Poached

I like the idea of poaching. When a person or cookbook mentions poached fruit, I chuckle inwardly, envisioning myself with a rifle in the grocery store, taking out the pears and figs in someone else's cart. Really, I think Roald Dahl first introduced me to the idea of poaching in Danny the Champion of the World, my absolute favorite book when I read it in 4th grade. Danny didn't use a rifle, of course. The clever boy soaked raisins until plump, cut them, stuffed them with sedatives, sewed them up and then fed them to his nieghbor's pheasants. He hid, watching them fall from the trees, then stuffed them in a sack. I forget if he actually killed them or set them free somewhere else. Part of me hopes he killed them then simmered the plucked, trussed creatures in a wine reduction. Poaching on two fronts.

To poach something is basically just to cook it in liquid near its boiling point. Of course, to poach is also to trespass and plunder. I had no idea until just now, but it also means to sink into soft or wet earth when walking, to become soggy or full of holes when walking, or, in racket sports, to return a shot near the net that was intended for one's partner in the back court.

When done right in the kitchen, oh the glory. Eggs do not achieve a more tender state nor pears a more succulent texture.

I was cleaning out my fridge in preparation for a trip to New York. Stepping back to survey the damage, I tried to think of what concoction could employ my leftover, lay-about produce. Watching half a dozen forgotten Asian pears roll around my crisper, eyeing the almost-full bottle of wine, I decided that some spiced red-wine-poached pears were in order. I poured the bottle of wine into a pot along with leftover white wine syrup from the last time I poached pears, a small handful of sugar, a cinnamon stick, star anise, a few corns each of pepper and all spice and the last of the ginger from my fridge, peeled and simply sliced out of laziness. When it started to boil, I added my peeled, cored pears and simmered uncovered until tender. The tip of a knife should easily pierce the flesh, but cook according to your preference. I thought they were a bit too firm last time I made them, so cooked them until a little less resistant this time around, about 30 minutes.

When done, I removed the prettiest pears to sterilized jars and saved the uglier, just-starting-to-fall apart ones in a bowl (intended for almost-immediate consumption). I upped the heat in impatience and cooked down the wine until seriously reduced then poured the hot, thickened stuff into the jars to cover the pears. Cooking down the liquid is the most time consuming part, so some cooks (like the late James Beard) prefer to reduce the liquid to a syrup before adding pears. If canning, seal the jars with clean rings and new lids then turn upside down for at least two minutes. Out of laziness, again, I decided to skip a second sterilization and just store the jars in my fridge while on vacation.

Next I whipped up some heavy cream in a cold metal bowl (I love my small high-rimmed Rosle), opting for a whisk over my oft-used handheld beater so I could feel the cream thicken and come together. Just before it started to form peaks, I added confectioner's sugar and the scraped seeds from a vanilla bean, whipped some more, then added soft, beat cream cheese. Mmmm....

It wasn't quite thick enough to form quenelles (too much cream, not enough cheese), but the little football shapes make a great presentation when you can form them. The white cream is especially gorgeous drizzled with the garnet-red syrup. The spiced pears are a really tasty holiday treat and a great way to extend your enjoyment of December's produce. Spooning mine up, anticipating my trip to New York, I looked forward to eating more upon my return, completing the delicious cycle.