Smoked Peach Tea Jam

Kate says:

Peaches are amazing right now. They're full of juice and (mostly) full of flavour. I bought a bag a few days ago and left them to ripen a bit more so that I could turn them into something amazing today.

What I imagined was a sweet peachy jam with an aroma of smokey tea to offset the sweetness. What I have is an really sweet jam, that has tiny hints of tea around the edges. Next time: Much more tea. I think this jam is ok for people who quite like sweet things, and aren't into the intense flavours that I gravitate towards. But for my next batch I want it to be a distinct jam. I want the smokey scent to hit you as soon as you crack open the lid, and the jam to be really peachy. I think perhaps next time more peaches, less sugar, and a lot more tea.

I was also thinking about peach and mint jam, with maybe a hint of rosemary? I thought this might be very nice with meat.

Friends with friends (and intentions)

Florence says:

When you’re a spinster of my vintage, that is to say: looking at the underside of thirty-five, and with the capacity to look a little pretty on occasions, and acceptably average on every other day, (and haggard on those days when you're sleep-deprived and stressed) sometimes friends decide to be helpful. As awkward as it can be, I love them for it.

I have one lovely friend who at the mere mention of a man being anywhere in the vicinity of single and in my age-group and she starts joking about having bridal satin samples in the back of her car for me to look at. It’s adorable, and I love her for it. She said to me this week, as I shrugged off the idea of asking for an eligible stranger’s phone number, “Honestly, sometimes I think I want this more than you do!” I laughed, because it is hilariously true. She does seem to be keen for me to find a husband, where as I seem to be quite apathetic to the process.

A co-worker this week, as I showed her a photo of some work I’d done, ignored my art in the background and scrutinized one of the people in the foreground, “He’s cute.” She said this as though she was stating the obvious. Much as one would step into the ocean and say “It’s water”.

“Yes,” I replied. It was very much like, “Yes, and?”

“Is he single?” she asked.

At this point I started to feel a tiny bit awkward, and shrugged, “Not sure. Think so.”

“So why aren’t you doing anything about that?”

Tiny awkward laugh, “Oh, he’s probably too young. Anyway, I don’t know him.”

She pursued her point, “How young is he?”

“I don’t know. Maybe twenty-four?” I actually have no idea, but I tend to assume that anyone single and eligible is younger than me. It’s usually true.

She pursed her lips, tapping her finger near his face on the photo, “Hrm. Where does he live?”

I laughed, pleaded ignorance and escaped. She kept the photo though, and in a brief discussion about this weekend’s rain predictions possibly ruining my outdoor plans, and injury keeping my friends unable to attend with me she tapped on the photo and said “He might be interested in keeping you company…” Relentless woman!

Last week a third friend attempted to introduce me to a friend of hers. I attended the group event, but he did not. I did however learn several things about him as the conversation flowed through various topics. Let me just say that I am still curious to meet this ‘too good to be single’ friend of a friend.

Meanwhile, Kate is on the cusp of another jam-making frenzy. Which means it’s time for me to start collecting jars for her.

Peaches and Sympathy

Kate says:

Christmas and the New Year (both Western and Chinese) have passed and February looms. Peaches are amazing at the moment, and I think I want to delve into the land of chunky peach jam. Scented with tea. Yes. Tea. Possibly an Earl Grey or possibly a whiff of Russian Caravan.

Something that says pretty floral china set out on a lawn of daisies, with tattered dolls dressed in their finery and scones laid out and slathered with cream and jam.

Given the summer heat, I'm leaning towards the Russian Caravan. It has that hint of smoke that reminds me of summers of my childhood when we would watch bushfire smoke fill the sky and colour the sun a carnelian shade of orange, and charcoal leaves would drift down into the backyard from some distant blaze.

Secrets like wine

Kate says:

Secrets grow deeper with age. Their roots twine around and through all the parts of my life till I can't extract the secret without becoming less of who I've grown to be around it. So when they are part of me, are they still secrets?

All I have is who I am and my faith. I was not born into fortune, nor fame. I have been educated in a moderate fashion, but have not the inclination to pursue university degrees. I've carved a niche for myself. I have a steady job. A good job that I enjoy, but it not a career that will ever be more than it is.

All I have is who I am and my faith. I am this woman. This woman who is quiet and sad sometimes. Who loves laughter, but can as easily cry when something wounds her. This woman who has worked to be dependable, solid, kind, loyal, creative and innovative. This woman who fails at these things at times. Who readily achieves mediocrity, and accepts it. A woman who tries to remind herself that however life turns God is there, and she must keep Him at the centre of it.

I am this woman, and this week has been like a scrape of a steel bristles across my pride. I've been reduced, like fruit syrup in a saucepan, and my over-boiling point is always dangerously close at hand.

Enough on the things I have been moody about today. Back to jam. I was in a conversation with one of my willing taste testers this morning, and she said "You must give me the recipe."

I struggle with saying no. I over-commit or over-promise and end up burning out and resenting everyone and everything (particularly myself). But even so I baulked at this request. These little pots of jam are creations that I've put work and thought into. Labours of love, if you will.

It's not a yummy salad or hearty stew that is good for the entire world to know how to make, but these are special to me. I've been making jam like a woman possessed. I have Sangria Jam, Walnut and Coffee Jam (more like a spread, to be honest), Apricot Vanilla Jam and Lemon, Carrot and Cumin Jam. I'm about to play with an idea for a Ginger/Coriander/Chilli jam, inspired by last night's tongue scorching exercise at a Mexican place and the coriander/ginger margarita. I keep notes so I can replicate anything that works; but these are born from my lifetime of mucking about with herbs, spices and unusual flavour combinations. Sometimes I just know what will work... it's not trial and error, but inspiration and instinct. Besides, these jams are jam-packed (pardon the pun) with sugar. I don't think I want to encourage diabetic comas by giving out recipes.

I don't know. I'll think about the idea of sharing my notes. In the meantime, how does Cardamon, Honey and Mandarin sound?

Mucha & Sparkles

Florence writes:

Mild shopping today. Firstly the Christmas tree which, although it is tradition to deck the tree in shiny and sparkling things, I quite prefer to be a consumerist-pagan leave it green. I am alone in my house with this sentiment however. Happily, sparkles do not prevent the tree from scenting the house with a lovely fresh pine smell.

I had a very small list of purchases to make at the shops. Shampoo. Pickled onions from Coles or Bi-Lo. De-Alcoholised sparkling wine from Dan Murphy's. But then I arrived at the shops and in my defence I've been sick so my brain is a bit slow right now, and it was all busy and confusing and I wandered like a person with no list through stores and (dangerously) looked at things.

I found this top/dress in SES. It can be found here: Prt Inner Drape NS Cardi

It has a kind of weird bunching stitched part-hem at the front and sides, which I plan to remove so it sits flat without the semi-bubble hem. I really don't need extra width at the hips. I was moderately sure I could make the piece work for me, but it wasn't perfect at purchase point, so there's always that risk that perhaps trying to make it better will only make it worse.

I don't know if it is a top or a dress, or both, but for me I suspect it will be a top over leggings or something of that nature. I quite like it though. It reminds me of paintings by Art Nouveau and art by Alphonse Mucha.

I spent some time in the evening unpicking the stitching and I adore it. I paired it with a belt I picked up at Reverse Garbage, and it's a little bit magical. I shall consider taking a picture and sharing the loveliness of the dress with the internet. The item also comes in a variety of other shades not listed on their website (string purple, black, white, strong green and pale blue). I was sorely tempted by the green, and I may yet cave and have two dresses that are reminiscent of art that I love.

Apricot Jam,

Kate says:

I lie in bed, licking the splattered apricot jam off my forearm and am thankful I was sensible enough to wear an apron (the love of my kitchen, handmade by CreativeChics).

Tonight I made Apricot and Vanilla bean Jam.  It has that lovely velvety rich taste, but not exactly the chunky, yet luscious texture I was after.  I think I'll just cut the fruit in half next time, rather than in slices.

Given my limited experience with jam making, I'm not entirely sure how this will go, but we'll see.  The leftovers in the pot I popped into a ramekin in the fridge.  Pot scrapings are always better the next day, and this universal truth hopefully applies to jam too.

I had a mini-tray of blueberries handy to snack on, and over these I spooned warm, fresh apricot-vanilla jam. It was good!  I left the vanilla sticks in the jam and spooned them into the jars too.  Why?  because it looks good and will hopefully continue to infuse the jam with flavour.

Inadvertantly Cruel

Florence says:

There are times where I think that God prepares you.  You don’t realise it at the time, but He is working with small things to pave the way for something momentous.  When it hits you, you find you’ve grown to be able to bear it.  Sometimes you even have insights or experiences that help.

When we found out our nephew had Autism, there was no preparation.  Despite Autism being exceptionally common, we knew no-one with Autism.  There’d been no experiences, no exposure and a frightful quantity of ignorance.

But when I tell people about the little lad, the most common response is “Oh my cousin’s child….” Or “My friend has a daughter…” or “My best mate’s brother….” So wide a circle, but we had grown to be adults in this world without any true understanding of Autism.

At the end of dance class tonight I spoke to my instructor about her classes for children.  Our nephew seems to have an affinity for music and dance, and I wondered if she’d had any experience teaching children with Autism.  She had, and was open to the idea so I pondered the possibilities for the future. 

It was a longer walk than usual as I’d had to park on a different street.  As I walked past a small corner shop a man fell into step with me.  He was taller than I and skinnier. He was maybe my age, maybe a bit younger.  He wore a wide brimmed bushman’s hat, although it had rained most of the day and had now settled into a dull overcast evening.  His beige jacket was zipped up almost to the collar and an array of old legacy and genes-for-genes day pins clustered near the zipper.  He held two cans of drink preciously in one hand, and held them for me to see.  “This is Coke Zero," He pointed to it, "All the Coke taste and none of the sugar.  This is Solo. It has a sharply lemon flavour.”

“And plenty of sugar,” I responded with a wry smile.

He smiled back, and his teeth were in poor condition, “And plenty of sugar,” he repeated, “What’s your name?”

“Florence,” I replied and then considered that I should be cautious.

“Hi Florence,” he held out his hand, “Pleased to meet you.  My name is First-Name Surname.”

I shook his hand, “Pleased to meet you First-Name.”

“Have you had a good day?” He asked, and there was a familiarity in this patter.  Something that disarmed my normal reserve and caution.

“I have,” I had reached my car, “I’ve just finished a class and I’m now headed home.”

“Oh you’ve finished class,” he was distracted as I pushed the button to unlock my car, “This is your car? Wow.” He circled my little generic car as I nodded.  He rattled off the brand and make and asked me what the model was.  He inquired how long I’d had it, and I opened the door to toss my dance gear inside and he glanced in, “Oh, you’ve got the standard CD player and the two airbags.”

I blinked at him, “Uh… yeah.  I think so.”

“You do. See?  One driver side airbag and one passenger side airbag.  My dad has a Mazda with six airbags.  One driver side, one passenger side…” he rattled off the specifications for his father’s car and the familiarity hit me hard.  He smiled at me, but wasn’t making eye contact.  He saw small details quickly and remembered them.  He wore old charity pins on his jacket, and I suspected his hat was something he always wore outside, regardless of the weather.  A part of my heart broke, and I almost wept as I saw in this grown man so much of my nephew. 

I consider myself to be a kind person.  I have a heart that dislikes thinking the worst of people.  Had this man spoken to me on the street two years ago I would have considered him a creepy stranger and probably gotten into my car as fast as possible. And locked the doors.  Ignorance would have lead me to be inadvertently cruel.  This is what broke my heart.  That this man has lived through years of ignorant strangers and still had the strength and courage to approach someone on the street and offer friendship.

I offered him my hand, “It was nice to meet you First-Name, but I have to go now.  I hope you have a good evening.”

He smiled, not meeting my eyes and took my hand.  He shook it and leant forward to kiss my cheek, “It was nice to meet you Florence.”

He walked off down the street still carrying his two cans of drink in one hand.  I sat in my car and watched him as he disappeared over the hill. I did cry then.  A little.  For my ignorance and for our nephew and the years he has ahead, but I also thanked God that he had shattered my ignorance so abruptly so that tonight I had not been inadvertently cruel.