Grape Mostarda

Is there anything more succulent than a cluster of dusty yet shiny, tight purple globes hanging on the vine? Whenever I go grape picking, I  really have to restrain myself: I want to just grab them all. It's such a textile event. There is something about grapes that you just want to squeeze. Their weight and firmness feels good in your hand, and of course biting into them is a pleasure of their own. The chewy and slightly tannic skin starts sweet and ends a touch bitter. It yields to the gelatinous yet tensile flesh inside. Both are an almost obvious pleasure, followed by the gratifying separation of the heart-shaped bitter pit with your tongue. Even the spitting out of the seeds is satisfying.

I was thinking of a sweet preparation for these particular red sheridan grapes, but was intrigued by a suggestion from a friend on Instagram. She said chutney. My mind doesn't normally think of a chutney when thinking of grapes, but it was a brilliant idea. I almost made it. In particular, this one from the Cozy Herbivore. But instead I started thinking of mostarda, that fabulous fruity mustard (mustardy fruit?) that hails from Italy. 

Grape Mostarda
Adapted from Grape Mostarda, Bon Appetit
Yield: 2 half-pint jars

About two pounds of local red sheridan grapes (I'm betting any local, sweet variety would do well)
1 small white onion, chopped finely
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup white wine vinegar
2 tablespoons of yellow mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon of dried red chili pepper flakes
1 teaspoon of fresh rosemary, chopped
1 tablespoon of candied citrus (or you can use citrus zest)
1 bay leaf
1 tablespoon of dijon mustard

First, prep the grapes. Slip the innards from the skin into a saucepan. Reserve the skins in a bowl. Simmer the grape innards for about ten minutes--you will notice the flesh separate from the seeds. Turn off the heat and let it cool a bit. Then press it all through a food mill to remove the seeds. Add the flesh to the skins. Sauté the onion in a small bit of olive oil until just softened. Then add the grapes, and the rest of the ingredients, except the mustard. Get it to a good simmer, and let it cook for about twenty minutes, until it looks glossy and thick. Add the mustard. Turn off the heat and pour into clean jars. Keep refrigerated.

I think this mostarda is best after sitting a few days, and it should keep in the fridge for quite some time. The recipe makes two half-pint jars, and a little goes a long way, so you might want to gift some of this to a friend or serve it at a party with cheese. The color is amazing, and it's slightly zingy due to the red pepper. The little mustard seeds give it a caviar-like pop in each bite. I couldn't resist and we had some for dinner the day I made it: a baguette, a creamy French bleu cheese, soppressata and a bottle of wine. Aren't those the best dinners? The next day I had the leftovers in a sandwich. Heaven! But upon tasting it again today, it's much better now that the intense flavors have had time to mingle.

Concord Grapes, Apricots and Apple Cider Donut Holes

I'm sitting here with a small container of apple cider donut holes that are, I think, superior to the actual donut. Thick with sugar and cinnamon they are still a little crisp from the fryer. Oh, I do love this time of year! All hail the apple cider (insert type of fried dough here).

But what I wanted to talk about was Concord grapes. The other day we purchased a basket of them for baby's birthday party because they looked cool and harvest-y, but then, guess what, oh yeah, then you have almost a full basket left over. So, what do you do? Well, if you are a crazy person like me who can't bear to see anything go to waste, you will do this: pick over all the grapes (which smelled so wonderful, to me it's a sweet, heady, perfumed mix of summer and fall), remove them from the stem, separate them from the raisin-y, moldy ones, pinch every bloody grape to remove their jacket, take all the pulp and simmer it in a sturdy pot, strain said pulp to remove seeds, return pulp to the pan and add the reserved jackets, bring back to a simmer, add a cup of sugar and two tablespoons of lemon juice, bring to a rolling boil and then jar the gorgeous deep purple stuff, all the while thinking, I will never, ever do that stupidity again.

I will say that the skins ruin it a bit. I used a recipe for the filling for grape pie, which, maybe because it got cooked in the oven afterwards the skins softened a bit. If there is to be a next time (which, stupid me, there probably will) I would just follow a recipe for grape jelly instead which bypasses the skinning and adding of the skins.

The next day I made apricot jam with low sugar pectin. I don't mind pectin. I know purists will demure, but as I say, what the jell! (You know it's bad when you begin making really awful pectin jokes. Wow.)