Easy figs to last through winter

Even on a tree, individual figs are only at their peak for a few days before going bad. Enter Franco. He’s the grandfather who you will meet in next week’s video who made gnocchi for us, along with his witty wife Anna. At the lunch that followed filming they served some preserved figs, along with pecorino cheese. The figs were sweet, but also complex, with just the right amount of a tart undertone. These weren’t like jam, but like the essence of fresh figs, preserved. Very simple, like the best of Tuscan food.

Franco offered to come over some morning when he wasn’t hunting to teach us how to make them.

I accepted the offer—Franco is the kind of cook I aspire to be. He never measures and hardly even looks at what he is doing because it is all so natural and familiar. And while he is cooking he is discussing everything from the power of the monasteries in the 13th-century to growing up as a tenant-farmer or the importance of constantly being exposed to new ideas.

Back to making the figs— get ones that taste great and are soft, but not overly ripe. Green or black figs work equally well. You will also need sugar, white wine vinegar, and small mason jars with lids. This recipe works well for small batches.

Cut the fig tops off and arrange in a heavy-bottomed pan so that they are in one layer. We used about 40 figs, which was 1.5 kilos (3.3 pounds) of figs. For this amount you pour over 400 grams (14 oz.) sugar and 60 ml (1/4 cup) of white wine vinegar.

Put over low heat. And wait. Franco occasionally pries the figs apart (either by slightly shaking the pan or gently using a blunt knife) so that the liquid that collects can coat all sides of them, but mainly leaves them undisturbed—no need to stir or flip them. After about 20-30 minutes, there will be a lot of liquid in the pan, and he spoons off the excess so that the bottom of the pan is well-covered but the figs aren’t drowning. And at this point, turn the figs so that all sides are well-coated. It amazed us that something as seemingly delicate as figs can withstand boiling like this, but they are a lot tougher than they look.

We normally boil mason jars, lids, and all implements, to sterilize but Franco’s technique is to run them through a hot dishwasher, fill the clean jars with the boiling contents, and then seal and flip them over to cool, thus ensuring that the boiling liquid reaches all parts of the inside of the jar. (For everything you need to know about recommended ways to sanitize and can, here’s a wonderful resource.)

Pack the figs in tightly, but don’t squish them, and add enough liquid to fill about a quarter of the jar.

These are delicious with cheese, and are also wonderful for breakfast with yogurt, or by themselves for dessert.

John experimented by adding one and a half inches of peeled and chopped fresh ginger to the cooking figs, which was a fantastic variation. The syrup takes on the ginger flavor, and the pieces become a soft ginger candy.

Next on the list to try before fig season is over is a modern take on a traditional Calabrian recipe—fig, vanilla, and orange blossom jam.

Another thing to serve alongside the figs is this fantastic caramelized red onion jam.

Potent plant potion: elderberry syrup

Elderflowers grow like weeds here. Weeds that have huge thorns and become 30-foot trees while your back is turned. Good thing they have gorgeous white flowers that are delicious to make into elderflower cordial. (I’ve heard they are also good to fry, like acacia flowers.)

The clusters of little white flowers turn into these tiny, so-dark-red-they-are-nearly-black berries, which I’d heard are perfect for making into elderberry syrup. This year I decided to make my own, inspired by one of my favorite food writers, French expat David Lebovitz.

The clumps of berries were easy to gather, but it took much longer than I’d planned to get the little buggers off the stems without the stem coming along for the ride. (And you do need to be very careful about the juice, as it can stain nearly anything.)

But it was worth the effort. The result is as close to a magical potion as anything I’ve ever made: thick, gorgeously colored, and characterized by a very unusual, nearly magical taste—not quite bitter, not quite floral—, totally delicious.

So far I have served it over a friend’s roasted peaches and cream, mixed into sparking water and ice, and swirled into prosecco with a little lime. I’m going to try it next over fruit and vanilla gelato.

I followed David’s recipe, and it was easy. The amount of berries in the photo was almost exactly the amount called for in the recipe.

Deep-fried acacia blossoms

In mid-August, I start to long for winter in Tuscany. Those months can be surprisingly cold, grey, and wet—but still gorgeous—and are slower, with only the locals out and about. Despite my love of winter it’s always exciting when the acacia trees start flowering—a sign of the landscape waking up. In early summer these delicate white cascades adorn acacias big and small, from the tallest trees to unassuming roadside bushes.

Best of all, you can taste this bit of summer. I’ve never seen it served at a restaurant, but the tradition of battering and frying these acacia blossoms is alive and well, passed among kitchens and between generations. It requires some foraging, since you won’t find acacia blossoms at a supermarket, but it’s an adventure that marks the season.

This old Tuscan recipe was told to a friend of mine by a 90-year old neighbor who is an avid forager. It’s simple, yet sophisticated, and adds drama whenever it’s served. There’s a slight floral flavor that’s unexpected in something fried. When we served it recently a friend called it “adult popcorn.”

I have heard that elderflowers and spring garlic are also delicious done this way.

To make deep-fried acacia flowers:
Gather bunches of acacia flowers when they are in early to full bloom. We don’t wash them (way too fragile), but you should look closely for any bugs. For the batter take about 1 cup of 00 flour (all-purpose also works) and mix with 1.5 cups of COLD sparkling water and a little salt. Mix it all together until you have a batter that’s the consistency of pancake batter. Pour about 4 inches of sunflower (or peanut) oil in a pan and heat until around 350 F (175 C). Hold the acacia blossoms by the stem and dip them in the batter, coating each well, then drop them in the oil, a few at a time, until they are a nice golden color. (Don’t let them drip too long before putting in the oil as you want them well-coated.) Remove and drain on paper towers, then serve as soon as you can. We’ve always sprinkled sea salt on top, but I’ve heard that a little acacia honey is also magic, and is rather poetic to boot.