Cucumber-Jalapeño Tequila and the Margarita Made with It

The cucumber-jalapeño tequila idea is not original to me. There's a relatively new (and wonderful) bar in town--the Public House--that serves chilled shots of the very same (except with tequila blanco). And of course, I got hooked on this wonderfully-infused liquor. I order it even on the hottest days, just to feel the smooth, cool cucumber flavor, almost immediately followed by a not-unbearable heat of the jalapeño. It is a refreshing and brazen drink, albeit expensive. Ever since first tasting this tequila, I swore to make it myself--once I'd grown my own cucumbers and jalapeños. I have only had this particular tequila straight up, and have been wondering what it would be like to experiment with mixed drinks (but lacked the money to ask the Public House bartenders to make me some). And now, months after first trying the spicy tequila, I'm happy to say that my two lonely cucumber vines have produced a few cucumbers, and my two lonely jalapeño plants have produced a couple peppers. Here is what you should do right now if you have a cucumber, a jalapeño, and a bottle of tequila: infuse the tequila!

Ingredients:
-1 liter of mid-range tequila (I used 30-30 Tequila Reposado, but you can use anything you like)
-1 medium (5-6 inch) cucumber, quartered longways
-1 small/medium jalapeño, also quartered longways

Method:
1. Pour tequila into a half-gallon jar, or split up between two quart jars. (Save the bottle.)
2. Add the cucumber and jalapeño (or split up evenly between whatever jars you're using)
3. Put in a cool, dark place for 4-6 days. I'd recommend that you taste the tequila as it's infusing--I like a spicier infusion, so I let it sit for 6 days. If you'd like it more mild, you could probably let it sit for as few as 3 days.
4. Strain the tequila into the original bottle (or just fish out the cucumber and jalapeño pieces) or a vessel of your choice; discard (or compost) the cucumber and pepper.
5. Serve thoroughly chilled, or make margaritas (see suggested recipe below).

Using shot glasses to measure; one is orange liqueur, the other is half lime juice/half agave syrup.

Cucumber Margaritas (with cucumber-jalapeño tequila)--serves 2

-2 small/medium cucumbers, peeled and rough-chopped
-4 ounces of tequila (cucumber-jalapeño infused tequila, in this case)
-1 ounce orange liqueur/triple sec
-1/2 ounce lime juice (or juice of half a lime, approximately)
-1/2 ounce agave syrup
-pinch of salt
-a few ice cubes

Combine all ingredients in a blender, blend until the cucumbers and ice are fully-incorporated, and serve.

I did not salt the rims of the glasses because I thought that salt would overwhelm the delicate flavors, rather than contrast with them (as is the case with sweeter margaritas). You can do as you wish. The margarita is a little frothy, but I don't mind; if you do, you could use fresh cucumber juice to substitute for the whole cucumbers. If you're wary of using cucumbers, you could substitute with the flesh of watermelon or cantaloupe (if you're using those, consider omitting the agave syrup). I'm definitely not through playing around with this infused tequila; please let me know what drinks you come up with, if you decide to infuse your own.

I have to say that in addition to being inspired by the ingenious cucumber-jalapeño infused tequila of the Public House, I was also prompted by Kaela Porter's spicy jams in making this drink. I'd been drooling over the recipes on her blog for a long time, then started trying them out a few weeks ago, and have not been able to stop. She introduced me to the idea that a moderate level of spicy does wonders for a not-too-sweet jam. So, this margarita is a little of both--not too sweet, but deliciously spicy. Thanks, Kaela; if I could share this drink with you, I would.

This is the season of peaches

This morning, Matt finished reading Margaret Atwood's The Year of the Flood, and mentioned something about the poems interspersed throughout the novel. This reminded me that I hadn't looked at Atwood's poetry in a long time; however, when I picked up a book of her selected poems from the shelf, I had a hard time finding a poem that resonated with me (which tells me--maybe now is not the time to return to Atwood, but maybe in a couple more years). Instead, I found a poem that was evocative of the season. I may post something by a different poet later, but thought I'd share this poem for now.

Late August

This is the plum season, the nights
blue and distended, the moon
hazed, this is the season of peaches

with their lush lobed bulbs
that glow in the dusk, apples
that drop and rot
sweetly, their brown skins veined as glands

No more the shrill voices
that cried  Need  Need
from the cold pond, bladed
and urgent as new grass

Now it is the crickets
that say  Ripe  Ripe
slurred in the darkness, while the plums

dripping on the lawn outside
our window, burst
with a sound like thick syrup
muffled and slow

The air is still
warm, flesh moves over
flesh, there is no

hurry


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On my first read-through, my immediate thought was: "Of course there is need to hurry! Who's going to preserve all those plums and peaches!" This is just indicative of my shift in thinking--I want to preserve everything. But of course, the last line, set apart as it is, indicates the very opposite of what the literal words say. Reading this poem two or three times, I start to notice how insidious the ripeness is, how briefly it lasts. But I'll stop commenting now, and let you read the poem again on your own.

Tomatoes

Tomatoes have been around farmers markets for a few weeks already, but it seems it's just been in the last few days that they have started appearing in great quantities. I've been eyeing them, trying to figure out how we would be able to afford to purchase enough tomatoes--even at their cheapest, they are about a dollar a pound. I have absolutely no problem with paying farmers fairly, but since I've only had two weeks of employment this summer, money is getting tight. In order to really put up enough salsa, soup, marinara, and just plain tomatoes to last us a full year, I need over a hundred pounds. I couldn't bear the thought of a tomato-less winter, so I kept looking around for slightly damaged or over-ripe tomatoes in bulk. As luck would have it, I found out that the University of Tennessee Organic Crop Production has just this--plenty of tomato "seconds." This is what I hope to be only the beginning of the tomatoes for the season; I'm using the very last of the tomatoes from these boxes this morning, and will be getting a couple more boxes on Friday.

As I've been making my way through the tomatoes, I've also been thinking about my purpose in putting up. Although I love preserving fruit, even in its most utilitarian form--in extra-light syrup--fruit still doesn't seem quite as necessary as putting up tomatoes, soups, stock, and other savory items. And because putting up tomatoes--and other vegetables--creates something which will sustain us in the winter months, there is more urgency in the process. The relative fleetingness of the tomato season makes the tomatoes precious, and I almost have a reverence for the jars of tomatoes in my pantry. I'm trying to say something that I can't quite vocalize, or perhaps something that I understand so well, that there are no longer words for it. Why do I preserve? Why do I make the effort to obtain such a heavy load of fruit and then spend several full days in the kitchen monitoring the simmering, and the processing? Because this is what there is here and now. Even though I did not have a hand in growing these tomatoes, they are of this land, and with my efforts, they will last a year, until the next tomato season. Preserving emphasizes the value of what is in season; there is an aspect of making do with what one has here and now, rather than seeking the same food on an as-needed basis. Anyone can go to the store and purchase almost anything--salsa, tomato sauce, canned tomatoes--on a whim. Preserving is deliberate. I have to plan for the full year when I put up; prior to canning, I'd never really thought about how many jars of marinara we go through in a year, but now, I could tell you an exact number. Last year, I only canned a dozen jars of plain tomatoes, and by early April, we'd run out; we ended up buying a couple cans of tomatoes throughout the spring, but it was not the same. The flavor was flat, and there was no satisfaction in opening them. This year, I know better. I know that to many, these kinds of efforts sound a little crazy; but just you put up a few jars of roasted tomatoes, open one in the middle of January (to eat on toast, pizza, or in soup), and you'll know where I'm coming from.

Urban Land Scout Camp

Katie teaches young Urban Land Scouts how to use a compass to earn the mapping badge.

Today was the final day of the first ever Urban Land Scout camp. I have been supporting the Urban Land Scout program in small, personal ways for over a year, and was definitely glad to have the opportunity to be a counselor and propagate Urban Land Scouting to our group of young people. Over the course of the week, Katie, I, and eight young scouts spent time at Beardsley Farm; in addition to working on earning the first five ULS badges, we learned about the workings of the farm and helped with farm chores. I was glad to see the campers' enthusiasm for learning about native edible plants, collecting seeds, and taking cuttings of herbs. Go forth, young scouts!

The Garden Returns

Clockwise from beets: Holy basil, mustard greens, dinosaur kale, tomatoes, cucumbers, dill, basil.

It's been a little while since I've mentioned our little backyard garden, and I thought I'd write about it briefly. The garden itself looks quite different than it did a month ago--the tomatoes are towering over their stakes, the squash is spilling out of the delineated beds, and the three lone cucumber plants are threatening to take over not just the trellis, but that whole side of the fence. Almost every other day, I can walk into the back yard and harvest something. Just earlier in the week, we got our first ripe tomato; we've gotten about eight cucumbers, and a couple of squash, too. What you see here is the last of the beets that I planted in the non-amended clay (the bed that I built almost on a whim). The beets have been small, but they have beautiful and delicious greens, and so have been well-worth the effort. The kale is a little eaten, but still quite good; it's getting ready to bolt, and so I'll be replanting it soon, for fall.

Every time that I walk outside, I am amazed--we had so few things growing last year, and now, what a variety we have!

Nocino

Old and scratched jar; the liquor already dark.

It has been approximately six months (give or take a few weeks) since I'd started the multiple batches of limoncello, meyer lemon limoncello, lime-oncello, orange liqueur, and blood orange liqueur. I'm so glad that I started several different liqueurs at the peak of citrus season, as now we have the various flavors to incorporate into our favorite drinks. The slightly floral and milder meyer lemon limoncello has been my favorite (chilled, with a splash of sparkling water); I also love the fact that we now have orange liqueur that is good enough to drink on its own, if we wanted to. All the liqueurs will continue to improve with time, and will last us a good, long while.

I've been thinking about making nocino ever since I discovered limoncello. I was curious about what it would taste like, and had been gearing up to pick walnuts on the customary day (Solstice), and completely forgot about it (we were out of town for so much of June, it was easy to forget). Fortunately, I remembered about it about a week ago, and hurried to pick the walnuts before their shells had hardened any further. The walnuts I found were quite large, and it took only 16 of them (quartered) to fill a half-gallon jar. I used this recipe, for the most part; if there's anything that my experiments with liqueurs have taught me is that I prefer a less sweet liqueur. Thus, I only put a couple tablespoons of sugar in with the walnuts, and actually combined all the ingredients (including the Everclear) in the jars all at once. Now, I wait for two months, shaking the jars (two half-gallons) every now and then; in two months, I'll strain the liquor and add simple syrup. The Nocino will be ready by January, just in time for the colder months.

I know that this cycle of making liqueur takes a long time, but now that I am imbibing the earlier infusions, I'm growing to appreciate the process. It's secondary to my main food preservation, but I like it--there's something quite irresistible about home-made liqueurs, and it impresses people without a lot of hands-on effort on my part.

If you can get your hands on some green walnuts, why not start a batch of nocino of your very own?

Peachy Coffee Cake

The early peaches started coming in here in Tennessee at the end of June, and although there was a lull in varieties ripening last week, by mid-July (in just a few days) peaches should be in full-swing. Before I started canning, I only purchased a few peaches a year--beyond eating them fresh and baking with them, I didn't quite know what to do with them. I especially didn't know about the versatility of peaches--I never thought that they could be made into a salsa, or a barbeque sauce, or peach butter. I made all three (slightly different versions) last year, and kept being surprised by the ways in which peaches could be transformed by the different flavors and textures. So far (already this year), I've made a batch of barbeque sauce and taught a canning class on the peach salsa; both came out exceptionally well, and I've gotten a few incredibly enthusiastic reviews of the barbeque sauce (what can I say, I took it to a party where there was a hot grill and some corn, asparagus, and zucchini--of course they got slathered in the sauce and grilled!). But what I'm trying to say is--if it's just minutes away from being peach season again, the peaches that were canned last year need to be consumed as soon as possible.

Last year, I also canned peaches in light syrup, and we'd been enjoying them in our cereal and in fancy rum drinks; when I checked in the pantry, there was a lone jar of these very peaches still left, right next to a jar of peach butter. I took out the jars and carried them around with me for a little while before I remembered a fall-inspired coffee cake from Celine Steen's The Complete Guide to Vegan Food Substitutions. The original recipe uses ginger syrup, roasted apples, and apple sauce to add moisture and sweetness to the cake--and I have to say, the original recipe makes one of the most wonderful coffee cakes I've ever had. However, the peaches also work wonderfully well, and provided me with a good opportunity to use up those last few jars before I put up this year's harvest. 

Ingredients:

For the cake:                                                                            For the Streusel:
1 cup peach syrup (from canned peaches)                       1/2 cup pecan halves, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup peach butter                                                               1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil                                            1 teaspoon cinnamon
3/4 cup whole wheat flour                                                    2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 cup all purpose flour                                                                                
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 cup canned peach halves, diced

Process:
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9" round cake pan or an 8" square pan.

In a medium bowl, combine peach syrup, peach butter, and oil. In a large bowl, sift together flours, baking powder, salt, and spices. In a separate small bowl, combine the streusel ingredients and set aside.

Fold wet cake ingredients into dry, being careful not to overmix. Fold in the diced peaches.

Pour the batter into the greased pan and spread so the batter covers the pan evenly. Sprinkle streusel evenly on top.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, until the cake is golden brown and firm in the center. Transfer to a wire rack and cool before removing from the pan.
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The cake isn't overly sweet, and isn't overly peachy--it's everything I want in a coffee cake: slightly crumbly, moist, and flavorful. If you don't have the peachy ingredients available, now you have a good reason to put up peaches so you can make this coffee cake later in the year.