İncir reçeli, I run with the Turkish name because “Unripe fig marmalade” sounds like a shelf warmer. As in most countries except the regulated, commercially zoned, catasterised western world, people are forever sitting in the streets selling wares. The same of course in Istanbul, even though some areas that are very populated are policed against such activity by the zealous Council inspectors, the Zabita. It’s not unusual to see a ‘flying trader’ absolutely flying down a busy street, running from this law enforcement, out on the beat in twos or even larger groups, but generally not the stuff that Olympic sprinters are made of. The hapless merchants risk fines when caught, and their wares always confiscated and taken away. So they run. At times the stock, spread out on cardboard, a piece of cloth, or presented in a suitcase, abandoned to save one’s hide. Neck or crop. Others able to clutch their contraband under their armpits whilst betaking themselves to flight, periodically checking over their shoulder on how well the get-away is coming along. Film-like scenes. Walking past these makeshift pavement bargain shops is nothing unusual, and I pay little attention. And so I strolled along, barely noticing this village woman waiting in the curbside near, of all shops, a Manav (a fruit/ vegetable grocery). She had on sale some flowers and a small number of plastic bags, containing bright green somethings. My brain didn't registered all this until I had passed. I stopped. They were really *this* green, that it had me intrigued. What is this? I walked back to inspect this unknown thing to me. They were unripe figs, peeled and pierced, and ready to be cooked. As I had no idea of what to do with it, we entered into a conversation. She explained patiently and very friendly of how to prepare them, stressing upon me over and over the importance of pre-boiling them and squeezing them, one by one, to remove the bitterness. Otherwise they would be inedible. We then got to the bit where she explained about the marmalade making stage. I joined in, affirming this, asking that. She got excited, pointing at me. Hah, hah, you’ve done this. You know how to make marmalade. Two country women, kind of, meeting in inner Istanbul, in the very middle-class, almost bordering on fancy Harbiye, having a conversation about home-cooked preserves. It takes one to know one. It was a beautiful moment, and I cursed the limits of my language. She was a gypsy type woman (as indeed I learned since, exactly this trade of green figs is a common way for them of making an income at this time of year), but that didn’t mean she didn't know about the wonders of Know-it-all Google, and she referred me to the internet should I have any more questions once I get them home. I opted for the big bag at 15 Lira, and to make it “20 Lira straight” asked her to throw in a smaller bag (normal curbside milk-crate counter sales price 10 Lira). As it was late in the day, she more than happily obliged, and I walked away with 3 kg of unripe, very bitter little figs, ready to take home and try my hands on my first proper Turkish marmalade. And boy, did it work! I don’t “do” measurements, but here’s the process: I cooked them twice, around 10 minutes each time, and made sure to squeeze them all as instructed. Now I understood also the neat little puncture holes, they were to ensure that the water can drain. They look a little deflated, but don’t worry, the next infusion with liquid will pump them right up again to their plump glory. This cooking process filled the house with a love fragrance of the greenness of the fruit along with a sort of bitter almond hint. I was slightly infatuated with this smell. Next I prepared a water/ sugar solution, using a lot less sugar than what marmalade making probably requires (2:4) - but I’m on a bit of a roll to watch my ‘hip gold’ (that’s German for “love handles”). I cheated and added a bit of pectin. I am not a big fan of the runniness of Turkish marmalades. Also added cloves and a piece of cinnamon. Let it bubble away. The juice of a couple of lemons. Then I added my sad, twicely squeezed figs, still ever so green, and let it cook for another 10 minutes or so, most coming back to life except the ones that I had squeezed to death. But they make for good testing objects during the process. Then off into the jar, and proceed as normal. This morning I had some on ricotta, and oh… be still my beating heart. I don’t regret going with less sugar, they are very subtle, and the clove and cinnamon is coming through nicely, complementing the figs. I will enjoy these in the next few weeks as summer is looming, bringing with it the next crop of delights, to be bought from a roadside makeshift stall.
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AuthorInnate curiosity, learned (discovered) deep love and appreciation for Turkey, a bit of time at my hands, and always hungry: voila, a food blogger! Archives
September 2019
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