Kindness of Strange Pears

Making the most of a windfall means hustling pounds of pears into tarts, butter and other fall treats.

By Liz Pearson | Monday, 30 November 2009 | 16:49

Last week, I stumbled onto 20 pounds of pears. I didn't drop $3.99 a pound on them at the store or snatch them up at the farmers market here in Austin, Texas. I got them the old-fashioned way: I took the pears from a stranger's yard.

Two weeks ago, my friend Lin stopped over for lunch. Somewhere between the stewed white beans and the bread pudding, she let out a doozy. "There are so many pears on my neighbor's tree that the branches hang to the ground," Lin said, handing me a bag of six or eight small, speckled green pears. "There must be 2,000 of them."

Each was the size of a beet and firm to the touch but tender enough to give juicily with a bite. The pears had the tremendous aroma and charm of lilies and tasted like orange blossom honey. With her share, Lin had made a buttery tarte tatin, subbing the pears for apples. For my part, I ate them all out of hand by noon the next day. I may have shared one with my husband, but I can't be sure.

For a week, the idea of those beauties rotting away on low-hanging limbs kept me up at night. I equated them with 2,000 brainy little prodigies who would never know the Ivy League. "Just call her," my husband begged. So I called Lin, who called her neighbor, who said to hurry. The birds had been having a Thanksgiving feast.

Poached pears with cranberry syrup. Top image, part of the
fine harvest.

Lin lives north of Austin, about an hour away. By the time I reached her the sun had begun to set, but there was still enough light to see the full extent of the damage. When we walked into her neighbor's yard, there were two pears left on the tree. On the ground lay hundreds of them. It was like the fall of the Alamo.

I'm sure I heard the birds laughing at us. I laughed, too. "Oh, it's fine," I lied. "The ones you brought by last week were plenty!" Oh, lord, was that a tear welling up? I'm tough, but to be fair, I'm a canner, a harvester, a "we'll-find-a-way-to-use-that-up" sort of woman. I planned to put up pear jam, chutney and pickled pears and bake the extra quarts into crumbly cakes. "Maybe next year," I faked.

Lin did her best to quell my desperation. "You never know," she chirped nervously. Stooping down, she turned the pears over, one by one. Many had been picked over by birds or were crawling with hungry ants. But remarkably, whole aprons full were still picture perfect.

Back home that evening, I lined up 87 pears on the countertop. (Full disclosure: That figure excludes the three I ate on the ride home.) Almost all of them were blemish-free, the others enough so.

The next morning, the light through my kitchen window changed from yellow to orange while my fingers and arms happily ached from the peeling and coring. I put eight pounds of sliced pears into a kettle on the stove to boil away into pear butter. On the burner next to it, I poached a dozen pears in a shallow pot with a bottle of spicy Becker Vineyards Grenache, vanilla beans, star anise and honey until they were tender and then chilled them in the fragrant wine. Still more pears went into pumpkin-maple tarts to share with our family.

When my husband arrived home from teaching, we poured thick cranberry syrup over the tops of two icy cold poached pears and ate them standing over the kitchen counter before dinner. The rest of the poached pears made their way onto our Thanksgiving table and were the hit of the meal. To think that I almost lost my chance! Lin, if you're reading this, don't move before next fall.

Spiced pear butter

Spiced Pear Butter

Makes about 6 cups

This recipe is based on one that appears in "Stocking Up" by Carol Hupping (Rodale Press, 1986). Be sure to peel and slice the pears over a bowl to collect any juices that fall. If you like, add a few thick slices of peeled fresh ginger to the kettle too, then remove and discard them when you do the same for the cinnamon and cloves.

Ingredients

4 quarts peeled, cored and sliced pears (about 8 pounds)
1 cup pineapple juice
¾ cup honey
½ cup fresh lemon juice
4 cinnamon sticks
1½ tbsp. whole cloves, tied into a piece of cheesecloth

Directions

In a food processor, puree the pears and their accumulated juices in batches until just a few small chunks remain.
Transfer to a large stainless steel or enamel kettle. Add pineapple juice, honey, lemon juice, cinnamon and cloves and cook, partially covered, over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until very thick, 3 to 4 hours.
Remove and discard cinnamon and cloves, then pour pear butter into hot, scalded jars, leaving ½-inch headspace and seal.
Process for 10 minutes in a boiling-water bath. Leave at room temperature to cool and check to be sure each is sealed before storing. (Alternately, ladle the cooled pear butter into airtight containers and store in the fridge.) NOTE: For more details on the safest procedures for canning, go to http://www.freshpreserving.com/.

Liz Pearson is a writer, consultant, food stylist and contributor to the Los Angeles Times, "Every Day With Rachael Ray" and Saveur.

All photos by Liz Pearson