Thanksgiving, of course, intervened. Once again, I am forced to question the judgement of Bravo's producers: how can fans such as myself, with Turkey-Day cooking commitments of our own, possibly be expected to spend a whole hour watching TV? It's not possible.
I had planned to get caught up on the cheftestants' latest adventures on Friday but fate once again intervened. It intervened on Saturday, too. And today. In fact, I'm not sure I'm going be able to see TC:T at all before the DVR - full to bursting with Sir's and the Kid Squid's crime procedurals and sci-fi sagas - wipes my favorite show from its memory forever.
And who, you might wonder, is the fell transgressor in this saga? What sinister individual has unforgivably come between me, Pads, and the HM?
Can you guess?
That's right, Campers. Madame has struck again.
* * *
It started as a very simple plan, really. Several weeks ago I purchased two boxes of lovely little tulip-shaped Weck jars for the particular purpose of filling them with Christine Ferber's chestnut jam and giving them away as holiday gifts to sundry special folks. I adore candied chestnuts (marrons glaces and the Japanese dessert monburan are two of my favorite things in the whole wide world) and have been intrigued by the jam recipe ever since I first purchased Mes Confitures last Spring.
As a public service to readers I offer the recipe below, together some additional details garnered through the hard experience of Yours Truly.
Are you sitting comfortably? We shall begin.
Ahem.
Make a deep cut in each chestnut with the point of a knife.
Did I mention the recipe called for three pounds of whole uncooked chestnuts? That's a lot. Also, the shells are extremely durable. Using my priceless Japanese paring knife with the watered steel blade I was able, at the cost of severe blistering to my right thumb and index finger, to make deep gouges on the nuts' flat sides. Reasoning that one always cuts a cross into roasted chestnuts to facilitate peeling, I had at it with these bad boys as well. Fearing the worst (a premonition, perhaps), I made a big X on each of their curvy sides, too. It took forever and was extremely dangerous, what with an exceedingly sharp tachi, increasingly slippery cutting board, and customary Ferber-induced anxiety.
Put the chestnuts in boiling water. After three minutes you will be able to remove the outer shell and the inner skin. Chestnuts can be easily peeled if they don't cool off.
I looked at the daunting pile and realized there was no way I could cook them all at once if they were to stay warm for peeling. I decided, therefore, to cook them in batches of five. After the stipulated three minutes, I pulled the first lot out of the water. Although the tough outer shell came off, the brown-paper inner skin stuck stubbornly to the flesh beneath, causing angst and vexation on my part. I threw the nuts back into the pot for additional boilage and was eventually able to peel them with some success. After experimenting with several hundred specimens, I concluded ten minutes was the minimum processing time required for straightforward shell removal.
Sir, alarmed by my cursing and impatient slamming of pan lids, came into the kitchen, bless him, to see if he could help. I called his bluff and set him to work peeling. After some initial whining about the effects of the red-hot chestnut epidermi on his delicate fingers, he settled down and performed admirably. An hour into our task, I asked him if he wouldn't rather be outside raking leaves. He responded that there was nothing in the world he would rather do than provide jam-making assistance and redoubled his efforts.
Psychologists, take note.
Roughly two hours after I first brought my water to the boil, we had two pounds of warm peeled chestnuts. They looked like small tan-colored brains ...
... and I was already sick of the sight of them. 'Never mind,' I thought. 'From this point forward the recipe seems like child's play!'
In a preserving pan, combine the chestnuts with four and two-thirds cups sugar, one and three-quarters cups water, and a vanilla bean. Bring to a boil and cook for fifteen minutes, stirring gently. The chestnuts will be soft.
Soft my eye! After fifteen minutes of cooking my chestnuts were still the texture of driftwood. Thinking that perhaps I was supposed to have chopped them into pieces before introducing them to their bath (no, Madame never said I had to, but one has to be a bit of a mind-reader where Mes Confitures is concerned), I removed them from the molten sugar lava and gave them a rough chop on my cutting board.
Back into my maslin pan! I cooked them for a further ten minutes. Then ten minutes more. Finally, forty minutes had elapsed and my chestnuts were kind of soft, sort of. Not cooked exactly, but not the consistency of an antique oaken chair leg, either. More importantly, the syrup had by this time reached 220 deg F, betokening imminent crystallization should I not get the contents off the heat ASAP.
Pour the mixture into a ceramic bowl. Cover with a sheet of parchment paper and refrigerate overnight.
Oh, for crying out loud. I used a Pyrex bowl like a normal American and covered it with plastic wrap. I couldn't put it in the fridge because it was already nine o'clock at night and the contents of the bowl were still mad hot. I could have returned to the kitchen later that night, I suppose, but the adjoining family room was disturbingly full of huge pizza-eating teenage boys. Under such circumstances, I try to keep my distance from that end of the house.
Next day, bring the preparation to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove the vanilla bean. Crush the large pieces of chestnut with a wooden spoon.
Is anybody keeping track? At this point I was 24 hours into my consternating confiture contretemps. Of course, that is no more than an academic point because I never got to this stage of the recipe. In the cold light of day I realized my chestnuts were still tooth-challengingly hard. I couldn't return them to the stove for extra cooking whilst they were in their syrup (and yes, a few accusatory crystals were already forming about the edges of the bowl) so I rinsed them well and returned them to a pan full of boiling water.
After another half hour of cooking, they became soft. Also tasteless. The long boiling had leeched every ounce of flavour from the precious $15 supply over which Sir and I had labored so long. After consigning the glop to my garbage disposal I considered my options and decided that Madame had left the recipe unfinished.
I've taken the liberty of completing her work.
You don't want to peel three more pounds of chestnuts, do you? That's why god invented vacuum packs. Get into your silver Element and drive to the supermarket. Present yourself in the produce section and buy the last two packs of pre-cooked and pre-peeled organic Italian chestnuts ($4.99 for 6 ounces!) and one jar of French beauties from the baking aisle ($9.99 for seven ounces!). Decide that you cannot possibly afford to make the full recipe and conclude that half will be sufficient for your purposes. How many people do you know that really deserve homemade chestnut jam, anyway?
Take your chestnuts home and taste the Italian ones. Realize that they are stupefyingly disgusting and cannot possibly be used as anything but garden mulch. Ponder your jar of French marrons sadly but with resolve. Do some quick mental math and realize that you can produce roughly one-quarter of Madame's recipe with minimum fuss. Pop the nuts (already soft and scrummy-tasting, praise be) into your maslin pan with one and one-sixth cup of sugar and seven-sixteenths cup of water. Don't forget to retrieve the vanilla bean from your failed batch of jam! Bring the water to a boil and continue to cook until the syrup reaches 220 deg F. Pour the mixture into a very small Pyrex bowl and cover with plastic wrap.
Since it's now after dark on the second day, you should probably have a stiff drink and maybe go to a movie. Not necessarily in that order.
The next morning (Day 3!), whizz up the mixture in your food processor using the big metal blade that looks like the sort of fearsome implement you might find in a defunct sawmill. Scrape the jam into a very small saucepan and bring to a boil. Put a little bit of the vanilla bean into each jar and pour the jam over. Madame never reveals the yields for her recipes, but I will: one-quarter of her original ingredients produces eleven ounces of chestnut jam - less than two little Weck tulip jars.
Sigh deeply and survey all the empty jars arrayed upon the table before you. Whip up some pineapple conserves with some fruit you bought on special offer a few days ago and the leftover vanilla beans.
Vow never ever to be tempted by one of Madame's recipes again. Not even in a million years.
Or until next time. Whichever comes first.
Coming soon: whilst enjoying my annual gala lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin this Thursday, I also manage to miss the next episode of Top Chef Texas.
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