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Created by Chef Thomas
A pale gold cordial made from hedgerow elderflower in late May, steeped overnight with lemon and citric acid, the sort of thing you bottle in June and are grateful for in January.
Late May into June, the hedgerows turn cream. You smell it before you see it, a sweet, muscat, slightly foxy perfume that drifts across lanes and field edges and tells you the year has tipped into its brief golden stretch. Elderflower season is short. Two weeks, maybe three, and then the flowers brown and the moment has gone. If you want to catch it, you have to go out and catch it.
This is the cordial I make every year without fail. It asks very little of you: a walk on a dry morning, a pan of syrup, a bowl big enough to hold it all, and the patience to let it steep for a full day. That's it. The flowers do the clever bit. The sugar carries the perfume. The citric acid keeps it fresh and gives it that little lift that stops it tasting flabby.
A splash in a glass of cold water on a hot afternoon. A slug over a scoop of good vanilla ice cream. A measure with gin and soda and a sprig of mint when someone drops by unexpectedly. In February, when the garden is bare and the days are dark at four, you pour a little into hot water with a slice of lemon and suddenly June is in the room again.
I wrote it down in the notebook the first year I made it: "Walked the lane. Picked twenty-five heads. Smells of summer coming in the window." That's still the whole recipe, as far as I'm concerned. Everything after is just the doing.
Quantity
25
freshly picked, shaken free of insects, stems trimmed
Quantity
1.5kg
Quantity
1.5 litres
Quantity
3
zest pared, then sliced
Quantity
60g
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| elderflower headsfreshly picked, shaken free of insects, stems trimmed | 25 |
| white caster sugar | 1.5kg |
| water | 1.5 litres |
| unwaxed lemonszest pared, then sliced | 3 |
| citric acid | 60g |
Go out on a dry, sunny morning, ideally before noon. This is when the flowers are at their most fragrant, the pollen still heavy on the heads. Look for creamy-white umbels that smell sweet and muscat-like when you hold them to your nose. Any that smell of cat or nothing at all are past it, leave them for the birds. Snip the heads with a bit of stem to hold onto, and lay them loose in a basket, not a bag. They bruise.
Put the sugar and water in a large saucepan over a medium heat. Stir now and then until the sugar has completely dissolved and the liquid runs clear. Bring it just to the boil, then take it off the heat. You're not making jam. Keep it bright.
While the syrup warms, pare the zest from the lemons in long strips with a vegetable peeler, keeping the white pith behind. Slice the peeled lemons into rounds and drop them into a large, clean bowl or bucket along with the zest and the citric acid.
Trim the thickest stems from the elderflower heads, leaving the smaller stalks attached (this is fine, they carry perfume too). Tip the flowers into the bowl with the lemons. Pour the hot syrup over the top and give it all a gentle push under the liquid with a wooden spoon. The kitchen should smell, within a minute or two, of something between honeysuckle and warm summer air. That's exactly right.
Cover the bowl with a clean tea towel or cling film and leave it somewhere cool for 24 hours. Stir it once or twice if you pass by. The liquid will turn from clear to pale gold as the flowers give up their scent. Don't be tempted to rush this. The difference between twelve hours and twenty-four is the difference between a nice drink and a proper cordial.
Line a sieve with a piece of muslin (or a clean, fine tea towel) and set it over a large jug or bowl. Pour the cordial through slowly, letting it drip through on its own. Don't press. Pressing cloudy bits through will only cloud the bottle. Decant into sterilised glass bottles, seal, and label with the date. You've just put the first week of June in a bottle.
1 serving (about 38g)
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