It happened several years ago, perhaps 20 or so. They all seem to run together. But that "it" isn't what this Cuff is about. It's about something that happened just a few weeks ago. I'm sure of this time frame.
But I want to preface the present "it" with the "it" that I wrote about when "it" happened years ago. "It" involved May apple jelly.
What's that, you ask? If so, you never read that one-time popular book, "Stalking the Wild Asparagus," written by Euell Gibbons. I've mentioned the book before, but that 20-year-ago incident involved gathering the ripe fruit of the May apple plant, a wild plant that blooms in May and produces a mellow, ripe fruit sometime in August. Gibbons gave directions for making May apple jelly which, adventurous as I was and still am, required I tackle the jelly making job.
I've never repeated the process, mainly because, with so many deer roaming the woods, they feast on the fruit, just like they enjoy rosebushes, green beans and so on. That jelly turned out pretty good, pale yellow with a tinge of lemon from the juice added to the juice in the cauldron on the stove.
Today's Cuff involves another cooking project, fig preserves. I've written about the "fig pen" I constructed around a (small) fig tree several years ago. That was to foil the deer. It worked. Anyway, to make this short story longer, the tree, with lots of mulch and mild temps, has survived these northwest Arkansas cold snaps and, eureka, there have been figs.
The first summer I picked three or four; last year the crop increased to almost 30 of the tasty little seed pods, and this year....
As you have probably figured out, I like raw figs as well as fig preserves. The tree (it's more like a bush, since it freezes back to the ground each winter) this year actually became a small tree. I stretch the word.
Six strong shoots emerged from the roots this past spring and, during the summer, have grown to almost 15 feet in height. Each has sprouted lots of the little green spheres that eventually turn purple -- and ripe. The crop of ripe figs paved the way to making my own fig preserves.
I won't bore you with most of the details but will mention that one morning, when the boss of the kitchen left for a couple of hours, I dug out a recipe I had picked off the Internet. I invaded the kitchen.
I followed the recipe carefully. There were enough figs to make two half-pints of preserves, and that's when the confusion began. I couldn't find any half-pints in the cabinet shelves. I settled for one pint jar. The cooking process began at about 10:30 and all went well. Or so I thought.
The recipe must have been written by a sweet little lady who had most of the directions in her head. But I carried on. There were no instructions for using a thermometer, just simplified instructions on how long to cook the "stuff." Excuse the word "stuff" -- what else could I call it? Anyway, the final direction was to take a cold dish from the fridge and drop a bit of the "stuff" on the dish and, when it reached a certain clump of "goo," it was time to end the process.
You guessed it, I boiled and boiled the "stuff" until finally the glob appeared to meet the requirements. I added the required lemon juice, swirled it around for the required additional three minutes of boiling and then it was time. Time to fill the pint jar. Carefully, so it doesn't break.
It was then it happened. I discovered there wasn't a pint of "stuff," more like a half-pint. What happened? I guessed I'd figured the measurements wrong.
I skipped the required hot water bath for the half-filled jar because I planned to start devouring the purplish "stuff" real soon.
I settled back to clean up the kitchen before ... well, you know before ... and it was spick and span when she walked in. She didn't even ask, "What is that I smell cooking? burning?" or stepped in from splashes on the floor.
End of story comes quickly. Much later when a biscuit was split open and a spoon was dipped into the jar of "stuff" it bounced. That's right, the spoon bounced. The stuff was almost solid. Like a giant gummy bear. I was reminded, "You must have cooked it too long."
Warming the jar briefly in the microwave has been an answer to the problem. A spoon can dig out enough "stuff" to slather the biscuit or toast and satisfy the taste buds.
There will be no more excursions into fig preserve making next year. If the plant or tree survives, I'll just nibble the produce. As a final act, the fig pen is coming down. I'm convinced the deer won't be a bother. And it won't be necessary to climb a stepladder to pick those royal bits of raw "stuff."
Next year, I may try to find some May apples.
Dodie Evans is a former owner and long-time editor of the Gravette News Herald. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 10/21/2015