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.

elderflower vodka

Well, it's been a bit of a weekend, really.
Let me just say right off the bat that I have a few nice things in jars to tell you about this week. It is, after all, the time to put food into jars, and I'm excited to show you the new additions to our shelves from the last week.
And also, I'm not cooking this week.
I am in bed, looking longingly at the sun outside. I am permitted one slow walk around my garden per day, and it is torturous not to be able to bend over to weed. It's like looking at the Sadie with snarly hair and not being able to brush and braid it, which I am also doing.
I'm okay though- I'll be good in a few days, and really I'm happy to be recovering so quickly.
But I get ahead of myself.
Here's the thing. If ever you get stuck with a stomachache, and it feels different than other stomachaches, like your actual muscles hurt, and it hurts to move- and if you think to yourself, maybe I should go to the hospital, even if everyone thinks I'm a weenie for going to the hospital for a stomachache?
You should go ahead and go to the hospital.
Friday night I was begging Joey to go out an get bubbly water for my aching belly. I thought I had food poisoning. Saturday morning I drove myself to the hospital, and I told Joey and the girls I'd be back in a few hours. By lunchtime, I was in surgery. And the whole time, at least while I was awake, I kept making Madeline references. I couldn't help it! I learned as a child, from Madeline, that it was cool to have my appendix out. And now, I have finally joined the club!

And that's the story. That's why I might be moving a bit slowly around here for the next few days, and why there might not be so much, well, active cooking.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's get back to the jars.

I have these elderberry bushes in my yard. A few years ago, my friend Jen dropped off two little twigs and told me to plant them, and of course I said yes. Now I have huge bushes and right now, they are covered with the most exquisite snowy flowers.

Before we went to the cape, these flowers were causing me a bit of anxiety, because I'm irrational enough to have anxiety about flowers. I was so excited to do something with all these beautiful flowers, and I was afraid that they were going to come to their perfect, just-open moment when I was away! I have a pretty ridiculous habit of absolutely needing to do a project in the very second that we are loading up the car for a trip. I don't know why it always happens this way, but it does. At least this time it wasn't wedding cake. But as I was worried that the flowers would be past their prime before I returned, there I was as Joey was buckling the girls into the stuffed car, snipping elderflowers off the bush. Luckily, it is so easy to make elderflower vodka, I slid into the car in no time, and with a loving roll of Joey's eyes, we were off.

Elderberries are native in New England, and a forest walk will often bring you to a flower laden bush. Pick the flowers before noon when they are most fragrant, and ideally when they are just open. By late July or early August, it will be all fancy drinks for you. I don't know about you, but I could sure use one of those.

Elderflower Vodka

Pick as many elderflower heads as you can find- between 15 and 25 medium to large flower heads. Remember that if you want elderberries later in the summer, you must leave some flowers, but the plant will most likely push out more flowers after you have picked them. Pick off the larger stems from the flowers, and make sure that there are no bugs in the blossoms. Pack the flowers into a large mason jar, and cover with decent vodka. Cover with lid, and place in a cool, dark spot for 4-6 weeks. The vodka will turn a buttery yellow color.

Set out a clean large mason jar, and top with a strainer lined in cheese cloth. Pour the contents of the jar into the new mason jar, straining out the flowers. Add 1/4 cup sugar and shake to dissolve. Taste, and add more sugar if you would like it to be sweeter.

Serve with bubbly water, or in any sort of creative combination, or of course, if you are in my backyard...

straight, with maybe an ice cube or two.

Oh, the waiting. Soon enough friends, soon enough.

the french part of cape cod

A good 10 or so summers ago, I went on a little trip with my mother, my stepfather, and my sister who was maybe two at the time. It was, all in all, not the best of trips. We were voyaging to Canada to see my stepfather's homeland, and there was a lot of car and humidity and boiling city involved. My parents were practically newlyweds, and the trip ended up being something of an experience of adjustment for our new family. I am, as you can probably tell, tiptoeing around the mess of it all, but the truth is that when a woman raises a child by herself for eighteen years, falls in love, gets married, and has another child, the first family vacation may not be all smiley pictures and happy memories. Luckily, there have been better trips since, and we are all grown up (or teenage at least, in the case of my sister), and successfully continuing to find ourselves as a family since then.
There was, however, a distinct bright spot in our stormy Canadian odyssey. On our first day in Montreal, we stumbled on a magical little cafe in the old part of the city. It was called something like the Gallery Cyklamen, and it was owned by the most beautiful painter, a sort of Quebecois Willem Defoe with a messy ponytail and an actual painter's shirt. It was on the corner of the block, and there were two walls of open windows that created the most astounding refuge from the heat. The place was filled with plants, and he served mostly just bowls of velvety creamy coffee and pastries from a shop down the street. There were a few additional options available as well--perfect bread with soft and character-filled cheese, a little fruit salad, maybe a bit of cured meat like they do so well in Montreal. The real beauty of it all was that everything tasted better there than it did anywhere else- each bite was unique and luxurious. There was always some non-cliched world music playing, and there was another man who worked as the sole employee, wiping tables and running out when the bread supply was low. He was younger than the owner, although equally beautiful, and the two men both had paint on their hands and shared, I thought, charged looks between them that made me want to write short stories with the pair in the lead. We went there every day that we were in the city.

The place was, I can say, a gem. And when I returned to Montreal a few years later for my little honeymoon with Joey in the frozen heart of January, it was nowhere to be found.

It was there when we needed it, like the answer to a magic wish. Places like this always seem to materialize during travel, and it never feels less than an enchanted thing.

Don't you love to find these places? To walk in, and to be able to say with disbelief, "what is this amazing place, and how can I imagine the reality of this day if I had not found it!"

This past week, friends of ours invited us to Welfleet, a little town in the forearm of Cape Cod. The inviting couple were friends of mine from high school with whom I have been recently and blissfully reunited through that website of mixed affection, Facebook. Things have changed since the dramatic high school relationship that I remember, and now they are married and parents to two very sweet little ones. This week we had four days of that special loveliness when vacationing with another family really works, and all involved just have more friends to play with, children to love, and parents to care for them. It was a good few days.

Several times over the course of our time there, croissants would show up on the kitchen counter. Jon or Joey or both would have run out to the new little French bakery across route 6 (perhaps as a joint trip to the town dump- I swear those men are long lost brothers in their deep affection for town dumps), and then there were croissants. "I can't wait for you to see this place," Joey kept saying, and I couldn't wait either. The croissants were good, and I mean French good. I was only in Paris once if you don't count airports, and although I was so broke I lived on cans of tuna fish for the week so that I could afford a disgusting room in which to eat it, I was smart enough to also splurge on one croissant a day, and with this I was happy. These were the best croissants I had had since then, and believe me- I've been searching. So when we went to the bakery for their first morning of breakfast service, I was ready.

Some of you may be traveling down the friendly and congested arm of the cape this summer, and if that is that case, I insist that the PB Boulangerie and Bistro be the site of at least one meal for you. There is a bakery that will supply you with smelly cheeses and bread so beautiful it make you cry (if you are one of those people who cries at food- that is me, as opposed to Joey who cries at previews), or there is a restaurant with fancy chefs in tall hats if that is what you prefer. I suggest a mix of the two, as I think that you'll want to go more than once.

Breakfast isn't cheap, but it's not expensive either, and for five bucks you can have a croissant with jam and a lovely French bowl of coffee, which I think is breakfast fit for a queen. Or, for a bit more, you can eat this:

which is what Joey would recommend. Most entrees come with a little side salad of frisee, tarragon, parsley and dill tossed in the perfect amount of red wine vinaigrette. The food, at least on my table, was perfect. And I'm no one so special, so I'm guessing that most of the food would be that way.

And so, on the last morning of our trip, we all sat around the big fancy booth that would fit 12 if it needed to. We shared our smoked salmon and our blueberry pastries and our yogurt parfaits with thin and perfect nectar-y honey. It was exactly what we needed.

And in this day you never can be sure, but I'm guessing that this one isn't going to disappear. But just in case it does, I'd get yourself down there this summer, and it will probably be just what you need too.

off to the beach for a few days

Don't forget to eat your greens while I'm gone.
I'll be back later in the week with tales of fried fish and wave tossed children.
Happy summer....