The recipe called for pectin. The name sounded familiar. A kind of sugar? Pectin. Something made from fins? No. Pectin, I discovered, makes jams jammy and jellies jelly. Oh.
I was not the only one to whom this was news — I had to repeat the description at almost every grocery I visited. A grocery clerk who is asked for an item he has never heard of will often treat the request with something like disbelief. He’ll ask you to repeat the name a few times, as if really trying to place, from his vast mental catalogue, your desired article. Then, when he is sure that he has never heard of it, there will be a narrowing of the eyes, a curling of the lip, as if to say, “Surely you jest. There can be no such thing. For here I am, font of all grocery lore and I, I have never heard of this pectin.” And then, the crushing, final “Nah, we don’t have that.”
Jam and its kin, I used to believe, were born on supermarket shelves. And since I didn’t much care for it, it could die there. I was perhaps the only child in the world not afflicted with “jam hands”. Now, on a bright, indeed sweltering, Saturday afternoon, I was trying to make jelly. The shop attendants’ disbelief that pectin existed was matched only by their incredulity that anyone would want to make jelly.
The tale is passionate and, so, ultimately tragic. A dainty little jar of sweet red pepper jelly found its way into the fridge at my office. I was starving. It sat among the crackers and ham slices, glittering like a molten gem. I tasted. I swooned.
At first, the taste buds were too overwhelmed (and a tad confused) to identify any specifics. There was an idea of sweetness (but not too much), and of tanginess (but not the hard contrast of a sweet-and-sour sauce). It didn’t especially call to mind the peppers that gave it its name and colour. Instead, it was rather like discovering a new and exciting fruit; it wasn’t the actual flavours that were surprising, just the particular blend.
Over the next week, its original owner relinquished all claim on this jelly, and for seven blissful days no sandwich, cracker, or, truth be told, spoon, was safe. And this particular red pepper jelly was home-made. The trouble was that the home was somewhere in Martha’s Vineyard — not one of the Caribbean’s major trading partners. And I couldn’t find a local jelly that I felt the same way about.
When, months later, another jar was sent to me via a holidaying friend, I was determined not to fritter away the treasure, as I had before. I would use it sparingly. I would protect it from marauding visitors. I . . . I . . . dropped it after my first taste. Jar and self were shattered. I don’t remember much after that, but my sister says that I knelt beside the glistening red blob, muttering, “I think it’s still edible.”
“There’s glass in it,” she said.
“No,” I insisted. “It’s OK, see . . .”
They pulled me away.
The next day I decided that I would no longer be at the mercy of international travel, or gravity. I would make my own red pepper jelly.
Thus began the pursuit of pectin, and, because pure, blind hope will not go unrewarded, I eventually found it some half-dozen shops into my search. My recipe called for liquid pectin, but here was a small, unassuming box of powdered pectin. This close cousin would have to do.
Perhaps because my initial search had been long and hard; perhaps because the blood of countless jam-making Caribbean women flows rich in my veins; or probably because it just is, the actual jelly-making process was painless and unremarkable. Making jelly, it turns out, is one of those rare things that appear more difficult than they really are. I chopped and blended huge bell peppers, the impossible red of siren lights and lipstick. A great pot for which I never imagined I’d have a use was popped on the stove, and a shocking amount of sugar tossed in. And then I stirred. It boiled. The pectin was added. I stirred on. It was light, cheerful work. Nothing like the agony of stirring fudge.
While I stirred, a handful of glass jars boiled to sterilisation. I dreamed of gingham, and wondered if I had a pair of pinking shears. The mixture was supposed to come to a rolling boil. I loved that; I’d never heard of it before. How dramatic and impressive it sounded. I was, of course, terrified that it would fail to achieve this state — or, worse, that it would, and I would not recognise the moment of truth when it was upon me. But in the end, roll it did, and there could be no mistaking it. The surface of the liquid undulated gently, then more insistently, looking, not just a little, as though it were alive. Off the fire, into the jars, and thence to the refrigerator. Then I went out, because I couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting to see if it would set.
And it did.
I almost wept. Relatives were phoned to be given the opportunity to congratulate me. “Jelly,” I announced triumphantly, as I handed out the jars. Looks of awe and veneration all round. They were impressed, not because they themselves are not capable of far greater, more complicated feats, but because, like the astonished store clerks, they’d never thought to make such a thing. It was something you bought, like marshmallows or butter — maybe somebody knows how to make them, maybe they’re sent from heaven.
Of course, as is their wont, the pots brought me back down to earth. I cannot doubt that the skill required to wash a sticky pot the size of a small car in a kitchen sink smaller than the average place-mat is entirely responsible for the general lack of jam-making these days. But for those fearless (or bored) enough to try it, achieving a respectable, edible jelly can be a slightly magical experience.
When I made my life-changing decision, I didn’t actually have a sweet red pepper jelly recipe. I did, however, have Internet access. What I used was a combination of several recipes I discovered online — cutting back a bit here, adding a bit there. I think it worked.
Not just a pretty cover
Contemporary Caribbean Cooking
Sally Miller (Wordsmith International, ISBN 976-8079-75-4)
Despite its glamorous coffee-table looks, Contemporary Caribbean Cooking is an eminently practical handbook for those less experienced in the culinary arts, presenting tried-and-true family recipes with cheerful confidence. “Speed is what today’s busy cooks need,” remarks Sally Miller, and wherever possible she suggests shortcuts, or recommends the use of labour-saving equipment. At her most daring, she offers recipes for such delicacies as shrimp, avocado, and paw paw salad, or mango mousse with passion fruit sauce, but most of her dishes are straightforward, wholesome fare, like fish fried Caribbean-style, chicken pelau, or that perennial children’s favourite, marble cake. She includes many Caribbean specialities, like souse, and ackee and saltfish, and the glowing photography, by Artie Colantuono, makes even something as plain as yam in butter sauce look like a long-awaited feast.
Philip Sander
Aye, there’s the rum
Caribbean Cocktails
Jennifer Trainer Thompson (Ten Speed Press, ISBN 1-58008-364-1)
“With a few sips you can see the aquamarine waters, feel the gentle breeze, and start swaying like a palm frond. These drinks transport you.” So claims Jennifer Trainer Thompson in her introduction to this colourful, thirst-inducing guide to tropical mixology. Familiar favourites like the piña colada and old-fashioned rum punch mingle with new-fangled concoctions like the Green Frog and the Kick ’em Jenny (named for the submerged volcano near Grenada — let that be a warning!), all arranged according to the presiding spirit. Of course, some of us still think the ultimate tropical drink is nothing less than a simple, classic gin and tonic; the Sticky Wicket is a tempting variation, though. The fun concludes with a selection of recipes for cocktail-friendly finger foods. From the lush photos to the list of recommended music to accompany each tipple, this is an unabashed catalogue of imbibable indulgences.
Philip Sander
RECIPE: STICKY WICKET
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
4 dashes Angostura bitters
2 ounces gin
1/2 lemon, freshly squeezed
2 ounces club soda
cucumber slice, for garnish
Fill a rocks glass with ice. Add the sugar, bitters, and gin. Squeeze in the lemon juice, then drop the rind into the glass. Cover and shake well to dissolve the sugar, then top with club soda. Garnish with the cucumber slice.
RECIPE: SWEET RED PEPPER JELLY
6 red bell peppers
1 cup cider vinegar
1/2 cup lemon juice
5 cups granulated sugar
1 teaspoon salt chili powder
1 ounce powdered pectin, or 6 ounces liquid pectin
Big, brilliant red bell peppers are what you want. The more lurid the better. Never mind what makes them that colour, it probably can’t do any more damage than the five cups of sugar. And, incidentally, if you prefer a mind-numbingly sweet jelly, add another half or three quarters of a cup of sugar.
Wash the peppers and remove the seeds. Chop them in a food processor; they need to be pulpy, so hand chopping won’t do. Add the lemon juice and cider vinegar to the pulp. I use apple cider vinegar, because that happens to be what I have handy (for keeping kitchen counters ant-free). In a very big pot, mix the pulp with the sugar, salt, and as much chili powder as you think you need. About a teaspoon is modest, increase at will, as long as it doesn’t start to defeat the red pepper flavour.
A note on the size of the pot: these ingredients are not voluminous, but a big pot is a good idea, because when you’re stirring any hot liquid of unpredictable temperament it’s wise to keep a reasonable distance between it and yourself. Stir steadily, but not vigorously, until it comes to a full rolling boil. Remove from the heat, and add the pectin (whichever form you managed to find).
Return to the heat, high for just over a minute, and then lowish for about five to seven minutes. Skim the foam.
Fill the jam jars you’ve already sterilised, leaving a half- to three-quarter-inch space from the top. Cover tightly and let cool. Refrigerate when the jelly is set.
