no recipe today

as it seems that we had blackberries for dinner.

But instead,

a new mix!

Need a bit of new music? (I did too)

download here...

pannekaker

I love a recipe that comes from a grandmother.

It seems that every day at some point I think about my grandmother at night in her kitchen with yellowish light- getting batters together for the next morning's breakfast. I'm turning the sifter with a squeak, squeak and she's trying to get the dough out of her wedding ring. I loved that ring that squeezed her swollen finger. It was just old, and that was so refreshing to me as the child of the new age 80's.
It's been almost 15 years since I've baked with her, and I just can't seem to stop hanging out in those memories. But as I spend more time in my own kitchen, I notice a subtle but definite shift. Even at 31, I have a hard time believing in my own adulthood. I'm not sure when (if ever) it will ever sink in. But I can't ignore the fact that now it's my wedding ring encrusted with dough. Now it's Sadie with the sifter. Shirley might not be here physically, but it seems that without even consciously trying, I'm reenacting those memories. I'm playing her part in it all, and the girls have stepped into my old role.

This past week, we had a happy and spontaneous visit from Sarah and Jefferson. Usually we camp out up at their place in Portland, but this time they took hold of our guest room for a while. The night before they left, Sarah spied our little crepe pan and announced that we'd all be eating Norwegian pancakes the next morning before they hopped in their little car to head back up north.

As she whisked the batter and swirled the pan, Sarah started talking about her Norwegian great grandmother Volborg who passed this recipe down. I've known Sarah since I was two, and I'd never heard about Volborg.
In Sarah's family, these pancakes are reserved for Christmas and other special occasions when someone really needs a good pancake. They call them Norwegian Pancakes, but I'm pretty sure one might find them under the name of pannekaker. They are eggier than french crepes, and perfumed with cardamom. They were so fantastic that I begged her to let me share her family recipe. Of course! she said...Take it! If I can just get it down on paper...


And so, like most family recipes, this one might need a grandmother whispering in your ear. But Sarah has filled it in with as much advice as she could, and the experimentation will be up to you.

Norwegian Pancakes, or Pannekaker
(from Sarah, and Lyra, and Volborg)

serves four

4 eggs
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 stick butter, melted
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon ground cardamom
whole milk (see directions for amount)

Whisk together the flour, salt and cardamom. Beat the eggs in a separate bowl. Add the eggs to the flour mixture to create a paste. Slowly add melted butter while whisking. Add milk slowly until the batter coats a metal spoon- not too thick, not too thin.
Heat a crepe pan or small skillet until medium hot. Start to swirl the pan in a circular direction before you even pour the batter into the pan. Maintain the motion while ladling about 3/4 cup batter into the pan. Do not stop the swirling motion until the batter is evenly distributed. Return pan to burner, and flip when the underside is golden brown. Cook on the second side for 30 seconds, and then fold in thirds and transfer to a plate in a 200 degree oven to keep warm until serving.

Finding the right consistency of the batter will take a bit of experimentation. If the batter is too thin, it won't adhere to the pan. Sprinkle a little flour over the batter and whisk in. If the batter is too thick, it will look more like a pancake than a crepe. It should be so thin that you are worried that it will break- this is the texture that you are going for.

Serve with butter and maple syrup, on Christmas, or really any day that you need them.

cucumber mint sorbet with lime shortbread

Oh, ho! It's time for a party! I'm a little bit excited that I got invited and because I'm that sort of guest, I'm bringing all my friends along too! Are you ready for Summer fest 2010?

I do agree that it's good to know all the details before you actually commit to a party, and I'll tell you what I know. You never know when you will just say yes for the hell of it, and before you know it you're in the back of someone's jeep, squeezed in between two people you barely know, and the driver who may or may not be entirely competent is speeding through the dark to some undisclosed location. This is not that kind of party, I promise you. You will not be stranded, and wishing that you never went out. (You can tell I had some traumatic experiences in high school that I haven't quite gotten over) You will actually be safe at home in your kitchen, and you will be cooking fabulous things with friends.
I know! Let's get started!
So here's how it works. For the next few weeks, we'll be cooking with a few others around here. There will of course be a theme, because who doesn't love a theme, and those themes will revolve around the ingredients that most of us gleefully have coming out of our ears these days. I'll tell you what I'm making, and I'll tell you about what other people are making too, and then, if you're feeling bold, you tell me what you're making!
I know! Can you even wait? I can't!

This week, this very first week of Summer fest 2010, we are paying homage to both of those tenacious and all-powerful garden presences: cukes and zukes.

Having been raised on far too much zucchini frittata, I just don't do the zukes. Cukes however, are an entirely different story.

I might like cucumbers even more than I like radishes. I might be able to live on cucumbers for a very long time, as long they have just a bit of salt on them. Peeled or not, cut into spears or slices, I'll eat them with glee until the vines are empty.

As I tried to figure out what to bring to this first exciting week of Summer fest 2010, I thought I'd bring something for the kids, you know, the "mac and cheese at the potluck" if you will, because I do that sort of thing. But then I had such a day with girls, and there was one too many tantrums, and I changed my mind.

I am done trying to make food that the girls will eat. I am done! Stomping my foot done!
Those girls are wild and wonderful and unpredictable. They are exploring the world with imagination and abandon. They are growing at an astounding rate, and everything is changing from one day to the next. One moment they are speaking their secret language as they set off for an adventure, and the next, I am shocked and appalled to find a a perfect imprint of Sadie's teeth on Rosie's chest. There is a shadow of a bruise as well, and Sadie explains to me that she bit her sister because she was taking too long to brush her teeth.
I am done. I just can't predict what will make them clean their plates or make them cry at the dinner table. They can forage. There are plenty of potatoes in the garden.
Today, this one is for the grownups.

It turns out that I made dessert. And although you would think that anything sweet and cold would please the littles, not so over here. They gave it a try, and they were actually quite gracious about it. There was a pucker, and a "hmm" and a "can I just have the shortbread?"

More for me.

The truth is, I loved this. It was cold, and herby, and just sweet enough, and the texture was wild and unexpected. My friend Sarah was in the kitchen with me today, and her offer to whip up the lime shortbread as I stirred the frozen cucumber ice was too good to pass up. For the grownups, this was just the right dessert, and although Joey's pickle making obsession has gotten so out of control this year that I have had a hard time getting my hands on the cucumbers in this house (20 jars of pickles!), I was very thankful for the few that I had today.

Cucumber Mint Sorbet with Lime Shortbread
(with thanks to Joey for leaving me a few cukes, and to Sarah for the shortbread)

For the Sorbet:

4 pounds cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and cut into chunks
1 1/2 cups water
1 cup sugar
2 5-inch mint sprigs
1 5-inch tarragon sprig

For the Shortbread:

2 sticks unsalted butter
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon rum
1/2 cup toasted roughly chopped cashews
zest of one lime

Make the sorbet-- In a small saucepan, combine the water and the sugar. Bring to a simmer over low heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar. When the sugar is dissolved, bring the mixture to a boil, and let it boil for two minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat, and submerge the mint and tarragon sprigs in the liquid. Cover and let sit for 20 minutes. Strain and discard herbs.
Puree the cucumbers in a food processor until entirely smooth. Combine the cucumber puree with the sweet herb syrup in a freezer safe dish. Place in the freezer and freeze for 3 hours, stirring every 30 minutes.

Make the shortbread--Preheat the oven to 275 degrees. Butter an 8 or 10-inch springform pan. Cream the butter and brown sugar in a stand mixer until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add the flour, salt, cashews and rum, and mix just until the flour is combined. Press into the prepared pan, and sprinkle the lime zest over the top. Bake until shortbread is just dry and starting to turn golden, 50-60 minutes.

So what else is everyone making this week? It's quite a spread, so far as I can see.

Margaret Roach of A Way to Garden is talking about why size matters (smaller! not bigger!), and she's sharing pickling and freezing tips.

Michelle Buffardi over at The Cooking Channel's Devour/The Blog enlightens us on zucchini's unexpected diversity, and at Food Dish/ Food Network, she's making Paula Deen's zucchini bread.

Alison Sickelka of Food2 blog starts off the meal with a few zucchini appetizers.
On zucchini appetizers:
http://www.food2.com/blog

Elizabeth Gray at healthy eats is offering a cucumber salad and a few other ideas for our favorite cukes and zukes.

Cate O’Malley at Sweetnicks is bringing Indian Cucumber Wraps.

And my friend Paige over at the sister project is hating zucchini, and telling us all about it.

Diane and Todd, the White on Rice Couple are stuffing cucumbers with prosciutto and feta (I hope they made enough- everyone's going to want one of those!)

Kelly Senyei at Just a Taste is bringing a cucumber and sesame salad, and she's giving us a special lesson in slicing cucumbers on a mandoline.

Still have more cukes and zukes?

Shauna at Gluten Free Girl made soup and soupcicles.

Tigress in a Pickle made so many pickles.

And Judy the Tuscan Diva has fried squash blossoms!

And there's more coming! I'll keep you up to date as the day goes on. How about you? No need to come to the party empty handed...

charlie the butcher's

In so much as you might like to hear all sorts of idyllic stories about the first annual camping trip of my not always so idyllic family, I cannot please you. I can tell you this. There were smores. And we did stay dry within our tent.
Even though there was plenty of rain outside of the tent.
And although when the weather report teased and threatened with severe thunderstorms for a straight 48 hours, we panicked and tried so desperately on my failing cell phone battery to find a hotel in which we could dry our sad non-outdoorsy little selves, there was, alas, not a hotel room to be found in all of Ontario.
No problem! We stayed dry within our tent. And of course, as usual, the weather report was wrong.
And so, non-idyllic as we might be, it was a success!
In other news, we saw our dear friends well married, we went to Niagara falls and could not find a parking spot (and so did a drive by), and we fed our children far too many Canadian candy bars so that they would stay quiet, which they of course did not, which you know if you have ever fed your children too many candy bars as a coping mechanism for a 10-hour car ride. As one who grew up as an only child, I felt like I was living the American dream. It was truly glorious. Joey and I jumped into some sort of scripted parent language, universal enough to be the stuff of all family odysseys.

Rosie: Sadie! Oweeeee! Sadie hit me!!!!
Joey: Sadie! Don't hit your sister...that hard!

and, just an hour or two before we finally hit home again,

Sadie: Rosie! Mommy, Rosie took my pen! Rosie took my pen! Ahhhhhhh! Rosie took my pen! Make her give it back! I hate you Rosie! My pen! My pen!

Me: Sadie, if you don't chill out and stop hollering, I swear I will never give you a pen again for the rest of your life. Ever. Pencils for you!

And you get the idea.
But we made it. I'm sure you're all very relieved. And of course, I have a few little food items to share with you.

The first night of our little trip, we camped in Ithaca, NY. It was a little out of our way, but I insisted. I wanted to go to the Moosewood Restaurant.

I know. I know. But I wanted to! I've been cooking out of Moosewood all my life- looking at those little black and white photos of the wooden tables in the utopian collective restaurant. I'll say now before I go on, that I will always love every single Moosewood cookbook. My experience in the room where it all started will stay entirely separate from my love of spinach ricotta pie and buttery onion soup.

Of course, it was bad.

The menu changes daily, which is usually a good thing except when there is nothing you want to eat. The featured appetizer was sliced bread with pesto. Or you could have some olives. And for dinner, it was either noodles with butter and cheese and cream and a little bit of sliced carrot and zucchini, or some sort of eggplant stew, or something wrapped in Filo (should have gone with the Filo! Always go with the filo!), or overcooked bluefish in some tasteless chopped tomatoes and sad drowning leeks. Joey got the pasta, Sadie and I shared the fish, and Rosie got plain noodles and butter. Rosie really summed up the collective response when she had a few bites of her never-fail menu choice and looked up at me in confusion. "Mom, I don't even like this!" Sadie tried to love it- she cooks from Moosewood too and had been looking forward to the meal the whole day. She passed over the rubbery bluefish after a few attempted bites, but swiped the roasted corn from the plate before I could get a bit. "The corn's good!"
I know that the Moosewood collective isn't known for it's inventiveness, but it was a little heartbreaking how entirely uncreative the menu really was. The ingredients did not taste fresh, or at least if they had been earlier that day, they had the life cooked out of them. The place smelled like dirty mop water. I figure this is one more example of something you really can do better at home.

I guess you can tell that I'm slightly heartbroken. I was the kid who had been dreaming of Disneyworld and then got there to a swearing actor under the Mickey Mouse costume. I know it makes sense- they really don't have to work for it anymore. People will come to Moosewood even if they serve McDonald's and call it a McMollieKatzen. But why go to all the trouble of seeming so fabulous, just to serve noodles dripping in melted butter for 14.95? Maybe it was an off night. Maybe if I were there today, I would melt with joy! I guess I'll never know.

I will say that our waitress was lovely, and that the dessert, a Moosewood Brownie topped with local ice cream, was flawless. So, if you too are on a pilgrimage to Ithaca, I suggest that you make sure that you get the waitress with the big flower pinned in her hair, and just skip to dessert.

The real joy in all of this, I must confess, was that although I dragged us hours out of our way to eat bland and overpriced food, Joey smiled through the whole thing, and never made fun of me once. You see, if anyone understands the food odyssey, it's Joey.

We don't get out to the nicer restaurants so often. But when we do, it's usually when we're traveling and I've heard something that makes me feel like we've just got to go there. But I'm not the one who usually leads our travel eating. That job belongs to Joey, the road food master.

And so, the day after our dinner at Moosewood, Joey pulled off at a random exit near Buffalo, and he drove towards the airport. "Oh, this is going to be good," said to me, but even more to himself.
It seems that we have an agreement when we are out in the world and searching for a meal. As long as our hearts are in it, we will follow the other around. And as Joey said as we ate the lunch that was about to occur, it all works out. Because sometimes the places are bad, and we have both been responsible. As he said in Buffalo, for every Moosewood in Ithaca, there is a Caiola's in Portland. And for every Teo's (what is that on the chili dog? That's not..no..it can't be...it's too gross to even say!) in Pittsfield, there is Charlie the Butcher's.


Way back, we stopped in at another Roadfood success, All Star Sandwiches in Cambridge, MA. I had a beautiful thing called a Beef on Weck, a perfectly cooked roast beef sandwich on a soft kaiser roll sprinkled with coarse salt and caraway seeds, smeared with horseradish. It was one of the best sandwiches I've ever had, and we learned there that the Beef on Weck hails from Buffalo, and it is in that northern and desolate city that it finds its perfection. When we finally reached Buffalo, Joey had of course done his research, and so we found ourselves at Charlie the Butcher's.

Charlie the Butcher is an actual person, and you can identify him by the hard hat he wears while carving roast beef. There are many branches of his restaurant at this point, but only the location on Wehrle Drive can boast that Charlie himself is doing the carving. He's been doing it for quite a few decades, and I sure hope he's teaching the secrets to others. This is an art that should not be lost.

What is a beef on weck? Well, quite simply, it is the exact opposite of a plate of overcooked bluefish in tasteless tomatoes and drowned leeks. It is the thing that might save you on a long long drive. It is your turn off to the airport, even though you are not going on a plane.

And so, as we return from our travels, wet tent spread out on the lawn, I can say that although I cannot offer so many idyllic outdoor family stories, I can tell you that we are damn good at finding lunch off a random highway. I'm fairly sure that there will be a whole lot more family camping in the future, but I am even more sure that we will always be up for a food adventure, and the sad buttery noodles will be always be worth it for the hidden beef on wecks.

blackberry nectarine crumble tart

Well, this morning we're off to a wedding near Toronto, and we're packing up the tent and our soon to be rumpled niceties to prepare for a few days of Canadian camping. Of course there is a million things to do, and here I am, sitting here with you, because as usual, I'm not packing when I should be.

I might even be delaying a little, maybe just putting off the endless span of car hours, even the first night in our brand new tent, although I might be selling myself short a bit. But the truth is, neither Joey nor I have much ruggedness in our blood, and although we've both done our fair share of outdoor sleeping, it has taken us this long to actually purchase a tent. And so as we embark on this little family adventure, we're sort of trying to pretend that we are absolutely comfortable doing this sort of thing, just so that the girls don't have to absorb those qualities in their parents like "I'm not much of a camper." Although when we pitched the tent in the backyard last week and spent the night inside, it did not seem to bode well for us that only two of the four of us remained in the morning. When Sadie went out to pee in the yard, and she didn't quite aim so well, and then I went in with her to clean her up a bit, and then she said she wanted her own bed, and I sort of agreed after sleeping on the upper side of a tilting air mattress for half the night, we called it a night. I think we'll be better tonight. And so I'll be back on Monday, and I'll let you know how the tent held up.

But just to tide you over until then, a tart.

Yesterday, thanks to a very dear friend who took off on her blackberry patch for the week, there were lots and lots of blackberries. I made jam all day, while Joey took pictures and basked in the joy of so many berries. I've rarely seen him so content. And so just to really bring him to the pinnacle of what he holds dear, I added a fruit tart into the mix.

Because Joey is bustling around me as we speak, and because I can hear the girls downstairs asking when we're leaving every 30 seconds, I'm not going to tell you about the night, or who was over for dinner, or the way this tart melds together in the nicest way.

I think I'll just let Rosie cut you a slice.

This one is from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, that master of idyllic summer nights (and of all of the River Cottage Cookbooks). The pastry is lovely, and the filling can be adapted for whichever fruits you may have around. He writes the recipe with blackberries and apples, but I had nectarines and that was wonderful. Try it out this week, and when I get back I'll look forward to hearing about what fruit combinations you perfected...

Blackberry Nectarine Crumble Tart
adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, The River Cottage Cookbook

4 cups blackberries
1 pound nectarines, pitted, peeled, and chopped into chunks
3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 tablespoon lemon juice

for the pastry

1 1/4 cups flour
7 tablespoons butter, diced
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
1 egg yolk

For the crumble

2/3 cup flour
5 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons light brown sugar
6 tablespoons roughly chopped almonds

Make the pastry: sift the flour into a bowl and rub in the butter with your fingertips. Stir in the sugar and the egg yolk, and just enough ice water to make the dough hold together. Press into a disk, wrap in wax paper and chill for 30 minutes.
Roll out the pastry to 1/4 inch thick, and use it to line a buttered 10-inch tart pan. Then chill in the freezer for 10 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Line the crust with parchment, and pour about 1 cup of dry beans into the tart pan to line the bottom and weight it down. Bake for 15 minutes, then remove the parchment and beans, and bake for 5 minutes more.
While the crust is baking, put the berries and the nectarines in a pot with the sugar, lemon juice and a tablespoon of water. Cook over low heat for about 20 minutes.
Make the crumble topping by rubbing all of the ingredients together.
Spoon the fruit into the prepared crust, leaving the liquid in the pan. Top with the crumble topping. Bake for 30 minutes, or until golden.
Reduce the fruit liquid by about half. Serve tart with whipped cream, and drizzle fruit syrup over the cream.

malabi

I'm thinking maybe I should just record the peepers outside the window tonight instead of a post. It's just that it's that summerish around here these days, and I don't have any words that can really top the sound of peepers.

On second thought, because I'm a bit technically challenged, you might have to just imagine the sound. Do you know that one? It's like a constant, ch-ch-ch-ch. It's what the night sounds like at my house.

Last night was louder, but equally lovely and just as summer-sounding. There were so many people cooking in the kitchen, I never even heard the peepers. And there was thunder, and lightning, and heavy thrashing rain. And kids up too late.

It was just one of those nights when there were friends visiting, and then more friends came over to see those friends, and then one more just stopped by and was happy to be invited to dinner. The windows were steamy from the cooking, and there was laughing, and plopping the kids into bed despite their protests of "everyone else gets to stay up!". I had too much wine. Then we cleared the plates, and we ate malabi.


Malabi is a Turkish pudding that I never did eat in Turkey. Better late then never, I'd say. It involves rosewater and pistachios, a deeply underutilized flavor situation in this country. Apparently, it is often sold as street food in Turkey and Israel, although I never saw it, because it was so cold when I was there that probably the malabi sellers were selling tea instead.

This might just be the most perfect summer dessert.
It's cold, but light, and not very sweet at all. It holds any fruit that you might have around with grace.
You know I have a tendency to make extreme statements like this, but you know that at least today, I'm really right.

Perfect.




Malabi
adapted from The Book of New Israel Food by Janna Gur

(serves 12 in half-cup portions, or 6 in one cup portions, which are a little much unless you love pudding as much as I do)

for the pudding:

4 cups whole milk
3/4 cup corn starch
1 tablespoon rose water
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup sugar

for the topping:

2-3 cups raspberries, blackberries, or whatever you might have on hand, especially what I had on hand, which was rhubarb, and fabulous
1/4 cup maple syrup
1 tablespoon rosewater

1 cup chopped, shelled pistachios

In a bowl or liquid measure, combine one cup of the milk with the cornstarch. Stir until the corn starch is dissolved completely.
Combine the remaining milk, the heavy cream and the sugar in a saucepan. Stir to dissolve the sugar as you heat to a simmer. Pour in dissolved cornstarch mix and stir constantly until mixture thickens, 3-5 minutes.
Remove from the stove and pour into serving dishes (I favor juice glasses for this one). Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 4 hours before serving.

Make the sauce: Combine the fruit with 1/4 cup of water, the maple syrup, and the rosewater. Cook over med/ low heat until the fruit has dissolved, about 10 minutes depending on which fruit you are using. Chill thoroughly.

To serve, spoon the fruit sauce generously over the pudding, and scatter a handful of chopped pistachios over the fruit sauce.

roasted baby vegetables

Well, I'm sorry to say... Sadie's been a bit at it again. In the mix with all of her wonderful Sadie things, there are constant demands, and there is foot stomping, and there are more demands. I just don't know how to help that girl out these days.
Last night, after being whisked away from a coming tantrum by a few aunties (thank you Molly, thank you Lissa!) to see some free modern dance in the woods, she returned, and without so much pausing to say hello, it all began again. You see, during her absence, we ran Rosie down to the ice cream shop, just honestly for a mellow treat for Rosie sans the demanding one, and Rosie just couldn't keep in the information. So, then it was hysterics on the lack of ice cream followed by an angry critique of what was for dinner.
What is this! stomp stomp frown frown.
Roasted baby vegetables, from the garden!
"Mom. That is mean and unnatural. These vegetables should be growing until their big. You are hurting mother nature with this dinner."
You see what I'm up against here?

If you find just the right farmer at the farmers market, you might walk away with a little basket of baby vegetables. Maybe little beets, or miniature carrots, or tiny cippolini onions. But honestly, this is reason number 456 to grown these things in your very own yard. Because the truth is, Sadie is right. Like other things that are tastier when they are young (oh, Sadie at 3!), baby vegetables should keep growing so that you can harvest them correctly and have lots of food and preserve them for the winter and all that. But tiny? They are worth the guilt of ending their short lives. I could (and I have been known to) empty my garden before anything is grown--I am that susceptible to the siren call of the baby onion.
And if I were really on top of it, I would have thinned everything beautifully, and I would have writing about baby vegetables earlier in the summer, when you're supposed to have them, and when thinning benefits those that stay to mature to adulthood.
But my garden is a wreck (I plead abdominal surgery), and when finally my friend Molly whisked me out to the garden yesterday before whisking Sadie away a bit later, I finally faced the jungle of thistle and grass and radicchio that I have going out there. And because of the sheer quantity of weeds (more work today!), every time I yanked an offending plant, there was often a perfect little baby veg hanging on to those weedy roots for dear life.
Hurray! Dinner! Although not, as you would imagine, for the big girl, who abstained for humanitarian reasons. And not for the little either, as she was filled with ice cream. And I call myself a mother. Ah well. More work to do. What would I do with my time if I wasn't so so imperfect?

Roasted Baby Vegetables

Combine any number of baby carrots, onions, beets, new potatoes, and peeled garlic cloves. Anything that is bigger than quite little should be cut down to match the size of the smaller vegetables. Toss with a glug of olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Spread on a baking sheet and roast at 425 degrees for 20-25 minutes, or until especially the beets and potatoes are tender.

creme fraiche peach cinnamon ice cream

I've decided that everything extra that I have in my fridge is going into ice cream.
I don't care if my ice creams have long names--I like a good combination. Screw simplicity.

This one comes from a taste memory that goes a way back. It turns out, I actually went to boarding school. Remind me to tell you the story about that one another time- it's different than you might think. But the food there was just awful, and awful for three meals a day. Honestly, I remember nothing other than wilted broccoli and Lucky Charms. And one other thing.
Someone in the kitchen must have had an inspiration one day, and they started mixing canned peaches, plain yogurt and cinnamon. They would scoop it into those little green school plastic bowls and lay out maybe forty bowls of it on the counter at breakfast. No one took it except me. And I would take three. Brilliant combination.

So like the glamour girl I am, I had too much creme fraiche in the fridge. And lovely local peaches going all compost-y on me. Time for ice cream.

Who knows what will be next. Zucchini? Leftover chicken? Cheddar? Oh watch out...I'm on fire here!

Creme Fraiche Peach Cinnamon Ice Cream
(totally fabulous, by the way)

1 cup whole milk
2 cups creme fraiche
1/2 cup sugar
5 egg yolks
pinch of salt
4 medium peaches, peeled and cut into bite sized pieces
1/2 cup water
1 tablespoon cinnamon

In a medium saucepan, combine the peaches and the water. Cook until tender and releasing juice, about 20 minutes. Stir in the cinnamon. It will form something of a syrup. Transfer to the refrigerator to cool completely.
Warm the milk, sugar and salt in a medium saucepan. In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg yolks. Slowly pour the warm milk mixture into the egg yolks, whisking constantly. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook on med low heat, stirring fairly constantly. When the mixture coats the back of the spoon, remove from heat.
Set up a strainer over a medium mixing bowl. Pour the mixture through the strainer and refrigerate. When it is chilled, whisk in the creme fraiche. Then stir in the cooled peach mixture. Freeze in an ice cream maker. Freeze for at least 2 hours before serving.

it will be okay

I have often spoken about canning as an activity that should be done with others, and I still hold to that. Especially when there is too much fruit to handle, and when the number of jars to fill is so high that you find that every surface in the kitchen is covered with motley mason jars, extra hands to hull strawberries or pit cherries can be the difference between tears and utter satisfaction. But there is another reason why canning with friends is a good idea, especially in your first few years of it all.
I'm talking about reassurance.
Once upon a time (yes, here I go again idealizing bygone days- don't roll your eyes at me young lady!), canning was how people made sure that they had food for the winter. Everyone knew how to do it. But (and watch me oversimplify the century here) as the grocery store became the place where food comes from, something shifted. Sure, food procurement became a whole lot more convenient when we no longer had to pick the berries, cook them down with sugar, and can them ourselves. But as we didn't have to do any more, we stopped learning how. And, oddly enough, we became afraid of it.
Food safety is something to be taken seriously--don't get me wrong on that one. I will however, add a footnote to anything alarmist your have ever been told about canning at home:
Common sense will keep you safe.
Follow the simple rules. Use clean equipment. If it smells wrong or has something growing in it, don't eat it. If the top doesn't pop, refrigerate it and eat it sooner. Honestly, it will be okay.

So, today, in place or in addition to a friend to hang out with you while you are making your first batch of jam, a few simple guidelines... (feel free to jump in with more)

Before we begin, one piece of advice. Start small. Don't try to make more than 8 or 10 jars of jam at once. Trust me on this one. The first time I made jam, I made 45 jars of blueberry jam. I thought canning was the circle of hell that Dante forgot. Quantity was my mistake. I made it so that you don't have to.

Equipment:
You will need a canning set. These are cheap new, and cheaper from tag sales where they tend to be plentiful. A canning set consists of a large pot and a rack for the jars. You will also need a jar lifter, which you will probably use upside down a few times before you figure out why your jars are slipping out of it. You would also be quite happy to have a little tool that I am on a search for, a magnetic jar top grabber. If you find one of those, buy two, and then you don't have to decide what to get me for my birthday.

You also need jars. You can buy them from the hardware store, you can search through the nooks of the world for antique and perfect jars, or you can order fancy ones on the internet. It's entirely up to you, as is the size. I tend to do jam in pint or half pint jars, and applesauce and pickles in quart jars.

You need lids and lid bands. Although the jars can and should be reused, the lids should be new, although I have been known to break this rule in an 11 pm panic. You can find a box of lids and lid bands at the hardware store for next to nothing, or if you buy jars, they will come with lids.

You will need two pots in addition to your canning pot: one to make the jam and one to boil the lids. You will need a canning funnel, which is wider than a regular funnel. A pair of metal tongs will help you out, as will a liquid measuring cup for pouring jam into jars.

That's it.

Most jams need some pectin, and I favor Pamona's. It even comes with a handy little piece of paper with recipes, and these are the basis for the jam made by most people I know. You will need sugar, and maybe some lemon, and that is all.

It will always take longer than you think to boil all the water in your canning pot, so get that going first. When it is boiling, sterilize your jars. You can do this by tossing them in the boiling water for 10 minutes or you can run them in an extra hot dishwasher. Make sure that after you sterilize them, you don't touch the rim. Dip your jar lifter in the boiling water for a minute to sterilize it, and then use it to take the jars out of the boiling water. Put them on the counter close to the stove.
In the mean time, make your jam. Depending on what kind you're making, the recipe will shift a bit, but it won't take long to cook.
In a separate pot, boil your lids and bands. You can leave them in there until you are ready to use them.
Using your canning funnel, fill the sterilized jars with hot jam. Leave 1/2 inch of space from the top. Use a paper towel or clean rag to wipe excess jam off the jars.
Using metal tongs or your handy jar top magnet, take the lids out of the water and place one on each jar. Screw a band on as well, only about half as tight as you would normally close it. Place the jars into the rack, and lower it in to the hot water. You can probably fit 7 or 8 jars into your rack. Let the water come back to a boil, and from the moment, start timing. Most jams require 5 minutes of processing, but other recipes will have different times. When the time is up, remove the jars from the water. Put them on the counter and don't move them. Just perk up your ears and listen.
You will probably hear some jars pop right away. It is an incredibly satisfying sound. Some will take as many as 24 hours. If any have not popped in 24 hours, put them in the fridge and use them first. After 24 hours of sitting, you can move your jars. Check them all for depressed lids (that's what you want). Remove the bands from the jars. Using a wet cloth, wipe off any jam that has congealed on the outside of the jar. You can store the jar without the band, and save them for when you actually open the jar.

And that's really all. If you have a few quarts of berries, you can whip up a nice little shelf of jam in an hour or so. But with more? Invite friends, or me, or start a conversation with the other person buying jars at the store and try to combine forces. But trust me on this one, after a few batches, canning will just be something that you do. You won't look at the jars on your counter wondering if there is botulism inside, and you'll be able to go through the process without looking at the directions. Amazing how things just become something that you do, don't you think? I love that.

Did I leave anything out? Anyone have canning secrets to share? Let's just call this the section of the hardware store with the jars and lids--the best place to make a friend in my experience. Jump in!

buttermilk popovers

I feel like you either know about popovers or you don't.
I guess, like most of this stuff, it could be a bit more complex. Maybe your mom made them when you were little, but they feel like a mystery to you now. Or maybe you've had them and loved them, but you've never made them, and they seem like they might be to hard because of all that puffing up.
Or maybe you've made them. Maybe you really know about them, and you make them all of the time. Because when you need to make something bready and eggy to serve with your soup or to top with your jam, what else would you make?
If that's your category, then hooray for you. If you're checking in for a minute here, procrastinating from whatever work you actually have to do on the computer, then go over to update your facebook status or tweet something or whatever. I've got nothing for you here today.
Except, actually, maybe I do, come to think of it.

The thing is, popovers might actually be one of the foods that Joey and I both make. They're just that good, that it's a skill we must absolutely both possess.

So this morning, as I stumbled grumpily into the kitchen reaching both hands in front of me in search of coffee beans, Joey announced that he was making popovers. And as I grunted and ground some coffee, he peaked in the fridge and noticed that we were suffering from an overwhelming supply of buttermilk.

What can I say. I've been doing a lot of experimenting lately.

The gears in his head started turning, and by the time I'd had my first sip of coffee, he finally had out with it.
"What do you think buttermilk would do to a popover?"
The sip of coffee finally gave me the gift of speech, and I said I thought it would do wonderful things to a popover. After all, buttermilk does wonderful things to everything.

And so it did. Astounding things, really. What this is is really the ultimate breakfast popover. This is not your lentil soup popover or your strawberry shortcake popover. It has a touch more body and whole lot more twang than those. This is the popover that sings with jam, that dances with butter, and that hoorays with coffee.
This is tomorrow morning, on a plate, and it's going to be a good one, friends.

Buttermilk Popovers

3 eggs
1 1/2 cups buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 ounce butter, melted
scant 1 1/2 cups flour

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Butter a 12-cup or 6-cup jumbo muffin tin. (go jumbo if you've got it) Combine all of the ingredients in the blender and blend on high for 30 seconds.
Fill the muffin cups nearly to the top with batter. Put in the oven.

THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART. DO NOT OPEN THE OVEN UNTIL THE TIMER BEEPS. DO NOT LET ANYONE OPEN THE OVEN. GUARD THE OVEN DOOR WITH YOUR LIFE.

Bake for 20 minutes, then lower heat to 350 degrees. Bake for 10 minutes more. Remove from the oven, and poke each popover with a fork. Let cook for a few minutes and then serve immediately.

a reminder

So...

I know that sticking your hands in scorching hot whey might not be what you're dreaming of right now, but I've got to tell you, I did it today and I am not sorry.

It's about 110 degrees in my bedroom right now--I mean it's really that hot and many of you might be right there with me on this one.

And I'm sure that you have sworn off turning on your stove until this damn heat wave breaks, and I'm right there with you on that one.

But the truth is- there is news that the blight might return. And that's not all. The world is full of surprises, and not all of them are good. So, because you never know when that fresh in-season tomato might be your last, and because basil is popping out of every corner, I thought I'd just give you a little reminder, you know, about mozzarella.

If you make it yourself, you can chop up a few fresh herbs and roll them up in the cheese at the end. You can slice it while it's still a bit warm, and tuck it under those precious thinly sliced tomatoes. As for the basil, some shove it below, and some lay it above as a little garnish, and where you fit is entirely up to you. Bring out the good balsamic, because (as I was saying), there's no time like the present, a little olive oil, a toss of salt, and a growl of pepper.

No pressure... I know it's hotter than hell out there. But honestly, it might just be the moment to make a batch of mozzarella. Just sayin'.

Hope you all are making it through, if you are in the hot zone. My hose is out front if anyone needs it. It's not as good as a pool, but the girls will tell you that it almost gets there.

gooseberry fool

I don't know if I'd go so far as to recommend abdominal surgery, but it has had its benefits.

For one, everyone else has been doing the dishes.

And also, the girls have finally begun to understand that since I cannot bend over, they should probably pick up their toys before they are stepped on. Maybe this will stick, and I will never have to step on a cap-less marker again. We shall see.

But really, I've got to say that it's done wonders for my speed.

Sometimes I feel like I am compulsively fast moving. It wasn't always that way, but with the working and the kids and the moving into adulthood, it's become difficult to settle myself into a moment when I am not, well, determined to accomplish something. It can really get a bit obnoxious at times, I have to say.

I guess this would be okay with me if it matched up with who I'd like to be, but it just doesn't. Call me a woman of leisure, but I'd like to be able to have a few more moments in the day when I'm just okay with doing nothing.

I'm sure I've been overdoing it this last week and a half. I've certainly gotten enough stern talking to's about it, and they have all been loving enough to convince me to take a break and sit down. There have even been a few times when it's been my own body that's given me the talking to. It specifically didn't seem to appreciate the 11:00 black raspberry jam making the other night, and as I was already into it, I did what I could, and I directed Joey with a little wooden spoon baton from my perch on the kitchen couch.

But overdoing it or not, no one can say I've been moving quickly. Every path from here to there has been taking 3 times as long as usual. The kids have been running ahead of me, and they know I'll arrive at the destination in 10 minutes. I've been taking smaller steps, and I've had a bit more time to look around. It's actually been pretty fabulous.

Coincidentally, life has been moving a lot faster around me these last couple of weeks. There have been guests, and many small children around. And in the hurricane of it all, there I've been, taking my little steps, saying "I'll be there in a minute."

Last week, in a fit of supreme over-doing it, we went to Love Apple Farm in Ghent, NY. If you are anywhere within a reasonable radius of this place, then boy do I have an activity for you. At any given time, there are at least 3 fruits to pick. There is a low-key petting zoo and playground, cheap and tasty Mexican lunch, and a spectacular farm stand. Rande and Chris Loken have owned this little nirvana for 40 years, and their daughter Kristanna was raised on their perfect fruit and then went on to become a supermodel. There are pictures of her everywhere; one can not reach for a pint of peaches or a bottle of local honey without looking face to face with Kristanna in a bathing suit, Kristanna in Terminator 3, Kristanna in Ralph Lauren. It's one of the aspects that gives the whole farm an inner quirk that makes it outstandingly lovable.

I was with a friend on this particular day, and we only had an hour or two, so after our Mexican lunch, the four girls we had between us ran to the black raspberry patch and got to picking. I took my little steps, and as usual, was there 10 minutes later. In the end, even for our short time, we had a lovely box in our trunk on the way home.

Those black raspberries made my late night over-doing-it jam, but that fourth box...do you know what those are?

It's a bit of a new love. I've got a crush on the gooseberry.

Lucky for me, I actually have a few little gooseberry bushes in my own little yard. They have yet to produce a single berry. But when they do- man oh man.

Because gooseberries are a host for a pine tree killing fungus, it was actually illegal to grow them in several states for quite some time, and due to this gooseberry exile, most people I know have never seen or eaten a gooseberry. But English cookbooks are filled with them, and for years I have repeatedly been tortured by the description of this apparently most perfect of summer desserts.

It must be the British blood deep within me, the stuff that refuses to merge with the Eastern European Jew. Although I've never been to the UK, and I know that British tables are not famous for their food in a good way, I drink up old English cookbooks like Rosie drinks up fairy tales. A night with Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson, and something called pudding just because it's sweet is my kind of night.

Gooseberries have a bit of a shared quality with rhubarb- a tartness and maturity that make it so that I cannot guarantee that your children will embrace it wholeheartedly. They are red, and sometimes green, and sometimes orange, and the bushes have painful and rose-like spikes. Raw, they will pop in your mouth with a burst like meyer lemons and cherry tomatoes and raspberries all in one. And cooked, even more loveliness comes out of them, and they smell like spice as they bubble.

And so, in the forced slowness of my own personal July, and on this hottest day of the year, it seems to be the right time to sit down and do nothing, to get up for a minute to make some gooseberry fool, and then to sit down for a whole lot longer and do nothing again.

Except lick the glass until there isn't a touch left.

Gooseberry Fool

serves 8 or so

1 quart gooseberries, stems removed

2 tablespoons sugar

2 cups heavy cream

1 tablespoon maple syrup

1 teaspoon Kirsch

Cook the gooseberries in a medium non-reactive saucepan on medium heat until the skins have burst, about 15 minutes. Pour the mixture through a thin sieve and press through to another bowl with a wooden spoon to remove the skins and seeds. Add the sugar and stir to dissolve. Chill completely in the refrigerator. (Don't skip this!)

Whip the cream so that it is still soft, and it just holds soft peaks. At the end of whipping add the maple syrup and kirsch.

Gently fold the gooseberry mixture into the cream and scoop into glasses. Chill until ready to serve.

the new patriotism

Yesterday I was visiting a friend who was home for a few days to celebrate the swearing in of her parents as American citizens. They have lived here for 40 years, but for many reasons, they have finally decided to make the relationship official.

"We've been living together along time," her mom said. "It's time to get married."

I've been thinking a lot about patriotism lately, and about what I'm passing on the the girls. I was raised to look on the flag with little respect, and to roll my eyes at the the star spangled banner. We were a family of activists and revolutionaries and cynics. There was a lot of threat of "I'm moving to Canada." when I was growing up.

But things have shifted since then. Many aspects have contributed to that shift, but last year's election certainly helped around here. My own decision to participate in the system this year has changed the game as well. But really, I've got to say it's the girls. Honestly, I don't want to teach them to be cynical about anything. Realistic, yes, but cynical, no. And that's hard for a cynic me. So, I've been thinking about the patriotism that really engages me. And that's what I talk about with them. This one has been a challenge though--when it comes to God, death and America, the girls want answers and they can tell if I'm faking it.

So on this day of celebration, and of independence, and of thoughtful rebellion, I wish you a day of clear answers for your children, and of cold beer and potato salad.

Happy fourth, to those of you in these parts of the world.

june pickles

Just a year ago, I wrote about pickles, and Joey, and saying yes.

It was his first time making pickles, and he jumped into it with gusto despite the heavy summer heat and less than enthusiastic children.

Those pickles were just gorgeous.

I think, perhaps (and stop me if I'm wrong here), there can be a tendency to avoid new things if one cannot jump in and be a master of that thing right away. Sometimes if you're not sure how good you'll be, it's just easier not to try.

My grandmother started her career as a modern dancer when she hit sixty, and I think about that a lot.

I went to a college where all the students had to take all of the courses, no matter what their preference. Even a dancing artsy english lover like me. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I drove my little car out to Santa Fe with my (unread) copy of Homer under my arm. As a senior I stood at the board writing out Einstein's equations and I thought to myself "Please let me graduate before they figure out that I have no idea what I'm talking about up here."

Even after all that Plato freshman year, I was still holding on to some idea that I should be the master of this information; that everyone else had some deep comprehension that I was lacking.

I did graduate, and although the equations have left me, that experience of trying something so new and so hard stuck around. Maybe I just got used to not knowing what I was doing, but somewhere along the way, it's gotten easier to jump into something new. That feeling of waiting to be found out has mostly gone away- faded into the reality of communal experience. It certainly hits here and there, but more and more I think it might be possible that a lot of us are waiting to be found out--or maybe I'm wrong! Are you the master of the things that you do, or do you know the feeling I'm talking about?

These days, people keep asking me if I really know how to (fill in the blank), and usually, all I can say is "hell no!" But then of course, we do it anyway.

There is another part of this--something that happens with new things. Somewhere along the line, they get less new, and maybe, just maybe, you even get better at them. This transition happens sometimes without much notice, and all of a sudden it's just something you do.

So last year, when Joey made his pickles, he could barely believe what he had done. I guess that he just thought he would never be the kind of person who would count that among his accomplishments. But this year, on last Thursday to be exact, on the day between Cape Cod and the appendectomy, we finally went strawberry picking, and we came home to a kitchen full of empty jars waiting to be filled. As I started on the jam, Joey pulled out the larger jars, and he filled them with the fruits of the vines out from that had exploded when we were away.

"I'm just going to pickle some peas," he said as if it were absolutely no big deal. See? Now it's just his.

These are fridge pickles, so you don't have to process them in a water bath, and you don't have to wait so long for them. They will however last as long as you need them too, although they'll get eaten up pretty quickly. A friend of mine has peas in her fridge from a year ago, and she swears they're still perfect. Of course her husband has been a pickler for along time, and he made something like 30 jars of these. But unless you get so overzealous as he did, these will be gone by the time you start with the July pickles (cucumbers, of course!).

June Pickles

(can be doubled, or tripled, or what have you)

1 pound snow peas or snap peas, destemmed

3 garlic scapes, if you've got them

2 dried chiles

3 dill flowers, or dill sprigs will do as well

2 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced

3/4 cup apple cider vinegar

3/4 cup white distilled vinegar

1 1/2 cups water

1/2 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon kosher salt

Fill 1 clean quart sized jar with the peas, scapes, chiles, dill, and garlic. If the jar seems too full, start another for overflow. Heat the vinegars with the salt and sugar, just until the salt and sugar dissolve. Add the water, and let cool to room temperature. Pour the brine over the peas, and top with the jar lid. Refrigerate. The peas will be ready after 24 hours but of course will get better with age.