One of the great things about starting this blog has been connecting to kindred spirits near and far, some of them with blogs of their own. Distances collapse in the virtual landscape, rendering us all just a keyboard away. But true connections inevitably materialize in 3-D—as recipients of my caramels discovered—and on occasion this means little packages of pure joy winging their way to me from Julia (quince & sour cherry preserves; grape, fig & walnut conserve); from Rob & David (birch syrup and homemade herbes de Provence); and from Janet (wild lime catsup and Buddha's hand preserves). This last creature is an old pal from 20 years ago. We had long gone our separate ways only to chance upon one another and discover how our paths had neatly converged. Janet is an artist (married to an artist), mother and writer living on a farm. Her newish blog, A Raisin & A Porpoise, is full of her hilariously wry wit, but also poignant insights and recipes for nourishing dishes that I actually want to cook right away, like this divine dip and these gingerbread muffins. And the spicy fruit leather, above, which she kindly presents to you here, in her own words.

 

I am a pretty lucky person. I have a great friend in Laura, who will probably not tolerate too much gushy fan mail in this context, and anyway if you are reading this, you already know a great deal about her infinite fabulousness. I also live next to my parents’ apple orchard, lucky in itself in many ways, and in the fall my luck takes the tangible form of bushels and bushels of apples of various types pouring into my kitchen. Gallons of applesauce are produced, by me and my coven of canning cronies. Staring down the barrel of the produce-desert known as a New England winter, it seems no amount of applesauce will constitute enough applesauce to carry us through. But even for a family of five, in a boom apple year like 2011 was for us, applesauce tolerance may be reached before the supply runs out.

When Laura crowed about her new toy, the food dehydrator, I suggested she try the spicy leathers I made in the fall when there was an apple everywhere I looked, and she invited me here to tell you how I made them. It seemed a little wacky to make fruit leather in the middle of winter, but then I noted the dwindling pile of fruit leather in the pantry, and the relative steadiness of the number of jars of applesauce. Fruit leather is basically dried applesauce, and fruit leather tolerance is never reached, in my experience, before the supply is exhausted. So here I am.

My first exposure to fruit leather was the sunset-orange tubes of sticky, tart and sweet apricot leather my mother would bring home from Sahadi’s market on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. Just the thought of ripping the strips off their crinkly plastic sets me drooling like a dog. Either Proust was right or they have changed the recipe; a recent attempt to recapture that burst of Middle-Eastern sunshine in the mouth was entirely disappointing: too sweet and totally blah. But a family trip to Israel last year, and specifically to the produce market, suggests someone somewhere still knows how to make it even if it doesn’t clear customs in New York. That flavor plus another memory—of the salty-hot mango-chile pops I used to see in the Mexican markets in California—led to these two items below. I would say that they are the adult answer to the little sticky rectangles in every child’s lunchbox, except I have to hide it from my children so they don’t eat it all in one day.

Although I tried to do exactly as I recall doing when I made the first batches in the fall, there is so much variation from hot pepper to hot pepper, and from batch of applesauce to batch of applesauce, and from one man’s ceiling to another man’s floor, that you should definitely sample to determine if your own tastes are being satisfied. Taste the slurry for a balance of sweet, tart and heat, remembering that all three will be dialed up as the mixture concentrates in the dehydrator. The proportion of honey to applesauce here produces a good final texture, pliable but not too sticky, but the heat and tartness can be adjusted to your liking. Using a blender to mix everything also helps to give the tenderest result—the slurry should look like baby food. Finally, my dehydrator is a vintage 1970s model and I have never even tried to find liners for the trays. Instead, I use parchment paper, which works like a dream. Just remember to take some care to keep a good inch margin of paper around the slurry when you pour or ladle it out.

GFL note: The photos and captions are mine, so I should tell you that my fruit leather was made with a puree of pears into which I stirred some burnt chipotle salsa I had hanging around as well as a little lime juice and a couple of tablespoons of the now-ubiquitous-in-my-kitchen Mike's Hot Honey. Janet's recipe is actually for an easy and very forgiving technique that allows you to get creative and use whatever you have on hand.

Don't have a dehydrator? Set your oven as low as possible (175º?) and prop the door open with the handle of a long wooden spoon. Check the leather after a couple of hours and every 20 minutes thereafter until it achieves the desired consistency. Too done and you will have fruit chips!