Merci, Madame

It is well-known that my relationship with Christine Ferber, doyenne of the boo-teek preserving set and famous boycotter of commercial pectin products is - how shall I put this? - complicated.

On the one hand, the recipes in her magnum opus, Mes Confitures, are maddening to the point of, well, madness. Her instructions are so terse they are positively Delphic. She gives few clues about what the final product is supposed to be. Is something called Rhubarb and Apple a spreadable jam, a spoonable conserve, or sliceable fruit in syrup? Who knows? Her ingredients are arcane, if not downright unobtainable (where am I supposed to find vineyard peaches or wild apples, for crying out loud?).

Most damningly of all, she offers no yields for her recipes, so her unfortunate disciples are left with either too many prepared jars and seals or, far worse, too few - necessitating a spur-of-the-moment sprint to the upstairs closet for additional supplies. This generally causes one's precariously-leaning ironing board to fall over with a resounding crash and the cat to sneak into an area of the house that, under normal circumstances, is Off Limits. The resulting kerfuffle prompts the hapless fabricante de confitures to curse a blue streak and vow that she will confine herself henceforward to the sensible procedures found in Well Preserved and Ball's Complete Book of Home Preserving, both of which are written for normal Americans who just want to get on with life.

On the other hand, I am drawn to Madame's livre like leafhoppers and aphids to a blueberry bush. The recipes and combinations are evocative of a stay in one of France's better chambres d'hotes and the photographs alone are worth the price of admission. Who can resist recipes that speak of gariguettes, mirabelles (only the ones from Nancy will do, apparently), and Bourjasotte figs? Not me! As I slave away in my suburban galley with hothouse strawberries, purple plums (provenance unknown), and dried Black Missions from a bag I can fantasize that I am in an Alsacienne summer kitchen with all the time in the world to pick over endless baskets of peaches (only pristine specimens should go into the jam pot!) or seek that perfect punnet of Napoleon cherries. A girl can dream and I suspect that is really what the English translation of Mes Confitures is all about.

Well, to call Madame's bluff, I've been trying out her recipes with ingredients I can find locally and some educated guesswork. Two batches in particular, banana jam and praline milk jam, were among the most notable of any I have made (from any source) so far - although I hasten to add they were notable for very different reasons. The banana jam has proved to be an intriguing crowd-pleaser: I have made several batches in recent months and the requests are still coming in from fans who've already tried it and curiosity-seekers who can't get their heads around the idea of spreadable bananas in a jar (to them I say 'No, banana jam is nothing like baby food').

Praline milk jam, on the other hand, has baffled everyone who's been tempted to sample it or - failing that - upon whom a jar has been forced. Nobody seems to know what to do with it or whether, in fact, s/he even likes it much (I count myself as a member of this group - I'm still not convinced the final product is what Madame intended, although I will never know for sure). 

Setting such inconsistencies aside, I had been determined to give Mes Confitures renewed consideration as soon as the summer fruit started to come in, since that is where the recipes (in my humble opinion, anyway) start to become really unusual. So this weekend, with three whole days off work and thirty beautiful new Weck jars at my disposal, I decided to tackle some apricot recipes. Apricots are dirt cheap at the moment, and the ones in the produce department on Friday looked excellent, even if they were not the exact variety preferred by Madame.

I bought over five pounds' worth and set to work.

The first recipe I tried was for something called Nougabricot. It included among its ingredients the aforementioned Bergeron apricots (oh well), chestnut honey (I made do with orange blossom); and a variety of slivered and chopped nuts. Reading between the lines, I concluded that the final product was probably going to be something like apricot halves in thick syrup - a preparation for which wide-mouthed jars are essential. I selected my 0.20 litre mold jars, read up on their usage, and got to it.

Approximately thirty-six hours later (yes, you heard me - preserving with Madame is not for the faint-hearted or those short of time) I had over five jars of just about the most beautiful preserves I have ever seen - the sort people pay good money for in gourmet shops or go gaga over when served for breakfast in tonier B&Bs. And the taste? Think honey, and citrus, and fresh fresh apricots - with the added exotic Middle Eastern promise of almonds and pistachios. Heaven on yogurt or good ice cream, spooned over frangipane, or served atop goats' cheese panna cotta.

The jars themselves are fantastic - although the glass lid, rubber-ring, and metal clip arrangement tested my famous asbestos fingers to the limits of their endurance. Every one of the seals ultimately formed a perfect vacuum and the glasses' generous proportions are perfect for large pieces of stone fruit or chunky preserves. Their gift-giving qualities are undeniable. Although too fancy and special for home use (except when serving brunch or dessert to company, I suppose) I am now determined to have some on hand at all times, ready to go when the mood strikes.

At time like these, I feel that Madame and I can be friends, after all.

Christine Ferber's Apricot Halves and Nuts in Honey Syrup

• two and one-quarters pounds firm but ripe apricots, halved and pitted (I'm sure any apricots you are able to find in the shops will be serviceable)
• two and three-quarters cups granulated sugar
• seven ounces of honey (see note on apricots, above)
• juice of one lemon
• juice and grated zest of one large orange
• two ounces slivered almonds (Madame calls for three and one-half ounces, which to me looked like far too many)
• two ounces of unsalted, shelled, and chopped pistachies (see note on almonds, above)

Mix the apricots, sugar, honey, lemon juice, and orange juice/zest together in a big bowl. Cover the surface with a piece of parchment paper and let macerate for an hour. The parchment paper is very important, actually. I missed the corner of one apricot and by hour's end it had turned brown and unsightly.

Pour the mixture into a preserving pan and bring to a simmer. Cover the surface with parchment paper, again, and refrigerate overnight.

The next day, pour the contents through a sieve (Madame insists you remove the peel from the apricots at this point, but I didn't bother), reserving the syrup in a pan. Bring the syrup to a boil and cook to 221 deg F. You will need to skim more or less constantly.

When the syrup is hot enough, add the appricot halves and the nuts. Return to the boil and cook over high heat for five minutes, stirring gently. Skim again, if required (it will be). Decant into jars and process them as appropriate.

I obtained five and one-half 0.20 l jars. I don't care that each of these is supposed to be the equivalent of 6.7628 American fluid ounces. I have carried out extensive tests and can assert with some confidence that the Weck jars have precisely the same capacity as my standard 8-ounce Ball jars. I am therefore calling the yield forty-four ounces and nobody can stop me.

I trust Madame will forgive my Yankee impertinence.

After all, that's what friends do.