hot sauce

Okay, I get it. I will never cut a hot pepper without a glove on. I promise.
It's taken me a while to get to this point. I've deep fried chiles and I've turned them into salsa. I've caressed them, slipped them out of their skins, and carefully removed every seed. I like to get intimate with my hot peppers.


But today we took our relationship to a whole new level. Random, single and lonely hot peppers scattered throughout the refrigerator. Dainty cherry bells, withered jalepenos just past their peak, royal crimson lees, exotic Hungarian hot wax. They all roasted under that broiler together, and the smell of their popping skins was almost, you know, like that place I love this time of year. My eyes stung, my throat constricted around invisible spice, and I kept the girls out of the kitchen.

Then they sweat together in their covered bowl, and after a few minutes they were ready to shed their skins. I wanted to be close to them without the barrier of the glove, and I worked on pepper after pepper with naked hands.

I knew it was a mistake right away, but it was too late to remedy it. You know it's bad when the burn starts right away. I like a little danger in the kitchen, but I knew I was in over my head.

And then they were in the Cuisinart. The sting filled the air and I thought the smoke alarm might go off--if only it had a chili sensor. A little sweet, a little tang, and there it was.

Hot sauce. Really truly.

Midway through the day, I showed Joey my hands.
"Can you burn the skin off your hands with chili oil?" I asked him.
"Oh, man- you haven't been at the hot peppers again? When will you learn?"
No sympathy from him.

My hands are on fire. More than I can ever remember. I keep checking to see if they really are on fire. I'm not touching the girls. I'm not touching my face. I've tried all the tricks--this fire's burning until it goes out. I lived dangerously, and I'll pay for wanting to touch those chilis.

I ate that hot sauce on my dinner and... it was pretty worth it. But next time, I'm wearing gloves.

Hot Sauce

1 pound mixed hot peppers
1 cup distilled white vinegar
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon lime juice
2 tablespoons honey

Preheat your broiler, and line a baking sheet with aluminum foil or parchment. Lay the peppers out on the sheet, and puncture each one with a fork. Place the tray under the broiler until the peppers are black and bubbling. This will take between five and ten minutes, depending on the heat of your broiler. Flip the peppers over, and broil until the other side is black and bubbly as well. Remove from the oven, and put all of the peppers into a heat proof bowl. Cover with plastic wrap. Let sit for fifteen minutes, and then the peppers will be ready to come right out of their skins. Put on your gloves now. Slide each pepper out of its skin, remove the stem, and remove as much seed as you can. Put the skinned peppers into a food processor or blender along with the vinegar, salt, lime juice and honey. Blend until smooth, about one minute. Store in the fridge, for (I'm guessing here but stay tuned) up to a month.

And of course it's sweet and spicy week at summer fest! Here's the peppered line up so far...

• Alison at Food2:
  Making Hot Pepper-Infused Tequila


• Michelle at Cooking Channel: A Peck of Perfect Pepper Recipes


• Nicole at Pinch My Salt: Pickled Serrano Peppers


• Kirsten at the FN Dish: Chiles Rellenos and More Stuffed Peppers


• Liz at Healthy Eats: 10 Ways To Eat Sweet Peppers


• Margaret at A Way to Garden: Oven-roasted peppers, and freezing how-to


• Caroline at The Wright Recipes: Homemade Harissa & Sweet and Spicy Peperonata


• The Gilded Fork: Dossier and recipes on peppers spicy and sweet


• Paige at The Sister Project: Grilled Tomatillo Salsa with Jalapenos


• Caron at San Diego Foodstuff: Consuelo's Hot Chile Sauce and Hatch Chiles


• Food Network UK: It's Chili Weather


• Cate at Sweetnicks: Summer Panzanella

melon cucumber agua fresca

Last night, I got a craving for melon so fierce, it made me writhe. Lucky for me it's melon season.

Today the girls and I went to the store and paid a lot of money for a local melon. The smell of it drove me wild in the car.

I cut the thing open, and we went at it with spoons. There was juice everywhere. I put a stop to the frenzy after we had finished one half.

Then, we made agua fresca.

With lime.

They gathered mint. And Rosie zested the lime.

And then we drank the second half of that melon.


Melon Cucumber Agua Fresca
adapted from Deborah Madison, Local Flavors

1/2 of a medium sized cantaloupe or honeydew or strange heirloom local melon
1 cucumber, peeled and seeded
1/2 teaspoon lime zest
juice of one lime
10 mint leaves, finely chopped
optional: 2 tablespoons maple syrup

Combine the melon and cucumber and maple syrup, if using, in a blender and puree until smooth. Pour into a pitcher and add the lime, zest, and mint. Add 2 cups of water and chill until ready to drink. Serve over ice.

roasted tomatoes for the freezer

I know, another post about roasted tomatoes?
I mean, there was that salsa earlier in the week, and I've certainly written about roasted tomatoes before, and isn't everyone writing about roasted tomatoes these days?

But hear me out for a minute--I've got a story for you. Because we're not just talking about roasted tomatoes here (although they are certainly worth talking about over and over). We're talking about a journey- a perilous and tomato seed filled trek towards the preservation of the tomato.

Two years ago, I set out to answer what seemed to be a simple question. Of all of the foods to be preserved in the late summer, tomatoes might just be one of the most useful and essential. But how? I have taken every suggestion that people have offered. I have canned my tomatoes. I have pureed them raw and frozen them that way. I have made 24 hour perfect sauce and frozen that two. Hell, I froze whole raw tomatoes because someone told me to.

Most of these things have failed. Gross, separated tomato slush. Enough mess to make me want to die in the sea of tomato juice in the kitchen. Bitter filled bags of useless mush.

I think that I'm finally ready to name my favorite tomato preservation method.

You might actually just want to eat them off the tray and have your way with them then and there. But if you can wait, you will thank yourself in a few months. The miracle of all this is that if you roast them with garlic and herbs, it's sauce in a bag. How's that for convenience food?

Okay, so I've done it. How to preserve tomatoes?

Roasted Tomatoes

Preheat the oven to 275 degrees. Line one (or two if you have lots) baking sheets with parchment paper. Don't skip this or you will curse me as you scrub your baking sheets for hours. Core the tomatoes and cut each in half. Lay them out on the tray, cut side up. Scatter about 8 garlic cloves (peeled and whole) on each tray over the tomatoes. Top with several fresh sprigs of whatever herbs you might have available (oregano, thyme, rosemary and basil will do). A quick snow shower of salt and pepper. A tiny glug glug of olive oil. Roast for three hours. Or a little more or a little less. Remove from the oven and let cool completely. Scrape the contents of the entire pan into one or two freezer bags. Label and throw into the freezer.

To make sauce in December, defrost the bag in the refrigerator. Sautee a chopped onion if you like. Throw the contents of the bag into the pot. Cook for a bit and season to taste. If you're picky about tomato skin, pass the sauce through a food mill. This will be the best sauce you've ever had. Unless you've already had mind blowing tomato sauce, in which case it will match it.

roasted green salsa

Well, it must be the end of August. I'm in over my head.
Downstairs, I've got 45 pounds of tomatoes to can, I've got three heads of cabbage waiting to be sauerkrauted, and I've got far too much basil to avoid making a massive batch of pesto.
Oh, August. I love that you can feed me all year I can only keep up. If only!

But I'm taking a break from all that for a few minutes. Let's not talk about it.
Let's talk about New Mexico.

Have you been to New Mexico? And more importantly, have you been to New Mexico in August?
It's been a few years since I was there last, and I'm sure I'm glorifying all over the place. But there is one thing that I know is grander in reality than it could ever be in my memory. If you've been there, and if you've been there in August, you know exactly what I'm going to say. Your nose is twitching, right?
There's a little bit of the first burning pinon, but that's not the dominant note- that smell? That smell is roasting green chiles.
I have no green chiles- I took green grass instead. But right now I want those chiles. So I roast everything I can, grabbing moments of that smell. I have no green chiles, but I have green tomatoes. Green zebra tomatoes, that is. And of course, I have tomatillos. And although they're not THE chiles, I do have some chiles.

And I'm here in New England, but I want spice. I'm one part Jew and one part Brit, but in August- my heart belongs to New Mexico.

So this week for our Summer Fest party, in this very last week of August, let's you and I take a break and sit for a few minutes. I know there's plenty to do, but there's time. There's time. Let's have a beer, and a chip or two, and let's see how spicy we can get it.

Roasted Green Salsa

3/4 pound tomatillos, quartered
3/4 pound green zebra (or really any) tomatoes, cored and quartered
1 red onion, cut into chunks
1 head garlic, cloves, separated and peeled
1 (or 2, if you're really going for it) jalepeno pepper, seeded and sliced
juice of 1 lime
salt

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment, and spread the tomatillos, tomatoes, onion, garlic, and pepper on to it. Give the whole mess a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt. Roast for 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature. Empty the contents of the tray into a food processor, add the lime juice, and whir until thoroughly combined. Add salt to taste.

And what kind of summer fest would it be with out the grand fete in honor of the tomato? None at all!
There's some pretty exciting whirring and baking and juicing going on this week. Here's a start:

Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef:
Heirloom Tomato Tart with Parmesan Crust

Nicole at Pinch My Salt: What to do with slow-roasted tomatoes

Alison at Food2: Heirloom tomatoes

The FN Dish: Tyler's Ultimate Tomato Salads

Margaret at A Way to Garden: More than one way to ripen a tomato

Gilded Fork: Celebrating summer lusciousness with a tomato dossier and recipes

Diane and Todd at White on Rice Couple: Sun-dried tomatoes (actually made in the sun!)

Paige at The Sister Project: 3 substantial, healthy, vegetarian tomatoey main dishes

Liz at the Cooking Channel: Easy Tomato Tart

Kelly at Just a Taste: Tomato Jam

Alexis at Food Network UK: The seven deadly tomato sins

Michelle at Healthy Eats: Top 10 Things to Do With Tomatoes


What kind of tomato magic are you conjuring in your kitchen? Share! Share!

fish tacos, or, the cilantro thing

Okay, let's talk about fish tacos. And also about...cilantro.
Let me preface this discussion with two warnings. I don't want you to feel like I've left you unprepared for what could happen here.
The first is that it is difficult to talk about fish tacos without also wanting to eat fish tacos immediately. I mean that, and I know you know what I'm talking about. If you don't have a certain future of lime juice dripping down your arm within hours of reading this, you are going to be unhappy. And if you're unhappy, I'm unhappy, because for better or worse, I'm like that. So get ready.
The second warning is that you might have a little bit less respect for me by the end of this post. Today I'm going to share something that might disappoint you, that might make you think that I'm a little less of a...oh what's that word? foodie. You might exclaim, "How can you survive in a world without flavor!" and "Well, I was about to invite you over for dinner, but now I won't! What on earth would I make for you?"

Okay, let's have it out then.

I hate cilantro.

I'm one of those people who they write about in the New York Times, the ones who think cilantro tastes like soap. Only, to be totally honest, soap feels like an understatement. I'd happily eat your soap if you gave me a choice between the two. People ask me if it's an allergy, and sometimes I say yes. Does it count as an allergy if being in the same room with it makes me want to scream, and to clench my face together and hope that I'm in some horrible dream that I'm going to wake up from any second? Does it count that when I eat it accidentally, the taste stays in my mouth for days?

For those of you who are baffled by we cilantro haters, I thought I'd answer a few commonly asked questions, a cilantro haters FAQ, if you will.

1. Is this cilantro hating really a genetic trait, or is it cultural?
I really don't know. I've heard that there is a cilantro hating gene, like the asparagus pee gene, and I've also heard that in cultures where children eat cilantro from a young age, there are no cilantro haters. I've also heard that Northern Italy houses more cilantro haters than any other region, but I don't have an ounce of Northern Italian blood in my body.

2. How did you figure out that you were a cilantro hater?
Twelve years old. Restaurant with mom. Salmon with salsa fresca. Horrible.

3. I was hanging out with you the other day, and you took a bite of something with cilantro in it, and you didn't die. Aren't you being a little bit over dramatic?
Of course. It's me we're talking about here. And yes, occasionally, if it is tucked into something, and cooked, I won't die.

4. Doesn't this cause problems for you at the Farmer's market?
When we have cilantro at the market, I make other people touch it. And I don't stand near it. And I pray that there will be so many cilantro lovers around that it will be gone within an hour.

5. But don't you claim to love Mexican food? What's the point without cilantro? How on earth do you eat fish tacos?
I thought you'd never ask.

Fish Tacos that have no need for cilantro
serves four

1 pound white fish (halibut, snapper, scrod, tilapia--really whatever you can afford)
olive oil
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/2 teaspoon red chili flakes
1/2 small red cabbage, shredded
8 corn or small wheat tortillas
3 limes
1 avocado
1 peach, pitted and cut into 1 inch pieces
1/2 small red onion, diced
1 small hot pepper, seeds removed, diced
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
salt

Marinate the cabbage: Combine the cabbage, a pinch of salt and the juice of one lime. Toss to coat, and let sit at room temperature for at least an hour.
Make the Peach Salsa: Combine the peach, hot pepper, red onion, parsley, and salt to taste. Give it a quick squeeze of lime, and let sit for at least 20 minutes.
Prepare the fish: Combine the oregano, chili flakes, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. Rub it all over the fish. Drizzle with olive oil, and squeeze half of a lime over the fish. Grill or broil for 3-4 minutes on each side, or until opaque.
Prepare the guacamole: mash the avocado with 1/2 teaspoon salt and the juice of half of a lime. Add additional salt to taste.
Warm the tortillas for a moment, one at a time, in a cast iron skillet or in the warm oven.

Serve together with lime slices on the side. Make a mess!

stone fruit slump

We're all a bit silly around here this week. The end of the summer, perhaps, the changing of the air pressure--who can explain it? Or maybe it might have something to do with the ruby orbs so recently hanging on our little wee plum trees.


We planted our orchard two years ago- nine trees of various persuasions in the front yard. I loved them so completely and immediately that I started to feel like when people asked me how many children I had, I should answer "two... and nine fruit trees." I sang to those trees, caressed their leaves and watered them with the perfect trickle at the root for the perfect amount of time.

About six weeks later, blessed by a friend who was taking pity on our poor neglected marriage, we went to Montreal for the weekend- without the girls. We gave them both a quick kiss on the head and we were off, but not before I gave detailed instructions on the care and love of my nine little trees. My friend followed my requests to the letter, and I know that there was no way that she could have prevented the massacre that occurred while she and the girls slept.

When we returned from our weekend of romantic city living, the carnage was heartbreaking. Tender young tree bark peeled from the narrow trunk, graceful branches gnawed off at the joint, remaining limbs going every which way. The deer had gotten my orchard.

I knew that I should have put up a fence, but it was just so expensive. Even more, what would the neighbors say! I bombarded the ground around the trees with every strange repellent that people suggested- irish spring, human hair, pee, garlic. Nothing could keep them away, and I was afraid that my dear baby trees would never live to bear their first fruit.

Somehow, eight of nine survived the summer. They all looked pretty sad, but when I finally decided to put up a fence, I could have sworn that they perked up a bit. Indeed, my fence does not make me a favorite with my neighbors (honestly, one asked if I was keeping prisoners in there), but I say, Temporary! If the fence can protect these now-teenage trees for just a wee bit longer, the day will soon come when you can pick an apple as you walk by. I imagine endless fruit, fruit for all!

This week, there is just a bit of fruit on those adolescent trees, but every life-filled sphere makes us giddy. Last year, we got two plums, and this year there are more! The plums have the most lovely bloom on their surface, and of course Joey stole the first plum from the tree, took his paintbrush to its dusty outer, and gifted me with this image:


And so when it came time to decide what my offering for summer fest would be this week, the plum itself decided. It said, "Stew me on the stove, marry me with nectarines, and let's call it a slump!"

The slump is, of course brought to my kitchen this summer by my very favorite little book, Rustic Fruit Desserts. I have learned so much from this book! Of slumps, and grunts, and pandowdies. Of buckles, and cobblers, and fools. As I stand in the midst of my lovely little trees and I dream of the fruit to come, I know that I will be ready with this perfect book at my side.



A slump is a steamed pudding, a dessert for the day that you can bear the stove top but not the oven, a day when stewed fruit with buttermilk dumplings is just the thing.

I know! It is such a day! Onward!


Stone Fruit Slump

adapted from Rustic Fruit Desserts, Corey Schrieber and Julie Richardson

for the fruit filling:

4 1/2 pounds mixed plums, nectarines, or peaches, pitted, and sliced into one-inch slices

1/2 cup sugar

3 tablespoons cornstarch

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

juice of 1/2 lemon

for the dumplings:

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon cardamom

1/2 cup cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes

1 cup cold buttermilk

Make the fruit filling: In a large mixing bowl, combine the cornstarch, sugar and salt. Toss the sliced fruit in with the cornstarch mixture and coat thoroughly. Stir in the lemon juice, then transfer fruit mixture into a large skillet or dutch oven. Let stand for fifteen minutes.

Bring the fruit mixture to a low simmer, stirring occasionally and gently. Simmer for two minutes, then remove from heat.

Make the dumplings: Whisk the flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, and cardamom together in a bowl. Add the butter and toss until coated. Using your fingers, rub the butter into the mixture until crumbly. Add the buttermilk and stir until just combined.

Spoon the dough over the fruit, evenly distributing it in about eight servings. Return the pot to the stovetop and bring to a low simmer. Cover with a tight fitting lid, and continue to simmer for about twenty minutes, or until dumplings are puffy and cooked through. Remove the cover and let sit for fifteen minutes before serving.

And with such a worthy topic as stone fruit, I cannot even imagine the glorious summer fest submissions that lie ahead! Oh, love is surely a ripe peach, fragrant and fleeting. Here are just a few lovely treats from this week's line up.

Sara at Cooking Channel: Savory Stone Fruit recipes.

Todd and Diane of White on Rice Couple: Riesling Poached Pluots.

Margaret at A Way to Garden: What is stone fruit, anyhow? Plus: Clafoutis batter revisited.

Caroline at The Wright Recipes: Ginger and Vanilla Poached Peaches.

The FN Dish: Paula's Perfect Peach Cobbler.

Alison at Food2: Peachy Party Foods.

Kelly at Just a Taste: Peaches & Cream Cupcakes.

Liz on Healthy Eats: Puttin’ Up Peach Pickles, Compote and More.

Food Network UK: How to Poach a Peach.

Judy of Divina Cucina: Chocolate Amaretti Baked Apricots.

Cate at Sweetnicks: Blueberry Peach Smoothies.

Paige at The Sister Project: A Summer Fruit Whatchamacallit (not a pie, not a crisp, but delicious).

Marilyn at Simmer Till Done: Cherry Apricot Pie with Ginger-Almond Crunch.

Alana at Eating From the Ground Up: Stone fruit slump.

Caron of San Diego Foodstuff: grilled peach parfait and coconut peach gazpacho.

The Gilded Fork: dossier & recipes featuring peaches, apricots, nectarines, plums, cherries, almonds, coconuts.

Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef: gluten-free peach-blueberry buckle.

Tara at Tea & Cookies: Making Peach Jam.

Tigress in a Jam: nectarine preserve with summer savory and white pepper.



And you know how it goes now... your turn!

clamp's

How any two people stay married is a mystery to me. My parents ditched the whole thing after just a few years, and I've got to say that I know more people who took that route than who kept at it. Because I am an optimist, and because it was Joey, I disregarded logic and experience, and I proposed to him myself. We were both 23, and it all seemed like an excellent idea at the time.
It hasn't all been easy- anyone in a partnership knows that, but really the last almost eight years have been pretty great. I'm not always so sure that I'm such good wife material, but as long as he's the other one wearing the ring, I'm keeping at it.


When I think of the ways that we've made it through these past years- little kids, career crises, and all of the other good stuff that comes into our days, really it all comes down to our shared ability to just drop it all and hang out. We rarely have real dates--babysitters are pricey and we're always behind on the planning, but I find that when I'm willing to blow off whatever I'm supposed to be doing, poof! there we are, on a date.

We have had a few more opportunities for these impromptu dates lately. There have been whole weeks when the girls have both been in camp, and Joey and I are working at home. It's a new world, and a short-lived one, so we make the most of it.

So when I sat down the other morning and gave a bit of a sigh as I realized how much writing I was expecting from myself that day, and when Joey peeked his head in the door and said, "All right then, I'm taking you to Clamp's," I just had to be game. After all, the summer is almost over, and I hear that Clamp's might just have one of the best burgers in the whole country.

If you know Joey, or if you've been following him around here, you know that he is very passionate about road food. He searches out the best, and he will drive all day to get there. And although people laugh about his road food obsession and its coexistence with my love of home cooked food, I sometimes let them in on a little secret.

You see, I love road food too.

I love secret places off the side of the road that feed and amaze me. I love places owned by one family for generations, places that unexpectedly put so much care and attention into the quality of their ingredients. I love the perfect hamburger. It turns out, I really love Clamp's.

Clamp's is a tiny place off the side of the road on route 202 going through New Milford, CT. It has a tiny sign which you can not see from the road. It has no listed hours. It has no phone. You just have to drive until you find it and hope that they're open.


What is does have is a perfect hamburger. The place has been open every summer since 1939, and every morning they have their meat freshly ground and delivered by the butcher. Order it with onions, and they caramelize them until the sugars sing. The onion rings are thickly cut from actual onions, and the fries might be even better. The road food bible claims that this is a worth it drive from any distance, and I'm going to agree. Wisconsin? Get in the car. California? Get in the car. Trust me on this--you won't be sorry.

Tables are outside, in a perennial garden planted by the Sylvia Clamp,who ran the place after her husband died and before she passed it onto her nephew who mans the grill to this day. The garden is luscious and overgrown, and as my stomach growled and we waited for our names to be called, I overheard a grandmother pointing out all of the different kinds of flowers to her granddaughter.
"Those are black eyed susans, and look! three different kinds of lillies, and that? that purple in the back? Honey, I don't know what that is, but I am in love with it."
The day was cloudy, and the color of the flowers popped, and I just thought that might have been the best thing I'd heard in a very long time.
But then I heard that our food was ready.
And I don't know anything really about Sylvia Clamp, but I imagined her planting that purple flower, and I could see her cleaning up the grill for the day so she could spend an hour or two working on the garden. I thought about she and her husband making this perfect little place, this unexpected garden for the ideal date. And as I took the first bite of that burger that we drove so far to find, I laughed- it was so good. Joey had found himself at Clamp's a year ago, and he had been wanting to take me every since. "What can I say?" he told me as we ate shared our onion rings. "Every time I find a really good burger, I think of you."
I know, I know. Pure romance.

shirred eggs with fresh herbs

I have been to Paris exactly three times.
The first was exactly as it should be, Eighteen, tormented lover who was, in turn, tormenting me. March, dismally gray, and all of our money on a disgusting hotel. We lived on bread only, with the occasional can of tuna fish for sustenance.
The bread was a revelation.
The second was eight weeks later, at the end of the same trip. This time too was exactly as it should be. Lover gone, and I, free and newly tattooed from my wanderings in Eastern Europe, had money this time, and the sun shone every day. A whole week with Sarah, who was staying with a friend who had a bathtub in her kitchen. There was wine that we bought on the corner, and several croissants a day.
As hard as I've tried, I'll tell you those croissants have not been forgotten.
My third visit to Paris was just last year, in the middle of my work trip, when I was, it seemed living someone else's life for a bit. I was only at the airport, so I wouldn't normally count it, except that I take my Paris visits where I can get them. And I flew into one airport and had to fly out of another, so technically I did drive through the city. And of course, right before I got on the plane, there was a croissant.
It was hard, with not flake in sight. That one's not sticking with me, though. It was the exception, I know for sure, and I forgive it entirely.

Despite these three limited experiences, France hangs around here in my own fabrications. Less than original, I know, but more and more, I find myself using France as an adjective rather than a proper noun, a word to emphasize the goodness of things.
I guess the word would be French.


Luckily, I have a few French people around to give it all a bit of authenticity. But either way, on good days these moments of France have their delicious ways of working their way in. When there is good cheese, and it is just at the right temperature, it is French, even if it was made right here in this part of the world. In fact, its localness might make it even more French- because it is local just like if I were in France. The verveine in my garden? French. Children in lovely unstained dresses? (as if!) French! Late dinner after the little ladies have gone to bed? Of course!


Using a country in my vocabulary without adequate experience of the place makes me feel like I've never left this country, like I've never left this town...like I'm smoking fancy cigarettes in my little kitchen just to bring in the exotic.

My passport has many stamps on it, after all. But sometimes I feel this way anyway. It is August, and I like to yearn a little.

As the moment came again to ponder my weekly summer fest offering, this month of missing led me to France. And for me, the most French place in my whole yard is the middle of my overgrown herb garden. And so I thought about herbs, and about what herbs want--about what I could eat to bring France right here. It had to be simple and effortless, perfect but able to be cooked in heels--chunky Julia heels. It had to be eggs.


Eggs and herbs have the most natural and romantic affinity for each other. Eggs hold herbs with strength and support, and for one like me who will eat fresh herbs all day long directly from the ground when given the chance, eggs are the perfect excuse. Really, I am not one for subtlety when it comes to herbs. And in the hope of really doing it, and really closing that bridge between me and my semi-imaginary France, it had to have cream and butter, and roughly ground salt and pepper. You might know it as shirred eggs, but today, we'll call it oefs en cocotte.

Oefs en cocotte are eggs baked in ramekins or gratin dishes or any little thing you might use that's, you know, French. They are sometimes over ham, but here over cream, and showered with a blizzard of herbs.
I know. When it snows it Paris, I'm sure it's snowing tarragon.
Sometimes they will be baked, but today we're putting them under the broiler because I am impatient. Impatience is not very French at all, but I'm working on it. More time sitting in that overgrown herb garden of mine should just about do it, I think.

Oefs en Cocotte (or, shirred eggs with fresh herbs)

serves one (while staring off at the distance)

3 eggs (make 'em good ones- it really counts here)
1 tablespoon heavy cream
1/2 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh herbs- any combination of parsley, rosemary, tarragon, thyme or basil
1 tablespoon freshly grated parmesan
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat your broiler to medium high. In a small bowl, combine the herbs, parmesan, and garlic. Crack the eggs into a ramekin or tea cup. (They must be ready so that you can act fast). Put the butter and cream into a large ramekin, small gratin dish or other oven safe dish. Put the dish about six inches under the broiler until the butter and cream starts to bubble and sizzle. Watch it carefully--it will burn quickly. Remove the dish from the oven, and pour the eggs into the hot dish over the bubbling cream, taking care not to break the yolks. Sprinkle the herb mixture over the top, and add a bunch of salt and pepper. Put under the broiler and cook for 3-4 minutes, or until the whites are cooked but the yolks are visibly liquid.

And oh, can you believe it... another week of deliciousness? This week we're talking about herbs, beans and greens, and it's going to be a good one. Here's what's cooking:

White on Rice Couple use fresh mint to make homemade mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Nicole at Pinch My Salt features Green Beans with Balsamic Browned Butter.
Margaret at A Way to Garden stores a year of herb and makes one-pot Farinata a polenta dish with greens.
Food Network UK is on the edge with herbs and greens.
Caroline at the Wright Recipes is cooking up Wax and Butter Bean Herbed Salad.
Jennifer and Mark at Gilded Fork have a virtual garden of recipes
The Best Bean Salads and a French Take on Greens, Beans and Herbs from the Cooking Channel
Top 6 Herbs from Healthy Eats
Leftover Herb Solution (Pesto!) from Allison at Food2
Recipes for The "Other" Summer Greens from the FN Dish
Kelly at Just a Taste -Makes Fresh Herb Ricotta
Caron at San Diego Foodstuff talks about Kale and Feta Empanadas and roasted Romano beans.


And you? What are you bringing to the pot luck this week?

ginger peach muffins

I was a very stubborn 13-year-old.
You know the type- you say one thing and they do the opposite. Searching anywhere (anywhere!) for originality. Determined to see the truth, and be the first to do so. Convinced that no one else understands. When everyone else lived for New Kids on the Block, I scorned those boys and became the first in my class to have the Nirvana album. As time went on to tell, I was right.
Being only five and a half years away from having a 13-year-old of my own, I can only say that remembering how I was at that point strikes the tiniest bit of fear in my heart. Tiny now. I'm sure it will grow in the coming years.
To be fair, I wasn't all bad. I was mature, maybe overly responsible and independent. I could carry on a conversation with anyone of any age about anything. But through it all, I was, well, to put it mildly, an eye roller.

That part of me has been a little hard to shake. I know that often popularity is a sign of quality, but still, I'm dubious. I'm trying to get better about this.

All Spring I kept reading about Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain. Maybe it's the moody rhubarb tart cover or maybe it's the editor who we all know and love-- this book has been a hit. I held off on taking a look for a while, and then finally a few months back, I was in my friend Paige's kitchen.
"Okay, lend me the book."
And despite the slight roll of my eyes it was in my hands. And man oh man. This is a beautiful book. Simple, with a lot of class, and photos all taken on concrete counter tops on a rainy day. Everything in mason jars and regular old measuring cups.

Despite it's beauty, I didn't cook from it. I looked at it all the time. This book is so stunning- It made me hungry and lusty after the Pacific Northwest. But every time I went to think about a recipe, I never had all of the ingredients or it just didn't quite happen.


Today, I made ginger peach muffins.

I'd been thinking about these muffins for days. I'd been guarding the not quite ripe peaches on the counter from the little ladies around here who love peaches. "Hands off those peaches! I have a plan for those beauties."

It turns out these muffins might be just the muffins for me. They are Nirvana muffins. Not New Kids on the Block muffins. They are a little grainy, a little spicy, and they puff like crazy. I grumbled a bit as I stirred and sifted--they take ages to make, and twice as many pots as your basic muffin recipe.

I know- I'm really selling them, right? But the thing is, I'd say I had you at the title of this post or I didn't. I think that ginger peach muffins either made you say yes! or eh. Am I right?

These muffins make such huge tops that you can only fill every other muffin cup. I messed with the recipe a bit, lessening the ginger a touch and adding buttermilk, because I had it. And the recipe only makes nine muffins. And you better have a really big nob of ginger.

Okay, okay, I like the book. Make the muffins.

Ginger Peach Muffins
adapted from Kim Boyce, Good to the Grain

2 tablespoons grated ginger
2 peaches, firm but ripe, halved and in 1-inch slices
1 stick butter
1 tablespoon honey
1 cup oats, blended in a food processor or blender
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup buttermilk (she calls for whole milk)
1/2 cup sour cream
1 egg
3 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter 9 cups of two muffin tins, so that only every other cup is buttered. Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a medium skillet. Add the honey and a teaspoon of grated ginger. When the sauce starts to bubble, add the peaches. Remove from heat, and coat peaches thoroughly in sauce.
Sift all the dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl, pouring any grain left in the sifter into the bowl as well. Melt the remaining 6 tablespoons of butter, and mix with the buttermilk, sour cream, egg, and crystallized ginger. Add the whole mixture to the dry ingredients, and then stir in the rest of the grated ginger. Stir just to combine.
Fill each muffin cup so that it is slightly rounded over the top. Put two or three peaches on each muffin, pushing them into the center of each muffin as well. Bake for 25 minutes, rotating the pans half way through baking. Cool in the pans for five minutes before turning them upside down to remove muffins.

all of the augusts

I'm starting to think that one of the best reasons to grow an artichoke is to be able to watch it flower. Everything is flowering right now in such a lazy and fantastic way, but I think I might like the artichoke the best.

Something happens to me every August- I'm not sure why. When the air switches from hot and humid to dry and breezy- is that happening where you are? The air gets sharp, and then, just like that, I start to think about all of the Augusts that have come before this one. I start to space out, and to smell pinon from the coming fall in Santa Fe, or the certain smell of dying leaves that I remember from a walk 3 or 7 or 11 years ago. All of the schools I've ever gone back to at the end of the summer, all the trips across the state or the country to get there, and all of those nights that are the first night in months that I've worn a sweater.
Every year, this feeling comes over me, and I get a little bit sullen in a way that doesn't bother me so much, and I start to miss everything. I can close my eyes as I'm walking through the yard, and I'm ten years younger, and everything feels just the a tiny bit more dangerous in that delicious way. I listen to more dramatic music, and I listen to it loudly, and I enact little music videos in my head where I run fast on the side of the road. These subtleties all exist concurrently with the August at present, with the packing of lunches for camp, the quiet of the garden after the girls' bedtime, and I can almost feel the Augusts that haven't even happened yet.

I never remember that I am here ever year, and that it always feels the same. It was only this past week when I started to soften my focus a little, and I caught myself walking through the yard feeling like me, only different. I thought for a moment, and I wondered why I would be me and not me today.

And then of course, it's August. And all of the Augusts always come at once.

mint jello with basil cream

Did you have those foods when you were a kid- those things you loved so much but weren't really allowed to have? And did you say to yourself,

"When I'm a grownup, I'm going to eat that every single day. And no one's going to stop me!"

That's kind of how I felt about jello.

And now that I'm a grownup, how often do I eat jello?
Not often enough, I tell you.

Last month, when I was in the hospital, I ate four bowls of jello in the 24 hours I spent there. It was orange jello, which was unfortunate but passable. I never asked for it- the nurses just kept bringing these little bowls of perfectly balanced orange squares to me. It was like I had a secret message painted on my forehead- "Bring this girl some jello. She is a jello-lover, and she just doesn't get enough of the stuff!"

It seems that even as a grown up, I have to go to the hospital to eat jello. Of course I'm not going to buy that red powder in the box. I will occasionally add a box of gelatin to a bottle of juice (like Paige taught me), but I will not buy that box. I am a make-it-at home kind of woman, and I don't let my children eat things that are that color unless they are strawberries, or raspberries, or, come to think of it, beets.

I wonder what my children are dreaming of eating every day when they are grownup?


Last week, we ended up at on a dear friend's porch on a very hot and sticky afternoon. We were hot, and thirsty, and wilted. Her eyes sparkled a bit when we got there, and she ran to the fridge.
"I made lemon balm jello. with basil cream."
Lemon balm jello! Glory be!

It turns out that she had been in Brooklyn the week before, and she had had one of those Brooklyn experiences where she and her hot wilted children had been pounding the pavement when they finally found their old babysitter who is now working in a pie bakery. There was a flurry of blissfully consumed gluten-free pie, and then an invitation--"why don't you come next door for a hip rooftop garden party where everyone will be lovely and artistic and interesting?" That is exactly what they did, and what were all the lovely and artistic and interesting people eating?
Oh, yeah baby, you know it.
And as my dear friend let that jello (lemon verbena, in this case, topped with basil cream) slide down her throat with ease and refreshment, I am honored to say that somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought of me.
Like I said, I've got a secret message on my forehead.


And that is how I came to be eating lemon balm jello on a hot afternoon last week. And although sometimes a hip Brooklyn rooftop party would be nice, with the right snacks, we can bring the party right here to the country.

So yes- the Brooklynites made lemon verbena jello, which telephoned into lemonbalm jello, and I made mint. The real moral here is that the herb is up to you. Whatever sounds good or whatever you have running rampant in your back yard. Go crazy. But do the basil cream. Totally lovely. Totally artistic. Totally interesting.

Maybe I'm not all grown up yet. Maybe I can start the promised jello regimen. Maybe I can be just who I thought I'd be.

Mint Jello with Basil Cream

for the jello:
4 cups water
4 packets gelatin (you could also do a vegetarian version with agar agar)
One big bunch of mint (mine weighed about 3/4 ounce)
1/2 cup sugar

for the cream:
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon sugar
6 leaves fresh basil, minced fine

Boil 3 cups of the water, and put the remaining cup of water into a mixing bowl. Once the water is boiling, pour it over the mint and let it infuse for 20 minutes. Strain and mix in the sugar until it dissolves. Sprinkle the gelatin over the cup of cold water and let it sit for one minute. Stir in the sweet minty water until thoroughly combined and no gelatin is visible. Pour into six bowls, containers or jars (or anything! go wild!) and refrigerate for about 3 hours, or until firm.
Just before serving, make the cream. Mix the sugar, minced basil and cream. Whisk by hand until just barely thickened. Pour over the jello, and serve cold.