Bourboned peaches in jars ready for syrup and bourbon.

Here’s a real simple recipe to save some of the incredible summer peaches for winter days, twisted with a notch of bourbon to add flavour.

This was my first time canning peaches and it was pretty easy to do. So get over any fears you might have about preserves and start learning by doing.

I canned 20 pounds of peaches. Those 20 pounds yielded 10 jars. It took me about 3 hours.

It turns out canning peaches is a time-consuming process. So I’d advise that when you do it, you do a lot.

Supplies

Start with preparing your supplies to make the process smooth and easy.

Make sure you have the canning supplies: good jars with smooth rims, new lids, unwarped rings and a big canning pot with a rack for the jars.

I used wide-mouth mason jars because that’s what I’d inherited from friends. New lids were harder to find for the wide-mouth size but that larger opening made filling and handling the jars much easier. Wide-mouth size: recommended.

I used new lids because that’s what my research told me I should do. I imagine you could reuse lids, but everyone I read recommended against it.

I did reuse the threaded rings to hold the lids. Some of mine even had a touch of rust to them, which didn’t bother me because they don’t touch the interior of the jars or lids.

Canning pot and rack.

My canning pot I also inherited from friends with a rack that fits inside and holds 6 jars at once. You can buy similar pots and racks at hardware supply shops like Canadian Tire and Home Hardware.

Mine looks just like this one.

You’ll also need 2 big pots: 1 for scalding the jars, lids and rings, 1 for simmering the peaches and syrup. You’ll need tongs to handle the hot gear. You’ll need a slotted spoon and a big spoon. You’ll need a big bowl to hold the peaches.

Get your gear together and start the prep.

Ingredients

This may be the simplest ingredients list ever.

4 ingredients:

• 20 lbs. — Peaches
• 3 cups — Sugar
• 10 cups (1L) — Water
• 1 cup (250ml) — Bourbon

Crate of freestone peaches ready to become bourboned peaches.

I’ll admit, those amounts are rough guesses, not exact measures. Use your discretion as to how thick you want your syrup and how boozy you want your peaches.

And like all beautiful and simple things, the elegance belies quality. That’s a fancy pants way of saying: use good ingredients. You’ll taste each ingredient, so take care with each ingredient.

I bought my peaches from Hilltop Farms at the Trout Lake farmers’ market. They sell crates of about 20 pounds for $30, or $25 for canning peaches that require a little trimming and care. I bought the full price, freestone beauties.

Woodford Reserve bourbon for bourboned peaches recipe.

I used Woodford Reserve bourbon because that’s what I had in the liquor cabinet. The bourbon flavour looms large in this recipe, so use a bourbon you like.

Instructions

Put a big pot on the stove. Add the water. Add the sugar. Stir and heat on medium heat. Dissolve the sugar into the water to make a syrup. Bring to a solid simmer and let reduce.

Put your second big pot on the stove. Fill with water and turn to high heat to boil. You’re going to scald your jars, lids and rings in this water. As you’re waiting, prepare your peaches.

Add all your peaches to the sink. Fill the sink with lukewarm water. Rub each peach so any fuzz or grit is removed.

Cut the peaches into halves, trim of any inedible bits and remove the pits. Cut the peaches into slices and place in a big bowl. Each peach yields 8 to 10 slices.

When you’ve sliced up about half the peaches, place them in the simmering syrup to soften. Stir them up well to mix the syrup and peaches together.

By now your second pot of water on the stove ought to be boiling. Using your tongs, place the jars into the boiling water for about a minute. Remove them and place them on the counter beside your simmering peaches in syrup.

You’ll probably only be able to put 2 jars into the boiling water at once, so work through about half your jars, placing each one on the counter in turn.

Once you’ve got half your jars scalded, use your slotted spoon to add peaches to them. I found it easiest to scoop some peaches into the spoon, shake it a little to get the syrup to drain out the slots, then slide the peaches into the jars.

Here’s where you’ll be thankful for those wide-mouth mason jars.

Pluck all the peaches from the syrup and slide them into your scalded jars. Bring your scalding pot back to a boil while you work through the second half of your peaches.

Again, cut the peaches into slices and put them in the bowl. Add them to the syrup. Scald your jars. Scoop the peaches into the jars. Turn off the heat to your syrup pot.

Once all your peaches are into the jars, take your spoon and top the jars with syrup. Leave 1/2″ to 3/4″ of room between the level of the syrup and the rim of the jar. In the canning world, they call this ‘head space.’

Use a butter knife to release any trapped bubbles. Tap them on the counter to get the peaches settled in the jars.

Add a splash of bourbon to the top of each jar. You’re really just looking for a splash here, about 1/2 a shot.

You’re now done with the syrup. It should be rich and orange now, full of sugars and peach flavour. Don’t throw it out! Instead, put in a jar and cool in the fridge. Set the syrup aside for another day when you’ll brew up a pitcher of peach iced tea and make people very happy.

But that’s another day. Your bourboned peaches need attention now and you’re ready to seal those beauties.

With your tongs, place your lids and rings in the boiling water of the scalding pot. Remove them and let them cool on the countertop. Fit the lids onto the jars and the rings over them. Tighten finger tight.

Get your canning pot full of water. Add in the rack. Place on the stove, cover with the lid and apply the high heat. There’s a ton of water to bring to a boil so it may take awhile.

Once you’ve got the water in the canning pot boiling, use your tongs and slide your jars of peaches into the slots in the rack. Replace the lid to bring the water back to a boil. Let boil for 10 minutes. Use your tongs to remove the jars. Place the hot jars on a rack to cool.

Bring the water back to a boil and add the remaining jars. Boil for 10 minutes. Remove to a cooling rack and let cool.

You’ll soon start to hear the lids of the jars pop. This is the sound of them sealing.

Once they’re cool enough to touch, check the rings to make sure they don’t need to be tightened.

And that’s it. You’re done.

Store the canned bourboned peaches in a cool dark place for up to a year. Serve on their own, over ice cream or over panne cotta. Mix them into a pie and it will change someone’s life.

Use responsibly, share with care and enjoy!

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Will you be in Vancouver on Sunday, Aug. 30 from 11 am to 5 pm?

Do you like to feast on salmon cooked by world-class chefs and the Canadian Barbecue Champion?

Do you like things that are free?

Then we have just the ticket for you.

The Pink Salmon Festival at Vanier Park.

Foodists Mark Busse and James Sherrett (me) will be on hand, helping out Canadian BBQ Champ and BBQ Bootcamp leader Rockin’ Ronnie Shewchuck plank salmon.

Come on out and join us.

Click for larger version.

Cutter Ranch sheep check out guests on the ranch.

Ewes normally have twins. But sometimes they have triplets.

One lamb is born, then a second, and if a third comes it’s a surprise to the ewe and to the farmer. The ewe looks up and counts: one, two, um, three.

Three? Three is too many. Three means the ewe is confused and doesn’t usually take to any of the lambs. The farmer has to step in to keep them together to make sure they take. The ewes only have 2 nipples after all.

Tyler McNaughton told us this quick story, among many other stories, standing in the doorway of the birthing barn when we visited him and his fiancee Sacha at Cutter Ranch a few weekends ago.

Tyler McNaughton and Sacha Bentall of Cutter Ranch.

“This is where your food comes from,” he said and pointed to the adjustable fencing sections they set up to form the birthing pens. This was where the lambs were born, whether twins or triplets.

Behind Tyler a small room held a cot, an electric heater and a bottle of rye whiskey. One the wall hung branding irons numbered 1 to 9. They showed the remains of the blue paint used to keep track of the lambs. During birthing season ranching lambs was a 24-hour job.

Cutter Ranch Suffolk sheep peer through the fence at Foodist visitors.

The Cutter Ranch has between 60 and 80 head of sheep just north of Clinton, BC, on a wide plane of land reached by Big Bar Road. Turn left off the highway and pass a cattle ranch, scrubby forests and 4 cattle gates. Then cross a small stream and you enter a wide pastures filled with grass, a few horses and all those lambs.

Lambs run everywhere — along the fence parallel to the road, in front of the car, through the gardens and among the 7 or 8 barns, sheds and buildings of Cutter Ranch. A creek curls through the property to complete the pastoral ideal.

We arrived to this scene in 2 cars in mid afternoon after a 4.5 hour drive from Vancouver. We hadn’t stopped for lunch because Tyler mentioned they’d have something ready for us. We had climbed from the coast, up the Fraser River valley to Lytton, branching east along the Thompson River valley to Ashcroft, then heading north along the gold rush route that hugs the Bonaparte Valley through the centre of the province. Now we were in the high country.

Rosemary-crust country pizza from Cutter Ranch lunch.

Soon after we arrived wine was opened and we sat around the large dining table as homemade pizzas roasted in the oven. Sacha’s father Barney told us about the history of the place, how they’d come to own it and the cattle ranch they’d run previously.

With our hunger well satisfied we walked out among the lambs to see the Cutter Ranch. We met the 5 dogs of Cutter Ranch, 2 black labs, 2 shepharding dogs and one golden retriever.

Cutter Ranch barn, lambs and sheep grazing at inner meadows.

Sacha showed us her blacksmith shop where a real live anvil sat among pincers and the materials of her trade. Of course, she had trained as a farrier in Olds, Alberta and worked shoeing horses at Spruce Meadows. Of course.

We walked through the birthing barn and crossed the creek to the horse barn. We found the mature sheep in a movable enclosure just beyond the paddock where Sacha rode her quarter horses.

“He smells like lamb,” Mark said, petting the head of the most friendly sheep. And he did smell like lamb.

Lessons in animal husbandry on the Cutter Ranch.

We leaned on the fence. We watched the sheep eat and baa. Tyler told us that he moved the sheep every few days. On fresh pasture they showed their preferences: first they ate the dandelions, then the weeds, then the grasses.

They ranched 2 breeds of sheep: the Suffolk marked by their black faces and taller bodies, the Charolais marked by their white faces and wider haunches.

Each of the 2 rams wore a harness on their front shoulders that left a swatch of reddish chalk exposed on their sternum. When a ram mounted a ewe to mate they left a chalk mark to indicate that the countdown to birth should begin.

We walked out over the long, ungrazed grass beyond the moveable enclosure and started the irrigation rig of wheels and pipes that pulled water from the creek and made the ground bloom green. Tyler showed us how to walk it over the pasture and it rolled forward like a great water-spraying carpet.

Mark getting to know one of the surprisingly friendly rams.

The rest of the afternoon we spent on the ranch. Barney showed us how to hit golf balls with a pitching iron and get the dogs retrieving them. We poked our heads into the ranch saloon and root cellar, both just what you’d expect from their name.

Later we ate coffee cake and drank Cowboy Coffee off the tailgate of a farm truck.

As we made to leave it felt like we’d visited a whole other world than our city lives. Maybe even a whole other time that our civilized life insulates from us. Here birth and death happened with some regularity and were treated with respect but without sentimentality.

Tyler and Sacha felt the challenge of trying to raise their lambs in a sustainable manner. It was hard work. And they also felt up for the challenge. They had a great passion for making it work.

In emails since our trip, Tyler and I have mentioned making the trip an annual event. And I feel like I’d be lucky to be part of that kind of tradition.

In a few weeks we have 3 lambs, split into halves for 6 people, arriving from Cutter Ranch. While we were on the farm Tyler wanted to point out to us which lambs would be ours. Some of us wanted to know and others didn’t.

Mark named his Suffolk lamb Angus.

More Photos and Credits

More photos from the trip to Cutter Ranch on Flickr in the Foodists Cutter Ranch lamb pool and from the following:

• Leah Nelson
• Jay Grandin
• Mark & Andrea Busse
• Monique Trottier

Thanks to the Gang at Cutter Ranch for the great trip!

New-York cut striploin horse steaks on the grill. Photo: Rachael Ashe

That’s how the saying goes: ‘Hungry enough to eat a horse.’

But have you eaten a horse? Or even just some horse?

I have. Along with 9 friends last weekend we ate horse steaks grilled and seasoned with salt and herbs.

We ate horse steaks between course of dungeonness crab, German potato salad, watermelon-feta salad and finished with a cast-iron tarte tatin.

Dungeoness crab and red rock crab claws. Photo: Rachael Ashe

But how was the horse?

Good. Variable. Okay.

Some pieces were great — tender and savoury and full of flavour and juice. Some were just okay.

Horse meat turns out to be very lean, with a similar texture and grain to beef, but without the marbling. I imagine it would challenge most folks to tell the different between well-cooked horse and grass-fed beef. It tastes very mild to me, someone used to eating beef.

Watermelon and feta cheese salad with mint garnish. Photo: Rachael Ashe

But we don’t like to eat horse, do we? It feels taboo. Not right.

We grilled the horse steaks on the common deck of a Yaletown condo unit, beside an glassed-in pool / hot tub / gym facility where towards the end of our meal 2 men and 2 girls engaged in a transparent tease-chase game, with one of the girls playing along in her tank top and thong. Through the glass her thonged behind played peek-a-boo as she toe ran to the water to protect her modesty.

We had a code word for our horse in case anyone around us felt sensitive. We didn’t have to use it.

When I think of horses I think of big brown questioning eyes. Beautiful muscles under sleek coats. Grace and big, quiet mystery. It’s hard to think of them as food.

And I felt uneasy eating horse. Not because I’ve ever had any great relations to horses. I have no boyhood story of riding a horse or feeding them apples over the half gate in a musty, warm barn.

But I felt uneasy.

German-style potato salad. Photo: Rachael Ashe

I tried to read a little more about how we rationalize our ideas of what is ethical to eat. I read David Foster Wallace’s essay from Gourmet magazine, Consider the Lobster. But it didn’t really help. I recommend it but I’m left with more questions than answers.

Is it cruel to eat meat? Yes.

Does that make those of us who eat meat cruel? Yes.

Can we try to eat meat in as humane a way possible? Yes.

Are we animals whose nature is to be omnivores, inclusive of meat? Yes.

And that’s about as far as I’ve gotten on the topic.

Because there’s not much else I can consider, honestly, other than to reconcile that my choice to eat meat means that animals die. That’s it. There’s no substitute logic.

It’s a complicated business, being human.

How do you reconcile your choice to eat or not eat meat?

Tarte tatin made in a cast-iron pan. Photo: Rachael Ashe

All photos courtesy of Rachael Ashe — Goddess Spiral on Flickr.

Photo by Ross Howard-Jones on Flickr.

“You think we could do something with it?”

That was my first clue. That was what my friend Boris Mann asked me, the day before we went to his holiday open house on Bowen Island.

‘It’ was a dead fawn. Boris and his family had discovered the fawn in the snow within steps of their back door. The fawn had succumbed to the cold and deep snow at about the same place where it had been fed apples by Boris’ mother Anna all fall. They had dragged the fawn to the back of their property and left it in the deeper snow to be eaten by whatever ate deer on Bowen Island.

We arrived by water taxi the next day around midday. I still didn’t know if we would ‘do something’ with the dead fawn.

Photo by Travis Smith on Flickr.

In truth, I felt pretty unsure. ‘Doing something’ meant butchering the fawn. I was all for wild game but I didn’t know that everyone at the open house would be as open. And I didn’t have any hunting knives. I had excuses: I had never butchered a deer that wasn’t a fresh kill, I had never butchered a deer, never mind a fawn, in BC, within sight of downtown Vancouver and the birthplace of Greenpeace and all those moral vegetarians.

So when we arrived at the Mann’s place ‘doing something’ with the fawn remained a question.

The winter sun reflected off the icy snow on our trudge up from the government dock. The warm house beckoned us inside for soup, beer, bread and cheese. But first, Boris wanted to know: were we going to do something about that fawn?

We decided, before we took off our boots and outdoor gear, we were.

Boris led a group of us up the hill in their back yard to a clearing where they had dragged the fawn. We had brought a few kitchen knives, one sharp enough to cut the hide.

Photo by Travis Smith on Flickr.

The fawn lay undisturbed in the snow. A few vague footprints marked the snow. A hoof stuck up. We dug into the snow and found the shape of the body by feel — cold but not frozen. It had no marks on its hide. It had not struggled or been harmed. It had just curled up and frozen.

Photo to Degan on Flickr.

We decided to cut it open. I won’t say too much about that part of the story. If you want to know, ask me and I’ll put together a post on how to butcher a deer (or any 4 legged mammal).

We gutted the deer and hung it to bleed. We skinned it and sawed off the head. We cut the loin off the spine, the hips off the pelvis, the front shoulder off the rib cage and sectioned the neck. We had the big pieces broken down in a big silver salad bowl. Winter dusk approached and we slid back down the hill to the house to finish the finer work in the warmth.

Photo by Travis Smith on Flickr.

Someone brought a hoof with them and knocked on the patio door with it.

We brought the big cuts inside and started to think of them as venison to be cooked, no longer fawn to be butchered. Photos were taken. The story of finding the fawn quickly got told again to new arrivals wondering what we had been doing.

We started by cooking the loin. Cut into small round medallions, seasoned with salt and pepper, Boris pan fried them in duck fat. We rested them for about 3 minutes then cut then quartered each medallion and served them on a platter for people to eat them with their fingers in whole bites.

Photo by Travis Smith on Flickr.

The early reviews came back positive. It was the most tender red meat anyone had ever tasted.

Next we cut the hooves from the front legs, trimmed the neck and placed them all with their bones into a large cast iron roasting pan. We added Czechoslovakian cabbage soup as braising liquid. Some red wine stood on the counter so we added it then lidded the pan and placed it in the oven at 325ish. We looked at the clock to make sure to take it out in around 3 hours.

I started trimming the roasts off the back hips. With such small hips the roasts came off closer in size to steaks than any roast from the butcher shop. I laid them out and they flattened on a cutting board. I seasoned them with salt, pepper and thyme and seared them in the pan with more duck fat.

Photo by Travis Smith on Flickr.

The meat had an incredible liquid quality to it. As soon as the roasts hit the hot cast iron they tensed and shrank, like a snail retreating into its shell. So much moisture in that young meat! The moisture quickly turned to steam and a fine, savory, peppery crust formed.

We rotated the roasts through the frying pan, placing the seared ones under tin foil on a standing pan. A thick crust of seasoning remained on the bottom of the pan. I added a few cups of red wine to the pan and began to deglaze. Once all the beautiful crusty fond released from the pan I added some chopped dried fruits — apricots, cranberries and prunes — and they softened and mixed into the rich pan sauce.

By the time the wine had reduced by about three quarters, someone had handed me a can of Kokanee beer. It felt like the right beer at the right time. This was simple, blue-collar cooking that matched well to simple beer straight from the can.

Photo by Degan on Flickr.

I poured the reduced wine and soft fruit over the roasts on the roasting pan, tucking the bits of apricot between the meat. To make room in the oven I pulled out the braising pan with the front shoulders and neck, bumped the oven heat to 350 and slid in the roasts. They finished in about 10 minutes and rested for 5 minutes.

We sliced the roasts to serve. Across the grain of the meat we cut delicate slices of rare fawn. It was clear again that this was fawn. We plated the slices on a platter and poured over the pan juice. I snuck a few slices onto a side plate to eat with my hands. The texture felt incredible: the crusty outside yielded to a dense inside closer in texture to tuna than beef. The sweet, tart fruits finished it.

And maybe you don’t want to know this, because it was a fawn, because it was a deer that had eaten apples from Anna Mann’s hands, but that meat was about the best meat I’ve ever tasted.

Boris and his dad Horst served the roast slices straight from the roasting pan and I removed the braised front legs and neck from the oven. I pulled the legs and neck from the braising liquid to let them cool, then cranked the heat on the oven. Back in went the roasting pan with the braising liquid to concentrate.

Photo from Degan on Flickr.

The legs and neck cooled. I’d tell you that the meat from the bones, but I really just lifted the bones and the meat feel free. The meat was so tender and falling apart, the challenge would be to serve it in some form.

On a cookie sheet we laid out the larger pieces of meat. I removed the concentrated braising liquid from the oven and spooned portions over the meat on the cookie sheet.

Back into the oven, under the broiler for about 5 minutes, then the meat was ready — a little crusted on the outside, tender as can be on the inside. We had to use a spatula to lift it. Each portion we served over a slice of baguette to soak up the juice and provide a subtantial base. The meat just fell apart otherwise.

Somebody served that dish. I can’t remember who.

Photo by Degan on Flickr.

We looked around the kitchen and only 2 shanks remained. We had started with a fawn and now we had 20 people fed, groaning, happy and a few leftovers.

And I won’t lie: it felt a little triumphant. A little like we’d gotten back in touch with a way of living and eating that we only rarely touch — on camping trips or fishing trips. A little like we’d gone back in time to an age when this kind of thing wouldn’t have been less unusual.

We closed down the kitchen and started to clean up. Friends helped out and we soon had the big parts of the job done so that we could sit and open a few more Kokanees.

And the two remaining shanks? We put in them fridge for another time.

Author’s Note

Purloined is a fictional restaurant based on my home cooking and whimsy. If I did have a restaurant, this would be the menu. Though I couldn’t stand cooking the same dishes night after night.

We’re taking reservations in the Comments.

Starters

Crostini platter • basket of French bread crostinis • herb butter • pan relish spread • seasonal charcuterie • select cheeses • mixed olives

Grilled mixed vegetables • peppers, gourds and roots • savoury humous • chilled tzatziki • select flatbreads

Raw vegetables and dip • seasonal cut veggies • daily dips

Ants on a log • celery sticks • peanut butter • Sun Maid raisins

Kettle-popped popcorn • salted and drizzled melted butter

Bowls of Cheezies • Hawkins’ Cheezies • 3 blue bowls

Chips and dip • Old Dutch Rip-L chips • onion dip

Salads

(all salads served with crostini)

Stripped Ceasar • romaine lettuce • extra-virgin olive oil • aged parmesan • rosemary croutons • lime-juice vinegrette

Candied Salmon • candied chum salmon • baby spinach • grilled red peppers • smoked gouda • red-wine vinegrette

Brisket Bits • savoury-herb crusted brisket • fall salad greens • shallots • celery stalks and fronds • seasonal herbs

Lights

Sesame-Seed Bagel Gala • toasted sesame seed bagel • softened brie • maple butter • gala apple slices • served open-face

Grilled Cheese and Onion Sandwich • melted emmenthal • melted swiss • wine-softened Walla Walla onions • thick-sliced rye bread • served open-face

Back Bacon Sandwich • basil pesto • aged white cheddar • thin-sliced tomatoes • romaine lettuce • toasted multigrain bread

Roasted Chilies Beef Chili • roasted ancho peppers • roasted bell peppers • beef chuck • chorizo sausage • sour cream • chives • thick-sliced rye toast

Mains

Bus-Driver’s Baked Eggs • daily fresh ingredients • breadcrumb-herb crust • Yukon Gold pan fries • thick-sliced rye toast • strawberry-rhubard jam

Pan-Seared Ling Cod • dried mushroom crust • bed of citrus salts • Yukon Gold pan fries • mashed yams • crostinis

Leg of Pork • roasted carrots • wine-glazed shallots • porter-jus reduction • herb mashed potatoes • a pig this good, you don’t eat him all at once

Wet-Roasted Beef Brisket • savoury-herb crust • shallot-leek pan relish • baked Yukon Gold potato • fall salad greens

Roast Turkey • breadcrumb stuffing • pan gravy • mashed potatoes • steamed broccoli • fall salad greens

Finish

Hot Daily Crisp • fresh seasonal berries • cinnamon-granola crust • French vanilla ice cream

Pa’s Special • French vanilla ice cream • fresh seasonal berries • warmed maple syrup

Peach-Vanilla Milkshake • Okanagan peaches • Mexican vanilla extract • vanilla-bean ice cream • spearmint garnish