Читать книгу Preserving the Season - Mary Tregellas - Страница 6

“This has gone beyond a hobby now; this is an obsession,” announced my brother, finding me at the jam pan at 7a.m. one Saturday morning. How did it come to this? Why is it that my first thoughts upon waking on a Saturday morning were consumed with what to bottle before breakfast? I suppose it started in childhood. My mother, Renate, was a refugee from Czechoslovakia and would entertain us with stories of hours spent in her grandmother’s garden where the trees hung heavy with apricots and redcurrants grew in abundance. She was also especially fond of jam—not the jellied mass of sugar and pectin so prevalent in 1970s Britain, but the kind of preserve where the fruit is the star. Occasionally our village shop would sell cut-price conserves from Poland or Bulgaria—her eyes would light up and she would buy as much as we could carry home. For a special occasion, we would visit the delicatessen in the nearby town, which was a world of delights that included jars of delicious morello cherry jam. These were rare treats, however, for money was in short supply.

Back then, nothing went to waste, and if we could grow things in our small garden or gather something for free, so much the better. Dandelion leaves enlivened salads, young nettles were picked for soup, and bunches of herbs were dried to use throughout the year. This was nothing compared to the amount of preserves and bottled fruits that lined the shelves of our German relatives’ shelves. Nothing I’ve made has ever come close to my Aunt Hanne’s great parfait jars of apricot and strawberry jam. And, of course, my mother would make her own—redcurrant jelly in memory of her grandmother’s garden, pear and ginger jam, tomato chutney...

My own adventures with making jam started with an overenthusiastic greengage plum tree and the pleasure of giving my jam-loving mother an endless supply. Then we acquired a plot of land and, with it, further challenges: what to do with a glut of zucchini? (Chutney!) Or tomatoes? (Ketchup!) Add to that my childhood passion for picking wild fruit and the guardianship of my family home in Devon, England (whose small garden still yields the most delicious pears in the world), and the result is a cupboard full of jams, jellies, chutneys, sauces, and other delights to spread on toast, liven up a cheese sandwich, or accompany pies and sausages.

I have come to realize a simple fact: making preserves makes me happy. Chopping up a pile of fruit or vegetables, cooking them up with sugar, spices, and vinegar, and, thereby, transforming them into something both delicious and attractive is intensely pleasing. I view all cookery as a form of alchemy, but perhaps none more so than the art of preserving, when the flavors and aromas of something short-lived are captured in a pot to be savored throughout the coming year. But the preserves themselves are only part of the story. There is matchmaking to be done, too, whether it’s bringing together the happiest of old couples such as toast and marmalade or cheese and pickle, or forming new introductions. They also come into their own as ingredients in baked puddings, cakes, and savory dishes. I hope that this book will reacquaint you with some old favorites, encourage you to try new things, and inspire you to come up with a few new ideas of your own.

The four sisters (left to right) Tante Jenny, Tante Trude, Tante Betty, and my grandmother Antonie.

My mother (aged 4) with her grandfather, Jarcová, Moravia (Czechoslovakia), 1930.

My mother (aged 4), Beskydy Mountains, Moravia, 1930.

My mother, Tante Betty, and my father (Father), Innsbruck, Austria, 1962.

My brother John, father, mother, and me, 1969.

The Tasting Panel—my family—Ben with (left to right) James, Alexander and Edward.