of red and white currants but they pack a powerful punch.  A little goes a long way.  This is just as well if you grow your own, as keeping them to yourself in the kitchen garden is a battle.  Despite their tartness, birds love to feast on them.  I can happily strip redcurrants and eat them straight from the bush, but a little sugary help is necessary to make blackcurrants palatable.

Rosie's Blackcurrant and Lemon Posset
refrigerated overnight

Having picked blackcurrants at my allotment I was looking for some different recipes.

Almonds go wonderfully well with blackcurrants, so anything involving frangipane is an excellent idea. Chocolate and mint, I know, also pair well, but what else, I wondered.

According to Niki Segnit, author of The Flavour Thesaurus, blackcurrants have an affinity with juniper and coffee too. Even more surprising perhaps is the suggestion for pairing the fruit with peanuts.   Her thesis is based on the American taste for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Segnit does point out, in the USA,  the jelly involved is likely to be made from Concord grapes rather than blackcurrants.  She does, however, detect a "catty" quality common to the currant and the grape to support this idea.  I confess to never having eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so I can't vouch for the combination.

For the recipe below, I think the blackcurrants work fine on their own.





Recipes for 'possets' are recorded as far back as the 15thC.  The term usually refers to a mixture of hot milk curdled by the addition of ale, wine or sack and sometimes with spices such as ginger added.  It gave a looser result than what we expect of a posset today.  By the 16th century sometimes egg was added to thicken the mixture.  The poor used old bread to achieve a similar result.  Later, cream began to be used and lemon juice became the preferred curdling agent.

Blackcurrant compote

This recipe comes from the talented and scholarly *Rosie Sykes, currently Head-Chef at Fitzbillies in Cambridge.  It was recently printed in her column for the Guardian (co-written with food journalist Joanna Blythman).  It's so perfect that, apart from adding a little extra sugar to my very tart home-grown blackcurrants, I make it as instructed.  Blackcurrants are coming to to the end of their season but blackberries are taking over and they would, I think, make a great alternative.

Blackcurrant and Lemon Posset
(Serves 4)

300g blackcurrants, washed and stripped from their stalks
25-40g icing sugar, depending on tartness of fruit
400ml cream (I used double cream)
Rind of 1 lemon
125g caster sugar
Juice of 2 lemons

Put the blackcurrants in a pan with 1 tablespoon of water.  Heat gently to a simmer and cook for about 5 minutes until soft and bursting.
Remove from the heat and, while still warm, stir in 25g of sifted icing sugar.  Taste and add more sugar if the fruit is very tart (as Rosie says, you want to carefully balance the tart and sweet).  Leave to cool.
Put the cream in a small pan with the lemon rind.  Bring to a "scald" (just to the point where it's about to boil) and, over the heat, add the caster sugar stirring to dissolve.
Turn up the heat and add the lemon juice.  Simmer for 3 minutes.
Remove from the heat and leave to settle for a few minutes.  
Strain the mixture through a fine sieve into a jug, discarding the lemon rind.
Divide the sweetened blackcurrants between 4 ramekins or glasses and gently pour the posset on top (too fast and you'll get too much 'bleeding' of fruit into posset).
Cool to room temperature then cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight.


* Rosie Sykes' book The Kitchen Revolution is published by Ebury Press

Raspberry Cordial

Raspberryade

The raspberry harvest can get a little out of hand at this time of year.  It reaches a point when even friends and neighbours start avoiding you so as not to be pressed into taking yet more raspberries.

In summer, the mid-season crop is juicy and fragrant and there is nothing better than a big bowl of rasps served simply with vanilla ice cream or honey-laced yogurt.  However, the first and last pickings can be either seedy, sharp or weather-ravaged.   This is when you need a few ideas up your sleeve because, unless you freeze them quickly, the delicate berries do not keep well.

Raspberry Cordial

Jam is the obvious choice but if the fruit is excessively seedy, as my first harvest of the year was, for me seedless jam is the only way - more on this, soon.

My second harvest was little better on the seed front, so what to make?  Having recently made Elderflower Cordial, I had a couple of empty bottles, so raspberry cordial seemed like a good idea but how?  At times like these there are three books I reach for, Jane Grigson's Fruit Book; Nigel's Slater's Tender Vol II; and Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters.  It was Alice who came to my rescue with a recipe for 'Raspberry Syrup' - "cordial" seems not to feature in the American vocabulary.

So, now I have a few deep pink bottles of cordial lined up in the larder to bring a touch of summer when the heat is long gone.  You can use this in the same way as Elderflower Cordial, diluting 1:5 with water to make a refreshing raspberryade.  I have an urge to try a little rosewater in the mix too.  Adding a splash of neat Raspberry Cordial to a glass a Prosecco is an excellent idea.  You can also add a tablespoon or two of the cordial to perk up a bowl of less flavoursome raspberries, or spoon a trail through yoghurt or ice cream.  Simply scale this recipe up or down according to how much fruit you have.

So far my summer raspberry harvest stands at almost 6kg and the canes are still fruiting.  Oh, and did I mention, the autumn-fruiting canes are producing already!

Raspberry Cordial

Take 600g of raspberries, place in a saucepan and crush with a potato masher or a fork.  
Add 1 litre of cold water and bring the mixture to the boil.  Skim off any scum then simmer for 15 minutes.  
Remove from the heat and pour the mixture through a non-reactive sieve, pressing on the fruit to extract as much liquid as possible from the pulp.
Measure the hot liquid and pour it back into the pan.  Add two thirds as much sugar to the liquid giving a ratio liquid:sugar of 1.5:1
Return the pan to the heat, stirring until the sugar is dissolved.  Bring to the boil and immediately remove from the heat and pour into sterilised glass bottles or jars.


Adapted from Raspberry Syrup recipe in Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters

Cool as a Cucumber

Cucumber Salad

'Cool as a cucumber' (idiom) - calm, self-possessed, imperturbable, unruffled.  This most definitely does not describe my state with the thermometer now pushing 33C in London and humidity touching 90%.  We Brtis are wimps when it comes to heat.  Well, at least this Brit is.  I'm trying every trick I know not to open the oven or heat up the hotplate.  Cooling salads and fruit desserts are all I want right now and I know I'm not alone.  Far be it for me to rain on the parade of you super-sunners out there, but I'm from the cold north and I could do with a bit of respite.

Until then, I'm making the most of cucumber because actually 'cool as a cucumber' is not just an idiom. Scientists have concluded that cucumber is one of the best things you can eat to cool down in a heatwave, largely thanks to its high water content.

So, it's not just that boring *fruit that you slice and use to ease puffy eyes - though at the moment I'm happy to use it that way too.  However you choose to use them,  UK cucumbers are cropping right now.  Early in the season you don't need to peel or salt them to remove excess water content.  They're best served cold and crunchy, straight from the fridge - bliss.

This recipe is my interpretation of a dish I ate recently at 40 Maltby Street.  It makes a great, refreshing and cooling light lunch with little effort expended, and that's exactly what I need.  It's not too far from a cucumber raita and could also be served as an accompaniment to spicy meat or fish.  Cucumbers originated in the Indian sub-continant where they know a thing about turning down the heat.

Cucumber Salad
(less a recipe more an assembly)

Small cucumbers
Plain yogurt
Mint, chopped
Shallot, very thinly sliced
Lemon Juice
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt & pepper
Pea shoots

Add the thinly sliced shallots to the lemon juice and leave to 'cook' for 15 minutes.
Whisk olive oil into the lemon juice/shallot mix to make a vinaigrette (I use ratio lemon to oil 1:5)
Thinly slice the cucumbers (peel only if skins are tough).
Mix the chopped mint into the yogurt and place spoonfuls onto individual plates.  Top with slices of cucumber and the pea shoots, followed by the shallot vinaigrette.  Season with salt and pepper.


*As it has an enclosed seed and is developed from a flower, botanically cucumber is classified as an 'accessory fruit'.

Cherries with almonds & Sabayon sauce

Cherries & green almonds

The first English cherries have arrived with early varieties Inga and Merchant making an appearance at market over the weekend.  Warmed in the last few days by a sun we had almost forgotten existed, the Ingas are slightly tarter and firmer than the Merchants.  So, while we're feasting on handfuls of the latter, I decided to make a dessert of the Inga cherries.  With temperatures hovering around 30C in London I had no wish to heat up the kitchen any further, so it had to be something easy and cooling.

Cherries, green almonds, Sabayon

Having picked up a handul of the last of the fresh velour-overcoated green almonds at market and with some elderflower cordial in the larder, I had a head start.  Mature almonds will work fine but if the cherries and the green almonds happen to overlap, it's a nice way of using the early nuts which are milky and fresh tasting.

So far, so easy; but what to add to make it look like I'd made an effort without expending much time or energy at all?  A thin cooled custard perhaps?  Then I thought how long it had been since I'd made a sabayon or zabaglione, whichever you prefer to call it.  Dairy-free and cloud-like, it seemed just right for a hot summer's day.

Cherries, green almonds, Sabayon sauce

Sabayon is so easy to make and I find Jane Grigson's advice the best.  It takes only 2 minutes whisking with an electric whisk if you want a warm frothy sauce to eat immediately, 5 minutes to produce a 'creamier' one. If you want to make it up to an hour ahead (the one in the photographs above), you just need to keep whisking it off the heat until it has cooled.  This stops it separating before you get to eat it.

Cherries with almonds & Sabayon sauce
(Serves 4)

300g cherries
2 tablespoons elderflower cordial
1-2 teaspoons caster sugar
4-5 almonds

For the Sabayon:
1 large egg yolk
1 tablespoon caster sugar
2 tablespoons sweet white wine, Marsala or elderflower cordial

Wash, halve and de-stone the cherries over a bowl.  Add the Elderflower cordial and sugar.  Allow to macerate for at least 30 minutes.

For the Sabayon, put all three ingredients in a heatproof bowl.  Place over a pan of just simmering water so that the bowl is not touching the water.  Whisk for about 2 minutes until pale and uniformly frothy - at this point you could serve it immediately as a warm sauce. 
For a 'lightly-whipped single cream' consistency for immediate serving, continue whisking over the pan for another 4-5 minutes.
If you want the sauce to stand for an hour without separating, take the bowl off the heat and continue whisking for a further 4-5 minutes until the mixture has cooled and thickened a little more. 
Drain the fruit and serve - sauce or fruit first is up to you.  Top with slivers of almond and a sprig or two of mint.

The excess juice from the macerated cherries makes a lovely drink topped up with water.
   

Asparagus in the raw

Raw Asparagus, pea-shoots and mint salad

Spare a thought for the asparagus farmer subject to the vagaries of our climate.  Yes, there has been indoor-grown asparagus for a few weeks now but outdoor grown - and, for me, nothing tastes as good - is struggling with our unseasonal weather.

Normally the asparagus farmer has six weeks of frantic activity harvesting the crop for market, then it's all over until next year.  Traditionally in the UK the season begins around St George's Day (23 April) and by mid-Summer's Day cutting should stop.  The plants continue to put up spears but these are allowed to grow into tall fronds which photosynthesise to build up nutrients for next year's crop.  In November the plant is cut back to ground level.  It takes about three years for an asparagus crown to become established and, if treated right, will will be productive for 10 years.  Quite an investment and hence the relatively high price of those bundles.  Asparagus likes well-drained, rich loamy soil - which rules it out for my heavy clay allotment patch.

Isle of Wight Asparagus

Asparagus needs warm, dry conditions in its final weeks, so it's no surprise that the outdoor-grown crop is late this year.  Last year it wasn't at market before the second week in May.  This year the delay to the season is even more severe.  By 19th May there was still little to be had in London, apart from a small amount from the Isle of Wight - always the first to arrive.  My favourite source is that grown by New Park Farm in Kent which is brought up to London for six weeks every years.  The care and attention they lavish on the crop is clear and I know of no other asparagus that tastes as good.

Freshness is key to taste so, when you do finally get your hands on it, don't let it linger in the fridge.  Those spears are packed with beneficial nutrients too - vitamins A and C, folic acid, potassium and iron.

So how to make a little go a long way and get the most out of its special flavour?  When I get my hands on a bunch of asparagus my first thought is usually how I'm going to cook it.  Until last week, that is, when it was served to me raw.  Sliced super-fine, mixed with a few pea-shoots and dressed with a lemony vinaigrette and a touch of mint, it was the perfect way to eke out a few spears.  I've unashamedly stolen this idea from chef Steve Williams of 40 Maltby Street, though it's my interpretation.  It's as close as I can get to his vibrant, seasonal dish.

Raw Asparagus, Mint & Pea-shoot salad
(Serves 4 as a starter)

8-12 asparagus spears
A handful of pea-shoots
8-10 mint leaves
1 tbsp lemon juice
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Salt & pepper

Snap the tough ends off the asparagus.  Cut a diagonal slice off the bottom of each asparagus spear then slice each spear as thinly as you can (see result in photo).  Add salt and pepper to the lemon juice and mix.  Whisk in the olive oil to emulsify.  Add the sliced asparagus and the pea shoots.  Serve.

Poached spiced rhubarb

Poached spiced rhubarb
with yoghurt, honey and biscuit

We're well into the forced rhubarb season now so, if you haven't bought it yet, you'll need to get your skates on.  Very different from the later, unforced, crop which is better used in pies, crumbles and chutneys, it's well worth seeking out.  It is grown by candlelight, generating an atmospheric glow in the forcing shed.  You can force your own garden rhubarb by covering it with an upturned pot once it starts to bud - although don't try this two years in a row as you will stress the plant too much.  Once cut, the delicate pink stems will soften and droop in no time at all, so you can't hang about.  I've given you a couple of recipes in the past and, if you want to know more about rhubarb or to see the recipes, the links are below.  What you really need to know is the best way to poach it; then there are so many possibilities. Throughout January and February I make a weekly dish of poached rhubarb to pop in the fridge. It will happily  keep this way for up to a week and is perfect for creating a quick dessert when things get hectic.

Eating lunch in London tapas bar Barrafina this week, I was surprised, and frankly a little alarmed, to be offered a Spanish take on the English Rhubarb Crumble.  I very nearly skipped it but was glad I didn't. Layers of poached rhubarb and whipped cream were sandwiched elegantly, in a Martini glass, between crushed almond biscuit crumbs.  OK, so nothing radical there, but it was the spicing which sold me on the dish.  I sometimes poach my rhubarb with either vanilla sugar or pod.  Here they had used not only vanilla and cinnamon but there was a hint of clove too, and it really worked. So here's my way of poaching rhubarb with the addition of cloves.  Having recently learnt that cloves contain vanillin, it perhaps should have come as less of a surprise to me that cloves would be sympathetic.

I don't endorse products but, if you are using vanilla, I'd urge you to seek out the brand Ndali, especially as we are about to enter Fairtrade Fortnight (25 February-10 March).  The Ugandan Ndali cooperative produces exceptional quality vanilla and its principles deserve support.

Poached spiced rhubarb

1 kg pink forced rhubarb
175-200g caster sugar
Half a vanilla pod, split and seeds scraped out
1 whole clove
Juice of half an orange (optional)

Heat oven to 160C.  Wash and trim the rhubarb and cut into 1 inch/2cm lengths.  Place in an ovenproof dish.  Sprinkle over the sugar (and add orange juice if using).  Tuck the half vanilla pod and seeds and the whole clove in with the rhubarb.  Cover with greaseproof paper or foil and cook for about 40 minutes, stirring gently once.  Check after 40 minutes - the fruit should be soft, yet still holding its shape.  Remove from oven and, using a slotted spoon, gently place the rhubarb in a bowl.  Discard the clove. Wash the vanilla pod and leave to dry (once dry it can be added to a jar of sugar to make vanilla sugar).  Pour the juice into a small heavy-based pan, bring it to the boil then simmer until the juice is reduced by half.  Cool and stir the thickened juice gently into the fruit.  The compote will keep, covered, in the fridge for up to a week.


Links which might interest you:
Rhubarb Triangle & Rhubarb Mess
Rhubarb & Ginger Polenta Cake

The Calҫots are here - Food Find

The annual Calҫotada festivals are a feature of winter in Spain's Catalunya region.  Somewhere between a spring onion and a leek, calҫots were orginally the onions harvesters missed in the autumn. The alliums remained in the ground over winter and in January/February sprouted from the old bulb.  These days they are a delicacy and are planted deliberately to over-winter.  Their harvesting is often celebrated with a festival when calҫots are consumed in vast quantities.  In Valls, in the province of Tarragona, the biggest Calҫotada takes place on the last Sunday in January.  Visitors manage to get through some 100,000 calҫots in a single weekend.  

If you can't get to Spain for the festivals and you live in London, you're likely to find them on the menu at Jose Pizarro's tapas bar and restaurant in Bermondsey.  You can also buy them from good grocers.  Tony Booth of Tayshaw, trading on Druid Street SE1 goes to the trouble of buying them direct from a Spanish farmer.  From tomorrow you'll be able to get them for the next few Saturdays from his Bermondsey railway arch.  Here's a link on my way with Calҫots and a recipe for the essential Romesco sauce to eat with them.

Location of Tony Booths Tayshaw arch and other nearby Saturday food traders:
Spa Terminus

Candied citrus

Candied Cedro

I'm ending this year on a preserving note.  Though everyone has their sleeves rolled up and heads filled with Christmas dinner thoughts right now, don't miss the fantastic flow of continental citrus arriving over the next few weeks. Packed with vitamin C, citrus fruit is just what we need at this time of year.  

With the Mediterranean citrus harvest well under way, it's time to get candying.  Candied citrus peel is so versatile.  It can be eaten simply sprinkled with caster sugar, dipped in chocolate, or added to cakes, breads, tarts, and ice-creams.  Of course, you can buy candied peel in tubs from the supermarket, but if you're enjoying the gorgeous fresh fruits, don't throw away the peel.  If you candy it properly, and keep it in the fridge, it will be good for months.  Above all, it tastes far better than the supermarket version.

Despite their association with the Mediterranean, all members of the orange family originated in China and were brought to Europe by Arab traders.  The present day citrus groves stretching from India across to Spain mark the path of conquering muslim armies in the sixth and seventh centuries.  The first oranges grown were the bitter Citrus aurantium.  Too bitter to eat from the tree, they were cultivated for the scent of their blossom, for perfumes, and for distilling into orange blossom water to flavour food.  Sweet oranges, Citrus sinensis, arrived in the 17th century. 

Cedro

Bergamot and Cedro both belong to the bitter branch of the citrus family. Bergamot is somewhere between an orange and a lime in shape and size and green/yellow in colour.  Its juice is highly aromatic and quite intoxicating. The oil is used in perfumes and to give Earl Grey tea its characteristic flavour.  The peel candies well too. With the Cedro, it really is all about the peel.  It has, very little juice to speak of but produces, probably, the most luscious candied fruit of all.  But I have a special liking for candied grapefruit peel which turns to deep amber and retains that particular bitter note that appeals to me.

In North African countries, sour pickled citrus fruits are favoured and used for flavouring tagines.  The Italians like to candy fruits whole.  In the hills around Genoa the rare Chinotti grows.  The candying process transforms this rather bitter citrus fruit into the most exquisite Christmas treat rarely found outside Liguria. 


Marmalade has long been a revered preserve in the UK and most families have their recipe.  It's a particularly British taste that only the bitter Seville orange can meet.  The peel, for me, has a certain bitter appeal when candied.   They too will be arriving very soon but it's time to get candying the citrus fruits that are already here.  

Candied orange and lemon peel

Candying whole fruit is something I leave to the experts, but preserving the peel is rather easier.  Some people like to scrape away the white pith under the skin of the fruit before candying.  It's not necessary so long as you boil the skins in fresh water several times to remove the bitterness and you get a much more luscious candied citrus.  Just make sure you candy only one type of citrus peel at a time to ensure you retain its specific flavour.  I like to candy some in quarters and some in thinner slices, but it's up to you.  

Candied Citrus
500g (1lb) citrus peel (pith attached)
600g caster sugar + 60g to sprinkle on the cooked peel
350ml water

Cut the peel into the size, or sizes, you want.  Place in a heavy-based pan, cover with water, bring to the boil and cook for 10 minutes.  Drain the peel and repeat this process twice more.  Dissolve the sugar in the water over a low heat, then bring to the boil.  Add the peel, turn the heat down to a slow simmer and cook until the peel is translucent.  This will take from 30 minutes for thin slices to 2 hours for thick quarters of cedro.  

If you're candying various sizes, use a slotted spoon to remove the citrus peel when translucent and place on greaseproof paper.  I like to leave leave the largest pieces in the syrup for 30 minutes after turning off the heat and before placing them on the paper. Spread them out so the pieces don't touch and leave overnight. Next day sprinkle the peel with the reserved caster sugar.  the keeping quality of candied peel depends on how moist your finished peel is.  You want it soft and yielding yet dried out enough after cooking not be too moist and sticky the next day when you sprinkle it with the 60g of sugar.  They'll keep in a plastic container in the fridge for several weeks or even months depending on moisture levels.  If it's soft and luscious you'll want to use it but if you do want to store some for longer, then allow some pieces to dry out for longer before sugaring and storing.