The Fruits of Summer: Part Two

Nearly a year ago, I posted a piece about summer fruits which was optimistically listed as ‘Part One’. Here finally is the second part which will be about apricots, white peaches, raspberries, and strawberries, all of which have been at their succulent best in the last month or so. While most of the USA has been baking in excessive heat or having unbreathable air from wildfires, here in Northern California we have had weeks of perfect summer days, ‘Goldilocks’ weather you might say; not too hot nor too cold, but just right. Not only have we enjoyed eating lots of glorious fruit, but we can do it sitting at a table in our garden surrounded by fragrant rose bushes. In other words, something close to paradise on earth.

Apricots

Growing up in the UK, most apricots were imported, although with global warming, perhaps more native fruits are now available. But, as Edward Bunyard wrote in The Anatomy of Dessert, ‘the Apricot has a certain Eastern lusciousness, a touch of the exotic which comes strangely into our homely country’. My favourite variety, the Blenheim, was probably originally developed in England, but they are hard to find, even in California where they grow well. Another delicious rarity is the Moor Park apricot, which was first grown in about 1760 in Hertfordshire, my native county just north of London. Somehow, I still associate them with the sunnier countries around the Mediterranean and eating one brings back memories of holidays long gone, and street markets with fruits piled high on each stall. I imagine we ate them straight out of the bag and certainly not sitting down, except perhaps by a cooling fountain. They are also among the most perfect of picnic treats, succulent, but not so juicy that they can be embarrassingly messy.

One very sad poem is about the war in Ukraine and the hope that once it is over the country can rebuild. Here is an extract from a poem called Apricots of Donbas by Lyuba Yakimchuk:

We will walk back, even with bare feet

if we don’t find our home in the place where we left it

we will build another one in an apricot tree

out of luscious clouds, out of azure ether.

Here is part of a lovely poem by Diane Ackerman entitled The Consolation of Apricots:

Especially in early spring,
when the sun offers a thin treacle of warmth,
I love to sit outdoors
and eat sense-ravishing apricots.

Born on sun-drenched trees in Morocco,
the apricots have flown the Atlantic
like small comets, and I can taste
broiling North Africa in their flesh.

Somewhere between a peach and a prayer,
they taste of well water
and butterscotch and dried apples
and desert simooms and lust.

Sweet with a twang of spice,
a ripe apricot is small enough to devour
as two hemispheres.
Ambiguity is its hallmark.

How to eat an apricot:
first warm its continuous curve
in cupped hands, holding it
as you might a brandy snifter,

then caress the velvety sheen
with one thumb, and run your fingertips
over its nap, which is shorter
than peach fuzz, closer to chamois.

In a future posting, I would like to sing the praises of dried fruits of which apricots are the kings but for now, let’s stick to the fresh ones.

Although they need no dressing up, there are some recipes that are always worth making. I must confess that apricot jam is my absolute favourite and my go-to preserve with a croissant. David Lebovitz, a true ‘American in Paris’, has a wonderful recipe which includes some lemon juice and a dash of kirsch.

Friends both here and in the UK take some of the apricot kernels, crack them and add them to the jam. This gives the jam a delightful extra almond flavour. Another California gastronaut adds some dried lavender but only a little as it is far too easy to overdo it.

A dessert that I have made several times this summer is an apricot crumble. My favourite is one by Nigel Slater, a Brit who writes as beguilingly as he cooks, which has the additional touch of elderflower cordial and chocolate. The oats make a wonderfully crispy topping.

Nigel Slater’s Chocolate Oat Crumble

Ingredients

40 g dark chocolate
50 g rolled oats
5 tbsp. maple syrup
6 apricots
4 tbsp. elderflower cordial
150 g raspberries

Directions

Set the oven at 180°C/Gas 4. Chop the dark chocolate and mix it with the rolled oats and maple syrup.

Halve and stone the apricots and place them in a shallow ovenproof pan. Trickle over the elderflower cordial. Let the liquid bubble over a moderate heat for 3 or 4 minutes, then add the raspberries.

Scatter the oat mixture over the fruit and bake for 20 minutes, till the fruit is soft and fragrant and the oats crisp. Heady, crisp, luscious.

White Peaches

Still life with fruits by Abraham Mignon. Staaliche Kunsthalle, Karlsruhe

I love peaches of all varieties, but I do have a special fondness of white ones. Their flavour can be more intense and for me, they are the supreme food of summer. Like all peaches, they bruise easily, but at least in California they are fairly easy to find.

Though the Romans thought that peaches came from Persia, they do in fact originate from China where they were imagined to be the food of the gods. The late Edward Schafer, a professor of history at Berkeley, wrote a terrific book called The Golden Peaches of Samarkand, which describes how they were highly regarded by the Chinese as far back as the seventh century. To find the perfect peach is quite a rarity. It is said that Alice Waters of Chez Panisse wanted to serve one in all its solitary perfection to President Bill Clinton when he came to dine. Whether the tale is true or not, I do not know.

Peaches have always been the most sensual of fruits. Their lusciousness, their fuzzy skin, their very sweetness has inspired amorous thoughts, not least among poets. Here is a fine example by Wallace Stevens:

A Dish of Peaches in Russia

With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
Oneself from another, as these peaches do.

I have a very fond memory of eating white peaches which has stayed with me for over forty years. A group of us, among the first generation of British musicians to play on period instruments, were asked to perform an opera by Rameau in the theatre at the Palace of Versailles. About the music and the rehearsals, I frankly have only a hazy memory. What I do recall with tremendous pleasure was an alfresco lunch two of us had sitting by the Grand Canal.

It was a perfect day, and we were far enough away from the flocks of tourists to feel as if the place was ours. We began with a wonderful French summer treat, radis au beurre: slices of bright, peppery radishes on top of a baguette which has been thickly spread with unsalted butter. A couple of pinches of fleur de sel on top completed these crunchy bites of bliss. I expect we had some cheese, but it was the white peaches which followed that I remember best. We devoured them with great gusto and then had to quickly wash our hands and faces in the canal before returning to the dark confines of the orchestra pit. The peaches were almost as heavenly as the majestic setting. Truly, a feast fit for a king!

For me, white peaches, like oysters, cannot be improved by fancy recipes or adornments. The only exception might be to make a bellini. Simply purée the flesh of a peach and spoon some of the pulp into the bottom of a champagne glass. Top it up with prosecco and perhaps, if you are on a date, add a slice of strawberry to the rim of the glass. Since prosecco is very low in alcohol, a second cocktail comes guilt-free.

Raspberries

Stone fruits bring with them the balm of the south, but raspberries are very much a northern fruit, the beneficiary of a short season of long summer days. Scotland’s eastern counties, such as Angus and Perth, produce the best and all Scots believe they are the finest in the world. Until recently, it was the tradition for urban schoolchildren to be sent out into the countryside on organized summer trips to pick as many raspberries as they could in a day for a little extra pocket money, but the fruit was also picked by travellers. One day, someone heard one of them, Jeannie Robertson (1908-75), singing while she worked among the raspberry canes. Her voice was so mesmerising that she was able to give up fruit picking and perform for a living. Here is a link to one of her most haunting recordings.

In a previous blog post, I gave a recipe for Cranachan, a luscious, luxurious Scottish dessert of raspberries and cream. It is terrific served with shortbread and a dram of whisky.

Here is one for Summer Pudding:

This is the nonpareil of British fruit desserts and raspberries are among its main ingredients along with currants. Alas, red and black currants are very hard to find in the USA, but it is all right to add blackberries instead. Nigella Lawson puts in some pitted cherries. For those who simply cannot wait until summer to try this pudding, it is possible to use frozen mixed berries.

Summer pudding

8 slices of stale sliced white bread with the crusts removed
875g Mixed summer fruits
150g Caster Sugar
75ml Water
2 tbsp Framboise or Crème de Cassis
Double cream, Crème fraiche, or Greek yoghurt to serve

How to make Summer Pudding

Set 2 slices of bread aside for the top of the pudding, then use the remaining slices to line a 2-pint pudding basin. When lining your bowl put a slice at the bottom and cut to fit, then use the remainder to line the side. The slices should fit snugly together.
Place the red currants, black currants and cherries in a saucepan with the sugar and water. Heat gently until the juices start to run. Stir until all the fruit is just tender and the sugar is dissolved.
Remove from the heat and add the rest of the fruit (strawberries, raspberries) and liqueur.
Spoon the fruit and half the juice into the lined bowl. Cover the top of the fruit with the reserved 2 slices of bread. Put a saucer on top of the bread lid with a heavy tin can to weigh it down. Leave in the fridge to chill for 8 hours.
Remove the weight and saucer, replace with a serving plate, tip upside down, and remove the pudding bowl. Spoon the reserved juices over the top if there are any pale areas. Serve with cream, crème fraiche or Greek yoghurt.

Strawberries

Strawberries are so easy to find in the shops, but good ones are a rarity. For most of the year, those sold in supermarkets are huge but as flavourful as a beer mat; also, they are seldom red all the way through. A bowl of perfectly ripe fruits is indeed heavenly. As Dr. William Butler wrote several hundred years ago "Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did." One of my favourite poems about strawberries is by the gay Glaswegian poet Edwin Morgan. He lived not far from our flat in the city but sadly we never met.

Strawberries by Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

One of the most delightful scenes in Jane Austen’s Emma is when a group goes strawberry picking:

The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning decidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy infinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys very scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price of strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly different--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their way--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior to cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no longer--must go and sit in the shade."

Strawberries at that time were much smaller than our modern monsters, perhaps more like the wonderful little Fraises de Bois that one can sometimes find in France. I have tried growing them myself but without success. Sneaky birds ate them long before I could.

There are of course a multitude of recipes for strawberry tarts and shortbread, but there is also a nice cocktail, named after the film star Jayne Mansfield, who with her splendid 41-inch bosom was known as the ‘Cleavage Queen’.

Jayne Mansfield Cocktail

Muddle four strawberries in a cocktail shaker. Add 2/3oz of white rum and the same amount of strawberry liqueur. Stir in about ¼oz of sugar syrup and add ice. Shake for 30 seconds and pour into a fancy glass. Top up with champagne. Finally, decorate with a strawberry.

Since the 1980s, I have often visited Hungary in the summer, usually to record in Szombathely or to play at Esterháza, the fairytale palace near the Neusiedler See. One of the best seasonal specialities is a cold fruit soup that is perfect for an outdoor lunch. Here is a typical recipe:

Hungarian Cold Strawberry Soup (Hideg Szamocaleves)

Take about 2 pounds of strawberries and hull them, reserving about 6 to 10 strawberries, depending on their size, for decoration. Place in a large bowl, sprinkle them generously with sugar and crush thoroughly with a fork. Add 1 litre of liquid made up of the juice of half a lemon and a 50-50 mix of red wine and water. Taste and, if necessary, sweeten further or add a little more lemon juice. Chill and decorate with sliced reserved strawberries before serving, preferably in clear glass bowls. Makes 3 servings.

Several recipes include cream, but I really prefer this simple version. One can always put a dollop of sour cream on the top. A glass of chilled local white wine, such as Irsay Olivér, is the perfect accompaniment followed by a nap!