chompsky

Ever go to the farmers’ market and find yourself guilted into buying something? Nick and I took a trip down to the Ladner Village Market to check out the scene–140 vendors sounded very interesting. We arrived to find, though, that most of those vendors were selling crafts or prepared foods, which isn’t exactly what we were looking for. Not wanting to have taken the hour-long bus ride for nothing (except some awesome fudge, which we knew would not make it home), we perused the market stalls for any hints of vegetation. I spied a lone woman at a tiny table, poster boards arranged presentation-style around her, and one plastic carton of something that appeared berry-like. I sidled up to her, and she seemed quite happy to have someone to give her spiel to. She was representing a non-profit farm, she explained, that gave area youths an opportunity to learn to grow produce and earn a bit of cash. They were having a bike tour next week, she offered, and maybe we could come along? Nick’s hand being what it is, we had to decline, but I couldn’t bear to walk away without purchasing something. “Are these currants?” I asked. They were, $6 for a very generous pound. Nick asked when the last time we had currants was, and I realized, never. I’d had currant-flavored juice, jam, candies, but never an actual currant. I never liked those other forms, but I thought, why not? I’ll figure out something to do with them.

We got back on the bus. I pulled out a few currants, gave some to Nick, and popped one in my mouth. It was gross. I’m sorry to any of you out there who disagree; they were bitter and thick-skinned and almost inedible. And they tasted a little bit like Band-Aids. And I had over a pound of them. The wheels in my brain began to turn.

I have found that two things will always make fruit more delicious: sugar and wine. I felt that, given the current circumstances (no pun intended), I would have to employ both. That night, I picked all the little black berries off their stems and threw them into a pot along with a half-cup of sugar, and I simmered them until they had a thin, jammy consistency. I then tried to strain the viscous liquid to remove the seeds, but quickly abandonded that idea as it became apparent that it would have taken all night and various words that would make a sailor blush. I poured it back into the pot and stuck it in the fridge.

The next morning, I was pleased to discover that currants naturally have enough pectin to produce a pretty thick spread on their own. I ran out to the liquor store as soon as it opened (you see some interesting people at the liquor store at ten in the morning, I learned) and got the nicest-looking cheap French Cabernet they had. I poured a cup into the currant jam and about three-quarters of a cup into my mouth, and simmered it down. Into a jar and into the fridge, it was just cool enough to enjoy that evening with our meal of cheese and baked figs (recipe coming soon) and more wine.

black currant & cabernet spread

This tastes very grown-up to me, not the kind of thing you’d put on bread with some Jiffy. It makes about 1 1/2 cups, and I’ve been using it every way I can think to. I took the goat cheese we had left and cut some of the jam directly into it, then re-formed it into a log, which turned out quite nice. I’ve mixed a spoonful into my morning yogurt, too, and on my morning toast. I think it would make a fantastic accompaniment to grilled fish, though I have yet to try that (but I will soon). And you know what? Now that I think of it, it’d probably be pretty kick-ass with Jiffy, too.

I realized later that doing this recipe in stages was totally unnecessary–I just really wanted to start the process that first night and didn’t have any wine on hand.

About 1 lb of black currants, stems removed and cleaned

1/2 cup sugar

1 cup Cabernet

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepan. Heat over medium heat until boiling, then reduce heat and simmer, stirring frequently. Cook until currants have formed a puree and the liquid has reduced significantly, and the mixture has a thick consistency, about 20 minutes. Pour into container and chill.