Black and red currants ready to be processed
Every year, an ingredient or experience defines my summer. Last year was the summer of the blueberry; Maine was practically drowning in the things, which hung in taut, juicy clumps from every tiny branch on every little bush. This year was the summer of the dark and mysterious blackcurrant.
They are illegal to cultivate in Maine (due to a fungus they are rumored to carry), so I will say only that I read somewhere that they grow wild on the island, and that the folks I procured them from must know all the secret spots.
I traded chocolates for their foraged goods, and then got to work learning about blackcurrants. The first thing I discovered is that blackcurrant and dark chocolate are a match made in a place that is ripe with sinful pleasure and illicit luxuries. Tangy and acidic, blackcurrants have just the right zestful pop to really shine through the earthy overtones of our Venezuelan bittersweet. The second thing I learned was that, well, it was the year of the blackcurrant, and my very kind neighbors were bringing me more than I had time to learn what to do with. Not only that, but I was barely keeping up with all the raspberries, strawberries, blueberries etc that I had to process for our Farm Market Collection. While the above picture does not do justice to the sheer volume of berries I had to contend with, it is a good example of just how lovely and alluring they are. I wanted to celebrate them, glorify them, admit them for sainthood. But, I had no time. So after Louise and I juiced as many as we could (and I begged her to take as many as she could to make jam), I unceremoniously heaped them into several half gallon mason jars–berries, stems, leaves and all– poured several gallons of Maine potato vodka over them, and then forced myself to place them in a dark hiding place, out of my sight, so that I could stop obessesing and focus on the daily summer operations of our busy cafe.
But summer in Maine, is, well, summer in Maine, and just as soon as you clear one unexpectedly delightful bounty off your plate and begin to think that at last you can focus on what you’re supposed to be doing, another one pops up. Sometime in August, chef John Hikade from the Arborvine in Blue Hill, called and asked if I might be interested in coming up with a custom assortment of chocolates for a party he was catering later in the month. ”Something totally over the top,” I remember him saying. ”Lets show these folks what we can do in Maine.” I remember having the phone in my ear, staring blankly at the mountains of paperwork, crates of berries, the disheveled pile of todo lists. As he talked, these things faded from my sight, replaced with visions of glittering confections. I grabbed the nearest thing I could write on (a lightly used napkin, I think), sat down and said, “Okay, what did you have in mind?”
Stuffed Turkish fig
Blackcurrant cordial in white chocolate scallop shell
Well, I’m not sure if this is exactly what John had in mind, but this is what sprung from my kitchen a week later. Doing anything on Isle au Haut on short notice is a bit dicey, so I had to beg and cajole to get the figs I wanted–soft, plump thin-skinned Turkish that my French neighbor hides in her cupboards. ( I knew she’d have them.) I stuffed them with a sensual blend of fresh goat cheese and dark chocolate, covered them in bittersweet and dipped them, at last, in crushed walnuts. Not being able to stop myself from creating something achingly precious, I then piped on a white chocolate fig leaf (dyed with green food color), and dusted the entire confection lightly with gold.
I of course, immediately recognized an opportunity to use those well-steeped blackcurrants I had almost forgotten about. I strained the vodka–now a deep ruby-red–and added it to a simple syrup of water and sugar, to make a wild-tasting cordial. Into some Valrhona milk chocolate truffle shells it went, and then I covered them thoroughly in our Venezuelan 60%.
I made a third confection not pictured. A dark chocolate truffle infused with our maple and smoked sea salt caramel made from Carding Brook Farm’s spring syrup.
It was hard not to fall in love with the results, so you may see a public offering of these custom confections in the holiday assortment we’re currently developing for December. Keep an eye out!
