How to preserve the spoils of a season to enjoy all year long, or at least long enough to use before they can rot? How to store them in order to survive winter? Or a long voyage—the Phoenicians sailing across the Mediterranean, the Basques across the North Atlantic in search of whales and cod, the conquistadors heading to the New World in search of silver and gold. People have been struggling with these questions from the beginning.
Whether it is quince, tomatoes, or asparagus, pork or partridge, even anchovies, there is a traditional time to harvest, slaughter, or hunt, a time of abundance and even prime flavor. From the lengthy tradition of preserving, born out of practicality and perfected with centuries of trials and errors, we now have what can best be called delicacies. Using smoke, salt, alcohol, olive oil, and vinegar, even honey, and then technology brought about with Nicolas Appert’s early nineteenth-century successes in canning, the lifespan of countless products was extended. And, in many cases, their flavors changed for the better. I would vigorously argue that desalted salt cod is superior in flavor and texture to fresh cod, that the flavors created in curing a leg of ham are far more complex than any other way it can be prepared, and that tinned cockles carry richer nuances of the sea than they do fresh.
Spain is unusual in its love for—and vast array of—conserves, and no country has guarded, or expanded, the tradition as strongly. Using the best products available, these conservas are some of the most sublime gourmet goods produced in Spain. Times have changed. Seasons have gotten longer. (Or, as my wife’s aunt says, “Seasons were shorter then, and we had to grab it when it was ripe.”) We have freezers and markets that stock products that, though not in season locally, are somewhere else. (Or flown in from abroad.) Yet homemade conserves remain a key part of the country despensa (pantry). Marmalades, tomato sauces, quince paste (see page 323), stewed vegetables, dried herbs, cherries macerating in a clear spirit with a cinnamon stick and a couple of coffee beans (see page 320), or dried fruits in sweet wine (see page 326)—these are the flavors of a grandmother’s pantry, flavors of the countryside well-organized along tall, narrow shelves.
Indeed, there remains an almost inexpressible pleasure in opening a jar of marmalade put up in late summer and spreading it on a slice of toast deep into the short days of winter. Spooning a couple of cherries (see page 320) that I began soaking in spring into a champagne glass for guests in January makes me giddy.
There is also an ample range of savory preserves. The finest for me are the broad range of escabeches, vinegar and olive oil marinades often flavored with onions, carrots, and herbs. Partridge or quail (see page 330), bonito tuna, sardines (see page 332), mussels—you name it. Even oysters.
With a handful of notable exceptions—jams and marmalades being the most obvious—most home conserves are prepared these days to be eaten sooner rather than later.
