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“Now the night train of autumn comes smoking through
the land,” I think, with the Great Plains poet Tom McGrath, as I
write. Tonight the rear guard of summer is in retreat toward the Gulf
of Mexico. It is a time for remembrance.
Remembrance of things found and cultivated and put to good use. Chokecherrries,
for instance. People use chokecherries, because they are more pit than
flesh, mainly for jelly (which requires pectin added) or for syrup.
One of my students named Dave Hammes gave me a great tip for processing
chokecherries—not a labor-saving tip, but a pleasure-enhancing one.
To make them much more flavorful, Dave advised, run the fruit through
a grinder. His family has a power grinder. We used a hand meat grinder,
which was a chore, but it was evident from the aroma as we worked that
the product was going to be great.
Grinding the fruit, crushing the pits, releases wonderful flavors of vanilla
and almond. I tasted Dave’s jelly last year, and it was the best
I ever had. The syrup we made this year is without peer.
Rutabagas—not something that’s on your mind, unless you’re
Norwegian, but they add both flavor and color (a fetching pale yellow)
to a potato mash. The garden crop was abundant, so we decided to wax some
for winter storage. Although rutabagas coated with paraffin are sold in
markets, I’ve never known anyone who waxed them at home. Until now.
We did it, with a double boiler. I think it worked.
Sauerkraut—we learned a lesson from the gang at St. Mary’s church,
where they put up kraut in a garbage can in the basement. We packed and
pounded the shredded cabbage and salt into a tall plastic container, then
laid a plastic garbage bag over it. We filled the bag with water, so that
it spread to seal the container perfectly, while weighting down the cabbage.
Thirty days later (no smell, no skimming) we opened up perfect kraut.
Rhubarb—you think there’s nothing new to learn on the subject,
but there is. That tired rhubarb sauce, which tasted great in spring when
you craved it, but later seems like same-old stuff, becomes alluring once
again when spiked with just a little black current liqueur. The round
black current flavor takes the edge off the rhubarb and makes the sauce
a dandy topping for bread pudding or even chocolate cake.
Not everything works out so well, however. Every year my old friend Paul
Homan, an eastern Montana boy, keeps after me for bullberry jelly. The
bullberry (a.k.a. buffalo berry) is a common shrub from Alberta to Nebraska
and, I think, down into parts of the southern plains, too; I’ve seen
it sold for landscaping in New Mexico. Clinging scarlet to the bushes
right into the dead of winter, bullberries are essential winter food for
many birds, such as native grouse.
Bullberries are the focus of a great culinary tradition on the plains,
a favorite for jelly connoisseurs, but they are tricky to work with. In
past experience, I was unable to get the bullberry juice or jelly to clarify.
Strain it, boil it, and it still comes out cloudy, whereas I have seen
beautiful, crystalline jelly made by farm women from this part of the
country.
This year I tried again—same result. The jelly tastes great, but
it looks like amber mud. Somebody help me with this! You culinary veterans
of the range, what’s the secret to bullberry jelly?
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