Home straight. Two posts to write. A month full of food posts – joined, funnily enough, by what feels like a month full of food in real life. The fridge is still full. Time for something lighter to finish up on: raspberries.
I had a glance back at the original list of post ideas. Most of them are done. A few extras snuck in, on a whim. But raspberries are on the list because…they have to be.
I have been thinking a bit about raspberries in the last few days. My Edinburgh granny had a great raspberry patch in her garden, and the raspberry canes seemed to produce well year in year out. At least as far as I could tell when it came to the jam. I couldn’t imagine one of her classic afternoon teas without it.
Raspberry jam is a substance to be treasured. The light that passes through the jam, the arrangement of the seeds within a thick jam – it feels like the jam is somehow woven, or cut from translucent stones.
It needs a plain backdrop to shine: a drop scone, a regular scone. Perhaps some plain toast. Within a jam tart, it takes on a further glossiness through the cooking.
Now my parents live in easy reach of a good number of wild raspberry bushes. Dan just got a pot of homemade raspberry jam in his mini Christmas food hamper from them, and we have been happily putting it to use on various things: croissants today.
I like the fact that raspberries need a certain amount of rain. They don’t mush like strawberries do in those conditions. They are up high on bushes, sometimes growing wild along walkways. They are, to my mind, the quintessential Scottish fruit – not the easy sugar hit of strawberries, but something more mysterious.
A good raspberry is a beautiful thing to contemplate – a perfect thimble of deep red. The texture, the structure means that they work well in garnishing puddings, drinks, and so on.
At times, you’ll find the shops selling off berries that are starting to go. Grab some, divide them off into a few pots, and stash them in the freezer. Wonderful for those days when you want some fruit to go with a yoghurt, or to be conjured into a smoothie.
One of my most memorable morning breakfasts was raspberries, rescued in this way, thick yoghurt, and some kind of little almond biscuits, now just crumbs. I put it together the night before. By morning, the crumbs had become the equivalent of trifle sponge, and the raspberries had bled their juices through the yoghurt. It was heavenly.
Back in my language school days, I remember an activity where we taught the students to enjoy some of the tastes of Scotland: making (and sampling) our own mackerel pate on oatcakes, and making our own cranachan.
To take the very Scottish (and also everyday) ingredient of oats, add the raspberries and whisky (and of course the cream): simple, and yet a joy to eat. It didn’t take the students long to become aficianados too.
There was a time when you couldn’t order a restauranty-type pudding without also getting the obligatory puddle of raspberry coulis. Good taste, but a shame for raspberry just to be the counterpoint. It deserves to remain centre stage, or at least more visible than a trickle of sauce.
Meanwhile, it’s time for a late evening snack. I’m sure there’s some toast in the offing – and perhaps I can beg some raspberry jam to go with it?