Currant pickle
manorganic has started an off-site blawg about pickles called Pickles of Wisdom (an adorable title that I covet from afar) and since I do little more than eat and snooze these days, I thought I’d get in on the action by sharing a recipe or two here, beginning with a family heirloom of sorts.
Pickles are quite versatile, I’ve found. Good for smearing on roasted meats, bread, and pastry, for livening up cocktails, and for making ploughmans a bit more tolerable.
The first time I embarked on a pickling venture was in a little stone flattish sort of building my maternal grandmother was letting (sort of half squatting in, I found out later) in Kilcoolaght (dumpier part of Killarney) and she was simultaneously needing to busy her and my anxious hands while desperately wanting to entertain me, to teach me something that I would remember fondly.Â
It was the tail end of a working holiday but there’d been no work, so my parents’s plans for a walking tour were cut short. They are a notoriously bull-headed and contrary couple -- especially when conspiring with rather than against one another -- so to thumb their nose at fate they cobbled together, on the bus from Cork, some frantic, childish notion about staying on, but Gran Will almost instantly perceived in them a bad and uncunning plan and eventually beat into both their skulls some semblance of sense (this was pre-Tallaght, everything was shit, and we’d only have to emigrate again), that there was no point in stretching out a visa and, anyway, my brother (a wrinkled, grouchy, permanently scowling, long-haired little toddler at the time) was still in California. So, we were leaving after only a long weekend with her, most of which my parents spent moping and smoking, and there was nothing special to eat or drink in celebration and parting. Will had a compulsion to nourish people, prod them out of blue periods, ensure that they enjoy themselves in spite of their desire to pout. She liked the kitchen in the stone house and how her heels clicked on the floor as she strode between stove and sink, chest puffed out, in her element. She enrolled us as her apprentices for a modest feast.
My mother had apparently been quite fond of sloe jelly, but as there were no sloes on hand we settled on currants, of which there was an abundance about. Leftover jelly, Will reckoned, wouldn’t travel well and was liable to become sticky if the jars cracked, so she decided on pickles. I don’t entirely remember her method and she never had a chance to write it down for me, but I’ve recreated it dozens of times since, with slight tweakings, based on the memory of that last visit and my mother’s more hazy, adolescent recollections.
If you’ve ever made currant jelly, this is the exact opposite. You don’t cook the fruit until it bursts (you don’t even apply a scalding hot liquid), you don’t squeeze anything against a colander or sieve, you’re not using the natural pectin to set or thicken anything, and there’s no clove or orange or ginger to bolster the lush, slightly spicy fruitiness and tame the tart. The currant is fresh, rather than dried. The seeds are retained for integrity and texture. The brine itself is just lightly sweetened.Â
Small batch currant (refrigerator) pickle
Rinse and de-stem 6 cups’ worth of red or blackcurrants. Toast, in a cast-iron pan or anything flattish and heat-proof: 2 tsp fennel seeds, 1 tsp mustard seeds, 1 tsp anise seeds, ½ tsp whole pink “peppercorn” (from Schinus molle, not really a peppercorn, &c &c). Cool. Along with 5 - 6 whole juniper berries, gently crush your spices with the back of a knife or between two spoons or in a mortar or whatever you’ve got handy. Set aside, along with a bay leaf (fresh is better than dried, I’ve discovered, because it’s even more minty) and a handful of fresh rose hips (if you can get hold of them; I like the more floral tartness they can add to preserved fruit). In a massive-ish saucepan, bring to a gentle boil 4½ c vinegar (white is fine; I’ve enjoyed red wine and apple cider, but this may be cost-prohibitive for some people). Once boiling, add 1 tbl salt and 1¾ - 2½ c granulated white sugar (less if you’re using an unrefined sugar, up to 2½ c if you’re interested in something sweeter) to dissolve. Bring off the heat, add your spices and herbs. While the brine is cooling, peel a hothouse cucumber (do whatever you want with the flesh), slice the peels into easy-to-jar sizes, and throw those in.
Once your brine reaches a comfortable, lukewarm temperature, divide your fruit into jars or throw into one large, plastic, sealable deal, cover with peel-laden brine, add some anise or hyssop flowers, chill (or process and seal for just slightly longer-term cold storage).
As you might imagine, Will liked gin and she liked eating foods that reminded her of gin, hence the licorice-y vibe, the cukes, the juniper. I have, on occasion, switched out up to a cup of the vinegar for a cup of gin.
I like these currants in a salad, with a sharp, semi-hard cheese, or garnishing Hendrick’s served straight. Anywhere savory you might add pomegranate seeds, these pickled currants will serve as an ~interesting substitute. There’s always an abundance of leftover brine (feature, rather than an accident), colored pink, which I tend to use to pickle other junk, in vinaigrettes, or in cocktails. The pickled cucumber skin is nice for people, like me, who can’t otherwise tolerate cukes because they bother the tum. NB: about 4 in 5 people I’ve served these pickles don’t like or appreciate them. That’s how you know they’re good!*
Other preserved currants I’ve enjoyed:
Redcurrant achaar
Dried currant pickle relish
Lightly pickled redcurrants (using white wine)
Other recipes for pickled fruit:
Pickled grapes with cinnamon and black pepper
Preserved lemons
Pickled nectarines
Pickled figs
Spicy plum chutney
*not really; but they are definitely an acquired taste / for people who are drunk