SMOKE & MEMORY

WITH TALK OF GRIEF, TART FRUITS, AND BIRTHDAY CONNECTIONS

We had a new moon at the start of the week, and devastating dangerous smoky air from mid-week onward. Whole communities were lost in northern Ontario, and here in the more populated southern part of the province millions of people wore masks or stayed indoors, while the skies turned yellow and the air smelled of smoke and destruction. The light was eerie, a reminder of apocalypse.

liveliness in the garden despite the smoky air

Yet even with these stark reminders we roll on heedlessly. Our government signs deals to build pipelines and refine oil, we participate in making weapons for genocidal foreign powers, and we wring our hands when the air is bad. What could possibly explain this picture except wilful blindness?

My birthday fell midweek, on the first day of yellow light and warnings of toxic pollution. The night before I had a happy collection of friends over for casual supper. We sat outside talking and eating in the soft warm evening air, feeling the ease that comes of long acquaintance and shared memories. I took the occasional photo and realised as I did that (subconsciously?) I was taking shots for Tashi. He wasn’t with us, but somehow taking the photos made possible, even for a moment, the feeling that he could have been.

That sense of Tashi’s presence, or immanence, lasted all week. His brother Dom was visiting from Vancouver, with my fab daughter-in-law and granddaughter, a wonderful treat of full relaxed days. We all had this feeling of Tashi being somehow with us, not in a woo-woo way, but just very present.

At a big party late yesterday evening , a lovely young man whom I haven’t seen for a couple of years spoke to me about Tashi, expressing his sorrow and sympathy. As we hugged he apologised for causing pain by raising the subject of Tashi’s loss. “No, no, I told him, I’m always glad to talk about him, to think about him.”

This is a living fabric that we weave every day as we live on, and part of it is made of the threads of those we’ve lost. They’re still around in conversation and in many other ways. And that is very precious. We love them and we carry them forward with us.

in a friend’s garden a few days ago

KITCHEN EXPLORATIONS: with talk of fruit in many guises - summer pudding, and gooseberry fool with a recipe

The morning of my birthday Dawnthebaker created a surprise party for me: she invited a bunch of friends to morning coffee at her place down the street from me. It was the first day of the apocalyptic smoky air, so we stayed indoors. There was cold coffee, hot coffee, an assortment of pastries made that morning by Patti of Robinson Bread, and a magnificent summer pudding Dawn had made. I’ve written about summer pudding before, a brilliant summer dessert that requires no cooking and that celebrates fresh tart fruits: two or three of raspberries, red currants, blueberries, sour cherries, white currants.

the summer pudding; yes I blew out the candle

Dawn had used slices of her whole grain brioche loaf (trimmed of crusts) to line a bowl, then filled it with sour cherries, raspberries, and blueberries and placed a plate on top with a weight, to press it down overnight. She turned it out during the party, stuck a candle in the gorgeous red dome, and voila, a fabulous birthday delight we could all share.

a generous helping!

Still on the season’s fruit and on birthday related treats: I was given a precious load of gooseberries early last week, a birthday present from my friend Jennifer McLagan, who has a gooseberry bush (and currant bushes too). We share a love of tart fruit. She’d picked the gooseberries that morning before walking to meet me for coffee and conversation at Found. Gorgeous treasure.

My grandparents homesteaded for 50 years in northern British Columbia. We’d visit every couple of years, traveling out by train to Jasper, where we changed for the Prince Rupert-bound train. We’d get out in Telkwa, a small village/town about eight miles from my grandparents’ farm. At some point on each visit it would be time for my brother and me to pick gooseberries. We’d each sit on a low stool, a heavy glove on our left hand, and pick into a pot. You need the glove to protect yourself from the long sharp thorns. Perhaps because it protects itself with thorns and intense tartness, the gooseberry has not become a big commercial crop. But it is adored by those who love its green acidity. I think it’s especially people from northern climes, where sweet tender fruits don’t flourish, who have learned to love gooseberries, rhubarb, and other acid-tart fruits.

Each year my grandmother would make gooseberry fool with some of the fruit; the rest went into jam. As I understand it, a classic fool is made from heavy cream and cooked pureed fruit, sweetened to the cook’s taste. My grandmother used cream from her Jersey cow, rich and wonderful.

topped and tailed and ready to be trasnformed

I was sitting on the front step topping and tailing the gooseberries when Dom and family arrived around noon. The fruit went into a wide heavy pot with a small splash of water and about ¼ cup of sugar. Once it came to a boil I left it simmering until the berries were very soft but not yet a mush. I set them aside until the next evening, when I was expecting a crowd for my birthday-eve supper. My only other prep was to send Dom out to buy heavy cream.

birthday eve feast: first corn of the year, a lttle grilled chicken, first local tomatoes, beans

Once people had eaten their fill of grilled spiced chicken thighs, corn cobs cooked in their husks on the charcoal grill, green beans dressed with vinaigrette, and tomato salad, it was time to whip the cream. I added a little sugar to it and whisked it by hand until it had thickened, then poured it into a wide shallow ceramic bowl. I added the cooked gooseberries and swirled them a little, but didn’t blend them in.

Until this week I hadn’t tasted gooseberry fool since my last visit to my grandparents, the summer I turned nineteen. The idea of my grandmother’s gooseberry fool, the memory of it, has haunted me from time to time, so it was a piece of magic to make my version. Mine was cruder and less smooth than my grandmother’s, because the berries weren’t crushed, and made from boughten cream, but it was extra-special because it included berries grown by a dear friend and given as a gift.

gooseberries cooked to softness

Here are the proportions I used. You may want to add extra sugar, and you may want to puree the gooseberries. Another extra: if you have elderflower cordial, add a little to the gooseberries once they’ve cooked. It will give a lovely scent. (Or if you have elderflowers, immerse a couple of umbels in the gooseberries as they cook, to perfume them.)

1 pound/500 grams gooseberries, topped and tailed

A small splash (1 to 2 tablespoons) water

Scant ½ cup sugar, or more to taste

2 cups/ heavy (35 to 45%) cream, chilled

Cook the gooseberries, water, and ¼ cup or more sugar over medium heat until they come to a boil, then lower heat and simmer until they are well softened. Taste and stir in more sugar if you wish. Puree if you wish.

Shortly before you wish to serve, add a little sugar to the cream. Whip the cream until it is very thickened but not stiffened (with a hand whisk it takes about ten minutes; it’s much easier with a machine). Place the cream in a wide shallow bowl. Drizzle on the fruit in a swirl, give just one stir, so fruit and cream aren’t fully blended together, and serve immediately into small bowls.