Food and Drink

The next best thing to Christmas is New Year’s Eve, all sparkle and spangles whether you’re dancing it up under the glitter ball, cross-country skiing through moon-dusted snow, or celebrating Whistler’s First Night out under the stars.

Stars are a magical symbol, loaded with much mystique and meaning since ancient times. I think that’s much of the reason why we take such pleasure in eating foods shaped as same.

I remember the reaction when we down-to-earth folk of northern climes, at least those who hadn’t ventured too far into the exotic tropics, first came across slices of sunshine yellow starfruit garnishing fruit flans and salads, adding the flare and mystery of the exotic to just about anything they graced. The wow factor was a 10.

Same Canadians often expressed disappointment in the flavour – a sweet, sometimes slightly tart, acidic blandness that belies their spectacular appearance. But crunch into a freshly picked one in the steamy rainforest of Malaysia or at the end of a dusty walk in Sri Lanka and you’ll think them quite spectacular, the juice of one more satisfying than a litre of bottled water. The amazing thing is the flesh has no fibre.

The starfruit comes from a fair-sized tree, also known as the carambola, native to Sri Lanka and the Moluccas. Like so many other things in our homogenized world, it’s now been bred to grow quite happily in locations as mundane as Florida, Hawaii and California. The good news is that such cultivation makes them much more affordable for us than the first batches flown over from Asia, in first-class seats, I always assumed, given their outrageous price years ago.

If you’re picking one out in the grocery store, make sure the thin, waxy skin is undamaged. You can’t go by colour alone for ripeness – depending on the variety they range from pale lemon to deep orange/yellow. A hint of green on the longitudinal ribs, or wings, means less ripeness and a bit more tartness. Brown spots mean more sugar development, just like bananas. Avoid softer fruits with damaged edges on the ribs.

If you slice into one and find the small brown seeds, try planting them. They are viable for a few days after picking and if you’ve lucked out with one from California or Hawaii there’s a good chance it will grow – here, indoors only of course. They make gorgeous potted plants.

Besides their fabulous festive appearance, want one good reason to seek out starfruits during this time of year? Eat one whole, like an apple, and you’ll be getting about half of your recommended daily intake of vitamin C and 15 per cent of your vitamin A, a winning combo during cold/flu season. Move beyond the starfruit garnish and try them in curries (add them as you would apples) or jellies and tarts.

To help you branch out with your own star-struck offerings and share the magical mystique of starfruit, here’s a recipe for starfruit muffins from a Florida-based bed and breakfast. The hostess says that guests thought she got up early to cut the fruit into star shapes before serving. Don’t tell yours that you don’t.

Starfruit muffins

1 stick butter, softened

1/3 cup sugar

1 tablespoon molasses

1 egg

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup whole-wheat flour

1/2 cup quick oats

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup buttermilk

1/4 cup chopped starfruit

1/4 cup flaked coconut

1 tablespoon grated orange peel

12 slices starfruit

Confectioners’ sugar to dust on top

12 muffin cup papers

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a large bowl, beat together butter and sugar with beater until fluffy. Add molasses and eggs; beat until well blended. In medium bowl, combine flours, oats, baking soda, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. With a wooden spoon, stir flour mixture into butter mixture alternately with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Fold in chopped starfruit, coconut, and orange peel. Divide batter into paper-lined muffin cups, filling each two-thirds full. Top each cup with one starfruit slice. Bake 20 to 25 minutes or until they're golden brown and spring back when pressed lightly. Cool on rack 5 minutes; remove from pan and dust lightly with confectioners’ sugar.

The other big "star" of the food world is, of course, star anise. My husband and I drag bags of it home from Chinatown just to leave it lying around on our kitchen counter, the shape and fragrance so pleasing it’s like a trip to a sunshine destination on a winter’s day.

Star anise, as we call it, has been lending its distinctive flavour to Asian dishes for centuries. Along with Szechuan peppercorns, cloves, fennel and cinnamon, it comprises the venerable seasoning we call Chinese five spice, especially a favourite in Cantonese dishes. You can use star anise in dishes and drinks as you would anise seed. However, the star anise flavour is stronger and more bitter. Use sparingly.

The elegant little star-shaped fruit also comes from a tree, one native to China and Viet Nam. Now here’s the clincher. One of the key ingredients in Tamiflu, which everyone is trying to stockpile in anticipation of an avian flu pandemic, is a compound called shikimic acid. It’s only found in star anise.

While this stands as yet one more poignant argument for protecting every diverse form of life on this planet, it also partly explains why star anise is in short supply. According to a report in the Vancouver Sun, 90 per cent of the world’s supply of star anise is already used in the production of Tamiflu.

The other part of the explanation: star anise is extremely difficult to cultivate and it matures very slowly, flowering only after six years. Plus it is grown only in four provinces in China, and get this: this year’s crop has been wiped out by mudslides incurred by unseasonably strong tropical storms (read: global warming).

Next time you’re gazing at the stars, remember the little star anise and how we are all truly connected.

Have a happy, star-spangled New Year.

The Cornish make a traditional dish just before Christmas with the charming name of stargazy pie. It’s made with pilchards (the equivalent of sardines), their little fishy heads poking up through the crust, gazing at the stars.