Nigella Eats Everything

October seems to be the perfect month for me to make jam. Last year I filled some mini jars with bramble jam – mini purely because of the blackberry curse that haunts me – and although that is literally when the tradition started, I would like to it continue. This year it’s time to celebrate the beautiful produce of France with fig and thyme jam.

Two years in a row, and who knows what’s in store for next October (I’ve spotted gorgeous plums in shades of red, yellow and green, a traffic light collection if you will, at my local supermarket, but I’ll probably jam them before the end of the month to be honest. The Jam Monster inside me can never say no).

It was a delightful twist of fate which led me to these figs, and purely because I went in the wrong direction twice. You would have thought map reading was easier since the invention of Google Maps but alas, it’s not. I emerged from this tangle of sunny streets to the main road where a fruit and veg market was in full swing.

My food adventuress conquered my internal lazy teenager, so I meandered past the stalls until I spotted the figs. Plump and purple, they were enormous, exactly what I hoped to see in the south of France. I swiped three punnets of these bad boys for only 5 euros, and will be back for that nice old fig seller to take more of my money.

Back home and finally fed because, yes the teenager won there, I proceeded to make fig and thyme jam. Once upon a time, jam-making was a daunting task for me and I approached the pile of fruit like it was a literal mountain I had to climb. Now though, after troubling myself about pectin, writing a jam-making guide, and eating hundreds of different varieties, I practically swaggered into the kitchen.

First, I snipped off the woody fig tip, which kind of reminds me of a nipple, then quartered them all, some oozing pink seeds across the chopping board. In a pan, I mixed the fig quarters with sugar, a squeeze of lemon juice and a teaspoon of dried thyme, then let them relax into a sticky figgy syrup.

Later, I returned to put the pan on medium heat which dissolved the sugar, then whacked it up to high so it bubbled, boiled and frothed like an angry volcano. Soon enough, I had a thick syrupy jam full of softened chunks of fig, just begging me to dip a finger in, but no ouch too hot.

I know fig and thyme jam sounds a bit weird. The thyme offers a gentle savoury note to the jam’s sticky sweetness, harmonising the flavours delicately, although don’t go overboard otherwise it will taste like a Christmas dinner. Honestly, this fig and thyme jam is a masterstroke and I’ve nearly finished the jar as I tend to add a daily dollop of it to my morning porridge, and also in some fine cheese scones, working like a caramelised onion chutney to complement the salty cheese.

Maybe every month should be October so then I can spend all my time making jam.

How to make fig and thyme jam

Now, a potential reason why we are daunted by making jam is because it seems so precise and strict, almost Victorian and made in the grand kitchens of Downton Abbey. This is definitely not the case – double check the jam-making guide if you’re not sure.

When it comes to the fruit to sugar ratio I tend to go for 3:2; my sugar weighs two-thirds of my fruit. This ensures there is enough to set the jam, but not too much for it to become almost saccharine in flavour.

Meanwhile, the amount of thyme is also relative to the quantity of fruit. Once my figs were prepped they weighed approximately 400g so I added a teaspoon of dried thyme (which is more potent than fresh).

So, don’t be overwhelmed by weights and measures. Use as many figs as you can find and follow the 3:2 ratio.

Making jam is surprisingly effortless after you’ve tried it once. And figs are my favourite fruits to jam because they break down so easily, softening into the perfect sticky consistency. Before you know it, you’ll be spreading fig and thyme jam on your morning toast.