Every January I start to feel restless. Even though here in Colorado the real snow doesn't come until March and April, I still feel closed in. I have to wear shoes and socks, long sleeves and fleeces to keep warm. And to me, this feels just, well, wrong.
There is a good explanation for this feeling. I grew up in Brazil, where January means summertime. People break out their new swimsuits (okay, bikinis), go to the beach, and hum along to the new music for this year's Carnival celebrations. The sun shines, flowers bloom, the water's warm, and all is well with the world.
Somehow the sight of my bare, gray garden and the three-inch thick slab of ice on the shady spot in the driveway just doesn't elicit the same feelings of pleasure.
So this year I started a new tradition. I am going to make tropical fruit preserves and chutneys every winter. I was inspired by the piles of gorgeous mangos I saw a couple of weeks ago at my local Whole Foods market; they just begged me to buy them at their weekly special price of 10 for $10. I brought them home with me and watched over them for nearly a week until they were at their peak ripe stage. Then I found some beautiful small Brazilian papayas, gingerroot, and limes, and set to work on my first canning project of 2010: Mango, Papaya and Ginger Chutney with Lime.
The recipe comes from The Complete Book of Pickling: 250 recipes, from pickles and relishes to chutneys and salsas by Jennifer MacKenzie, Robert Rose 2009. The unusual combinations of ingredients in many of the recipes make this book stand out from most others in this genre. How can anyone resist making Sliced Fennel Pickles, or Major Grey Mango Chutney, or Maple Apple Onion Relish, or even Pineapple Lime Tomato Salsa? The classic recipes are delicious and reliable as well: Kosher-Style Dill Pickles, Fiery Dill Slices, Classic Sauerkraut, and Chipotle Tomato Salsa, along with many others.
On a dark Friday evening last week, I stood at my kitchen counter and peeled, chopped, and dreamed. The taste and feel of those slices of firm, sweet, mango flesh took me back to another place and time, where my 9-year old self sat comfortably on the branch of a mango tree with my feet swinging back and forth, freshly picked mango in hand. I felt again the sting and slightly itchy sensation from the resins as I bit into the thick skin to loosen it from the flesh. Through the haze of pure pleasure, a thought surfaced: this is how one knows when fruit is ready -- by picking your own from an early age, learning by trial and error.
I picked up a papaya and inspected it. I already knew that it wouldn't be as sweet and sensuous as it could be, because the skin was smooth. There were no lightly scored lines which would have let the bitter white sap ooze out. Scoring the skin immediately after picking papaya makes all the difference between a serviceable piece of fruit and one that lifts off the top of your head when a slice of its perfumed sweetness lands on your tongue.
It also helps if the papaya comes from one of the several papaya trees in your own back yard. When you are a child, those trees are awfully tall and the fruit is way out of reach. And still you stand there, neck craned, evaluating which papaya will be ready to pick first. It's a fine day when you can convince an adult to bring down the perfectly ripe fruit as you dance first on one foot and then the other, hoping the papaya won't slip out of the adult's grasp and crash to the ground in an explosion of orange flesh and black seeds. Though truth be told, you'd probably pick up the pieces, wipe them off, and eat them right then and there anyway. They just wouldn't make it into the fruit salad at lunch, that's all.
Still, the papaya I held in my hand last Friday had made it all the way from Brazil to my house at 6500 feet in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, and that counted for something. Its flesh was firm but ripe, and the dark seeds glistened - both good signs. Two cups of diced papaya joined 6 cups of mango chunks in the big bowl.
I scooped up a spoonful of mango and papaya and popped it in my mouth. I almost sat down on the floor, silver mixing bowl between my knees, and ate the entire 8 cups of fruit right then and there. The very cells in my body reverberated with that tropical duet. For that one holy moment, all was well in my world.
I caught my breath and turned to the jalapenos and onions and gingerroot that needed to be diced. When all the ingredients were mixed together, the chutney looked like a bowl of perfumed jewels, orange, red, green and purple ones. I felt lucky to be alive.
