And so I say to you, friends, that I have a passion for the syrup-dribbling deliciousness of fruit warmed by the sun… the kind of fruit that seems to have just fallen from a tree, or better yet, was just dangling there, coaxed down by my hungry hands. Sadly, the closest fruit farm I know of is still farther than my local farmer’s market, so I just forage the pre-harvested. Which is just fine by me: the fruit is still warm, still fresh, still replete with summer.

Recently, it’s been peaches and figs galore, following a long and happy blueberry season. But last week, I got the surprise of the summer when I encountered a table covered with pears from Lightsey Farms. Pears! A treat relegated to autumn, I thought, but there they were, winking at me with their Cyclops stems and seductively encased by freckled green skins.

I hadn’t anticipated pears for months, so I hesitated to bite off more than I could chew—which inspired, as it turns out, serious non-buyer’s remorse. I could hardly stop myself from swallowing the entire brownbagfull before I got home (I am wired for that kind of impulsive fruit-eating) and was fortunate enough to save a scant trio for a small, impromptu dinner party Christopher announced on Saturday night.

I wasn’t sure what I would do with them exactly, but I did know that they were the ultimate gift for a group of hungry guests—especially since I’d picked up a complementary hunk of Hopelessly Bleu goat cheese from the Houston Dairy Maids, who themselves procured it from Pure Luck Farm and Dairy in Dripping Springs, TX.

That afternoon, before the party, I started arranging my most prized ingredients on the counter to determine how best to highlight them. I find this an extremely effective method for sizing up my options, when I haven’t got a specific recipe in mind. And lo! Hark! Inspiration soon came in the form of a frozen pecan—I keep all of my nuts in the freezer. The clouds of doubt parted before me: candied pears with bleu cheese and pecans served over arugula. But of course!

Every bite of it had been procured that very morning: it was a beautiful homage to Texas at its best, sweet, savory, a tiny bit biter…all in all, a remarkably simple, yet elegant salad. Best of all, I cooked off the pears well in advance of things, and threw the salad together at the last minute—which left me plenty of time to wax poetic.

Candied Pears with Blue Cheese, Pecans and Arugula

Serves 6

For Pears:

3 ripe pears
4 oz blue cheese
¼ c turbinado sugar
¼ c chopped pecans
Juice of 1 lemon

For Salad

(dressing adapted from The Barefoot Contessa)

3 c Arugula
3 tbsp. white wine vinegar
1 clove garlic, minced
½ tsp Dijon mustard
1 fresh egg yolk
½ c olive oil
s & p to taste

__

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Peel and core pears, removing enough flesh for ¼ inch divots. Slice a small piece off the rounded side of each pear to prevent its rolling in the oven.

Coat each pear with lemon juice to ward away browning.

Evenly distribute divots with blue cheese, separating cheese into small (easily melt-able) pieces if not already crumbled.

Nestle pears close together in a small baking dish and sprinkle with sugar.

Press pecans into cheese, distributing evenly among pears.

Bake for 30 minutes, or until sugar has caramelized and pecans are deep brown.

In the meantime, whisk vinegar, mustard, garlic, egg yolk, salt and pepper in a small bowl.

Slowly add olive oil to vinegar mixture, whisking constantly to emulsify.

Just before serving, toss Arugula with dressing and arrange pears over greens.

I’m not good with full. Most people eat to get there, but I walk a lonesome road of desired emptiness. If I could, I would stay hungry forever, just to know there was room to keep eating. If I could, I would eat without stopping, just for the thrill of it. Sadly, whenever I try, (which is often) a feeling of unpleasantness ensues and I regret the attempt.

A tinge of panic sets in each time satiety creeps up on me: in fact, the second I get a pang of fullness, I am struck with what must be a flight or fight sensation. It means the end is near. It means I have to wait for a modicum of digestion to take place before I can spring my lips to action again.

It is a dizzying dilemma, and certainly not normal, I know. So few people seem to experience this private disappointment—either that, or they’re much more self-possessed and discreet about it. I’ve been known to plow through an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet without pausing to breathe, just to prevent my gut from sending “STOP!” signals to my brain.

So, I’ve learned to cope. Mostly by determining which foods can be eaten in excess. I could eat mint chip ice cream sundaes until the dairy cows come home, but it wouldn’t bode well for my health. Plus I just bought a small car, and I’d like to continue fitting into it.

There are certain foods (entire cuisines, even) that can be grazed almost indefinitely without the sensation of overwhelming fullness and the devastation that results. Indian food is not one of them, I discover time and again at high-speed-eating buffets—but Greek food is.

If you choose lamb gyros and blocks of feta this strategy may not work so well for you, but I’ve found that I can just about eat and eat and eat until my jaw gets weak with the right Greek selection. Grilled vegetables, seafood kebobs, olives and hummus… I munch them to my heart’s content, and my stomach doesn’t know the difference.

Last weekend, I was on my way to a party featuring Phil’s ribs. As I pondered what to make, I knew this: I’d  need some edible defense against devouring 10 or more of those exquisitely rendered barbecue bones. Inspired by a basket of cucumbers I’d bought the day before, I set to work on something light, crisp and cool. A nice companion to heavy, hot pork. What bites of the salad remained were even better a day later.

Taziki Salad

Adapted from The Barefoot Contessa

4 cucumbers, sliced thin
1 large red onion, sliced thin
32 ounces plain, whole milk yogurt
½ c chopped dill
garlic salt
pepper
red wine vinegar (optional)

____

Thoroughly salt sliced cucumbers and onions and toss to coat.

Place in a large sieve over an even larger bowl and wrap with plastic.

Drain at least 4 hours refrigerated.

In the meantime, line another sieve with paper towels, and set over a bowl.

Empty yogurt into sieve and cover with plastic wrap.

Drain at least 4 hours refrigerated.

When yogurt has drained, add garlic salt, pepper and dill. (If the mixture seems too thick, add a splash of red wine vinegar.)

Toss cucumbers and onion with yogurt mixture and refrigerate (ideally a few hours) before serving.

Season to taste and garnish with dill.

Another advancement in scurvy prevention took place in my home this week, with the creation of  not one, but two key lime pies. The first was made and served as a welcome gift to my friends Billy and Katherine, who have joined the Lonestar crew from Manhattan–and just at the right time! Welcome to triple digits, friends!

And so, to cool them off, and to shield them from deadly Vitamin C deprivation, I initially squeezed some twenty-five key limes (AKA Mexican limes) mixed, baked and proudly presented them as a Tex-Mex welcome. Who says you have to go to Florida for great key limes?

Just when I thought everything had gone smoothly I committed the faux pas of faux pas, by clearing Billy’s plate  before he was able to finish the last bite of golden, crumbling crust. In my defense, I had watched him linger over it a while, and didn’t want him to feel any pressure… perhaps not everyone loves the butter crunch of graham cracker crust as much as I do?

Yes, it was a silly thought, but politeness will make a girl do curious things sometimes. A few minutes later, as I stood rinsing plates in the kitchen, my bold messenger, Christopher, came bounding through the  door to inform me that I *deep breath* had taken Billy’s crust! Apparently Billy had sat dumbfounded a while, until finally admitting his disappointment.

I ran out to apologize, but what could I do? It had been wasted, the beautiful, gilded thing…that glorious, sweet, crunchy bite so necessary for offsetting the tart creaminess of the key lime custard. So exactly one week later, I was at it again, eager to make amends for a disappointed Billy.

Aside from its being delicious, I love this recipe because you do a lot, but not everything. If you’d rather spend your summer outdoors than inside baking pie crust, fear not. This one is fast and easy, but still involves some real baking. Plus, you’ll be at it a while with these delightfully demure little limes–they’ll really make you feel like you’ve earned your baker’s keep. (But, if you’re in the mood to work outdoors, these can be easily squeezed on a breezy porch or backyard–though if that’s the case, you’re obviously far from H-town.)

So small are these limes, in fact, that the first time I made this recipe I carried my basked through the aisles at the local Latin market and glanced haughtily at my list–I needed a mere ½ cup plus 2 tablespoons of lime juice–”Child’s play!” I  silently jeered. How may limes would I need? Five? Six?

Twenty-five limes later, I had enough juice. But my oh my, it was worth every squeeze. The tiny, tough little suckers I bought–thirty for $1–were pinched dry, each and every one. If I hadn’t known how diminutive these little fruits were, I probably would have envisioned using a mere handful. But even when I saw their size, I still believed that a 30-lime bag would be enough for some five pies and maybe some lime-aid, too.

Not so. I ended up with a mere 5 little limes, perfectly apt for garnishing. I zested two into the batter, and sliced the rest to mark the center of each piece. I could not believe that each slice would contain the life of approximately 5 Mexican limes. Good thing there are lots across of them growing across the border.

As I served the pie for the second time, I watched Billy’s lips pucker with the first bite—this pie is a serious Lolita. As tart as any homemade sweet I’ve ever enjoyed and crowned with a golden, buttery arc to temper her zing. Make it with super fresh eggs, and the custard is truly stupendous.

Key Lime Pie with Graham Cracker Crust

Generously Serves 6

Adapted from Gourmet

9 standard graham crackers, smashed into crumbs (1 1/4 cups)

2 tablespoons sugar

5 tablespoons salted butter, melted (you can go unsalted, if you prefer)

14 oz can sweetened, condensed milk

4 egg yolks (I reserved whites for an Angel food cake)

1/2 cup plus 3 tbsp fresh-squeezed key lime juice

zest of 2 key limes

__

Preheat oven to 350

Mix crumbs, sugar and melted butter in a bowl until incorporated.

Press the crust evenly along the bottom and up the sides of a 9’’ pie plate.

Bake for 10 minutes.

As the crust cools, mix 1 can of sweetened condensed milk with 4 egg yolks until  blended

Add key lime juice and zext and mix again

Carefully pour into crust and bake for 15 minutes

Cool for at least 4 hours in the fridge. When ready to serve, garnish with a lime and / or homemade whipped cream.

If a peach in the hand is worth ten in the bush, then a few peaches in a Clafoutis are worth the haul of an entire basket. Usually, I’m unable to drive away from a farmer’s market without devouring at least half of the peaches I’ve procured. I arrive at home, appetite spoiled, lips sticky. I make a face in the mirror and even my pursed chin looks like a peach pit: all I see, all I think about, all I want, all the time are summer peaches.

I love their ridges, their fuzz, their changing gradations of pink and yellow. I love the leaves that spring from their tops—they look so biblical. They’re more beautiful in person than any still life, though I can see why they’ve inspired great art through the ages. We should all be so lucky to be as pretty as a peach.

And even though a peach devoured raw and dribbling is as good as summertime gets, I decided to practice some self restraint for once and see how they would look in a dessert. I deliberated for a couple of days, letting them ripen further in a brown paper bag. When I finally pulled them out, their sides were so soft I actually treated them like sparrows in my palm.

I wanted something that would showcase their shape. Buckles and pies are lovely to taste, but fruit ends up something of a juicy mass beneath their crusts and crumbs. I wanted more for my peaches. They needed great presentation: a subtle platform for their astonishing color and shape. And then I came upon it—the Clafoutis, a French dish traditionally done with cherries.

The Clafoutis is an almost flan-like dessert and it’s easy to see why pert, tart cherries would complement its silky richness. That said, the ultra ripe peach wedges were hardly cloying. I would even consider making this with a layer of caramelized pears or apples and serving it after brunch. It’s sweet, but the texture is light enough to enjoy during daylight hours.

When I first started researching the Clafoutis, I was slightly confused. Recipes call for pouring batter over fruit arranged in the bottom of a baking pan. I wondered if every Clafoutis recipe author had forgotten to mention that the dish had to be flipped before serving, like an upside-down cake.

Fortunately, a life lesson applied: when everyone else is WRONG, there’s probably something going on with me. So I took a leap of faith and trusted that my beautiful babies would be properly showcased like the cherries pictured in traditional Clafoutis preparations.

And indeed, like all shining stars, they rose to the occasion—literally. As soon as I mixed the liquid custard I understood: the batter worked its way under every slice, lifting the pattern to the top of the pan, where the fruit floated in pink and gold glory. Everything about a peach is beautiful, but when a spiral of slices hover over a custard, they can take your breath away.

These peaches came courtesy of Lightsey Farm in Mexia, TX. I used a recipe from The Joy of Cooking as my base, but changed some rather significant details. When I do a fall Clafoutis with apples, I will do it exactly the same way.

Peach Clafoutis

4-6 peaches (enough to cover the bottom of a 9” round cake pan)
4 eggs
¾ c granulated sugar
1 c half and half
¾ c all purpose flour
1 tbsp amaretto
1.5 tsp vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
Confectioner’s sugar for dusting
Vanilla ice cream for serving

_____

Preheat oven to 375.

Arrange peaches in the bottom of a 9” cake pan.

Beat eggs and sugar until frothy about 2 minutes.

Stir in half and half, Amaretto and vanilla.

Add flour and salt and blend until smooth.

Carefully pour batter over peaches and bake for 10 minutes.

Reduce heat to 350 and bake another 30-35 minutes until Clafoutis puffs and edges are golden brown—a toothpick inserted in the middle should come out clean.

Cool slightly before serving (with Vanilla ice cream) and dust with confectioner’s sugar.

There’s something about carrots in the summertime that brings out the bean lover in me. So while I’m on the subject of my favorite legume dishes, let me recall a classic for any season: Cannellini bean dip with garlic, rosemary and a hint of lemon. White beans—bum bum bumbumbum, you make my heart sing. You make everything, groovy.

I found myself once again headed home with a bunch of beautiful, twisted, dirty, orange carrots, wondering what I could do to give them the platform they deserved. With so much visual character, they deserved to be featured on their own, instead of being chopped and softened into something else. Once again, it boiled down to beans. This purée can be quick or involved: it’s delicious from a couple of cans, or with a long soak of dried Cannellinis. Either way, you’ll add a few aromatics, do some blending, and find yourself with a supremely satisfying snack.

I will also say this: although I’ve grown out of ascribing myself with titles and am wary of announcing any dietary restrictions, I do eat a predominantly vegetarian diet. I’ll have a piece of meat from time to time, as long as I have a pretty good idea of where it came from and how it lived. Soaking some beans (or even opening a can—the best come from Eden Organics) requires a lot less research, however. And, in my opinion, a bowl of beans is as satisfying as any burger. Really. You think I’m crazy, but when is the last time you ate a whole bowl of home-made beans?

More likely than not, the idea of a bowl of beans recalls a little ditty not sung to the tune of “Wild Thing.” Bart Simpson loves to sing it, and so do most finicky child eaters I know. In fact, I’ve heard nervous adult eaters repeat it, too. It makes me temporarily sad for the beans until I remember that it’s all based on ignorance. Poor, deprived folk who don’t understand that such a simple dilemma can be easily resolved.

Yes, beans are magical—musical even, depending on your rendition—but they do not have to produce after-effects that would drive away a blind date or a bed mate. Yes you CAN serve beans to your significant other and not worry about being fumigated (or worse fumigating) from under the covers. Just make sure to rinse the beans thoroughly. As thoroughly as possible. Whether you’ve soaked them for hours or just emptied a can, it is possible to change their gastronomical effects by washing off the oligosaccharides responsible for the infamous toot. Anyhow, I dare you to ignore the medical validity of such a big word for bean sugar.

Enough about that. Back to these white beans, so soft and savory; so perfectly flecked with garlic and rosemary, themselves such excellent accompaniments to the carrot. In winter I love roasted carrots with olive oil, salt and rosemary sprigs, though after trying the combination of carrots and white bean dip, I may never again serve the roasted roots alone. This purée is great on salads as well—I plopped a bit onto some balsamic roasted tomatoes with Arugula and pine nuts and was, once again, deeply satisfied…with not even a hint of tummy-rumbling.

White Bean Purée With Rosemary and Garlic

serves 8

(This is the quick version, although you can also use an equivalent amount of soaked beans)

2 15 oz cans Cannellini beans (reserve 1/2 c liquid)

2 large garlic cloves, diced

2-3 rosemary sprigs, stripped and diced plus 1 tsp for garnish

Juice of 1 lemon

1/4 c olive oil, plus extra for garish

S & P

___

Purée beans in a food processor or blender, adding lemon juice and olive oil.

Add garlic, salt and pepper and taste.

If dip is too thick, add some reserved bean juice.

Stir in rosemary and garnish with 1 tsp rosemary and olive oil.

Serve with your favorite summer vegetable, crackers or pita chips.

When I was twelve, my family took a trip to see the great canyons and deserts of the American West. My mother had planed a voyage to England, but my father vetoed, insisting that before his children traveled abroad, they ought to see their own country—at least the part he loved best. Up until I was born and my mother got nervous enough to set her own vetoes, my father took annual trips to Monument Valley on his motorcycle. He spent much of his youth gallivanting from New York to Mexico on two wheels and was deeply disappointed when my mother put the kibosh on traveling several thousand miles with her family packed onto a bike and into a sidecar.

She gracefully negated the idea, noting that school was out for a mere week, and that we couldn’t afford to travel by land if we wanted to get home in time. So we flew to Flagstaff, AZ, rented some kind of unglamorous, gold sedan and drove from Bryce Canyon to the Grand Canyon and from Zion National Park to the Four Corners, where we could play hopscotch from Colorado to Arizona to Utah to Wyoming while holding our breath.

What I remember more than anything was the scent of the desert changing from mile to mile. Eucalyptus, juniper, clay, rock: the combinations were heightened at night when the world went black and the dryness of the air made my burnt lips feel tight. When you can feel heat in your cheeks long after the sun has set, you know you’ve sucked the life out of a day: especially when you get to sleep with a gut full of black bean soup.

Sedona lends itself particularly well to a bowl of this spicy soup. I’ve never had a properly made spoonful of the stuff without recalling the whine of coyotes and the licks of campfire flames against a sandy floor below the town’s red rocks. I remember being terrified and enchanted all at once, distracted only by a belly that begged to taste whatever scent was wafting from a nearby canyon kitchen.

A few weeks ago I found myself longing for that deep sky, peppered by white dots…cool, windy and smelling like Chipotle peppers in Adobo. It was a rainy, cold afternoon in Connecticut, and I’d just picked up some bright carrots with which I’d planned to make a slaw. But raw vegetables were not in the cards on such a damp day. Instead, I wanted to translate the stormy weather into a bowl of something deep and warm.

Fortunately, a bowl of first-rate black bean soup does not require an overnight soak or 4 hours of simmering, despite whatever wild West myths you might have heard. When I found myself with a sudden craving—as much for a memory as for a meal—I tried a quick recipe and was happily surprised by the flavors I could tease from a couple of cans of beans, tomatoes and peppers. It added just the right kind of warmth for a wet, windy evening—the kind you might crave after a long day spent traversing the desert in a saddle: be it of the equine or boxer-twin variety.

Spicy Black Bean Soup
Adapted from Epicurious
Serves 6

2 tbps olive oil
4 garlic cloves, chopped
1 large carrot, chopped
1 red onion, chopped
2 tsp ground cumin
1-2 Chipotle peppers diced, plus 1 tsp Adobo sauce
2 15 oz cans of black beans, undrained
1 15 oz can of diced tomatoes, undrained
1 ½ c chicken broth
½ c sour cream
bunch of fresh cilantro for garnish
S & P

___

Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat.

Add garlic, carrot and onion, sautéing until soft, about 6 minutes.

Mix in cumin and Chipotle (add in increments to control heat).

Empty bean and tomato cans into the pot, along with chicken broth, and bring soup to a boil.

Reduce heat to medium, cover, and cook until carrots are soft, about 15 minutes.

Transfer to blender, pureeing in batches—be careful to leave enough room to prevent explosion!

Return to pot. Simmer soup until slightly thickened, about 15 minutes.

Just before serving, remove 1 c of soup and slowly stir in sour cream. Reincorporate into large pot off the heat.

Garnish with chopped cilantro and season with salt and pepper.

When I was young, I had the good fortune of living up the hill from a blueberry patch that belonged to a place called March Farms. Just passed the farm was a pond called Long Meadow, where my family went from morning until evening in the days when school was out.

Sometimes we headed down the road to March Farms for a basket of all-you-can-pick blueberries and one or two of Mrs. March’s giant peanut butter cookies. It is still a spectacular lunch.

I go back to the farm every summer and haul away as many bags of berries as I can afford. At $2 a pound, it’s a pretty good deal—especially since a few end up digested before the loot gets weighed. As someone who has spent nearly $5 for a mini-box at the grocery store, $2 per pound feels like hitting the blueberry jackpot. So of course, every summer I end up with a surfeit of them. And every summer they’re gone within a week.

From baking to eating, it’s fleeting.

If you’re looking to put away a huge amount of fruit in a very short time, I suggest a crumble. I think I ate this more quickly than I baked it. My sister and I, after a few glasses of wine, polished off two-thirds of the thing after dinner. The rest went down for breakfast in the morning.

A crumble goes well with Mascarpone cheese, or a dollop of vanilla ice cream. It’s a bit juicy, which is nice, because the liquid can be spooned over your dairy of choice and turned into a warm coulis. The crumble is worthy of thirds, and as I jabbed a bit extra off the top while serving myself yet-another-piece, I had a vision of myself at 5 years old, pilfering dots off the top of my Grandmother’s Entenmann’s Crumb Coffee Cake while she was up from the table, serving herself tea.

But this is so much better than Entenmann’s. The buttery, crunchy topping (which tastes caramelized because of the baked brown sugar) goes perfectly with the slightly tart blueberries that melt and bubble out from the sides. Nothing cloyingly sweet or overwhelmingly heavy here.

If you find yourself with an extra 6 cups of berries to spare—quite an embarrassment of riches—make this. Make this! In under an hour you’ll have astonishingly beautiful, delicious results. It’s a great way to pay homage to the fleeting pulchritude and flavor of summer’s favorite fruit, which is of course, your favorite summer fruit, whatever that may be.*

Blueberry Crumble

Serves 6

6 c blueberries (or any summer fruit, cut finely)
¾ c flour plus 1 tbsp
½ c packed brown sugar
¼ c granulated white sugar
4 tbsp butter, cold, chopped into small pieces.
1 tsp cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 350.

Wash and thoroughly dry the blueberries, then toss with 1 tbsp flour and ¼ c white sugar. Transfer to a pie pan.

In a medium sized bowl, mix the flour, brown sugar and cinnamon. Add the butter with your fingers until small crumbles form throughout.

Distribute the mixture evenly on top of the blueberries, starting at the center. I like to leave a little room on the edges for the blueberries to poke through.

Bake for 30-35 minutes, or until the top is quite brown and the blueberries have bubbled.

* Some fruits may not be as juicy as berries, and you may sacrifice your coulis…

Short and sweet–like summer.

Grill corn, turning often until browned on all sides, about 6 minutes.

In the meantime, melt butter (about 1 tbsp for every 2 ears). Add a pinch of spice, to suit your taste.*

Pour warm butter over corn and serve immediately.

[You could also cut the kernels into a large serving bowl, pour butter over them, and serve with a spoon.]

*For example, you might try toasting:

1 tbsp each coriander, fennel and cumin seeds coriander seeds
½ tsp each cardamom seeds and whole cloves
2-4 dried red chilies (like cayenne)

blending them, then adding

1tbsp ground tumeric
and some ground cinnamon.

Use about 1 tsp of spice mix for each tablespoon of butter.

There’s a little nub, dug from the earth, covered in dirt, hard, humble and unremarkable. Or so it seems. The potato. Pot. Ate. Oh! Sometimes I like sounding words out. I’m not a big believer in onomatopœia, but in this case I think it does apply. Pot: a simple sound. Ate: what I have done, or will have done soon. Oh! That pure delight. It is so good, so deeply satisfying, to eat a potato.

Few things are more comforting, I think, which is why, of course, in our crazy culture of renunciation and denial (damn Puritan ancestors and their self-punishment; damn glut of HFCS that sends us all a fat-flutter) they have been ostracized and cut out of our kitchens at the prompting of lunacy via fad diets.

Potatoes are remarkable creatures, extraordinarily wholesome, easy and versatile. If you pass on the potatoes, I know you’re following some no-carb craze because nobody, I mean NOBODY doesn’t like a potato. If you tell me you don’t, I’ll call you a liar and snatch back my platter. Ye who refuse the humble white flesh of such sustenance are in denial of something much greater than starch—you’re missing out on the staff of life and all of its history. What a root! Chips, salads, gratins; baked, roasted, fried… I’ve yet to meet a potato-dish I don’t like, nor a culture that doesn’t like potatoes.

Potatoes go perfectly well with so many things, but especially with eggs—never better than when your eggs are meant as a main meal. Sunny side uppers, over-easies or scrambled eggs go best with hash browns and home fries, but when it comes to something as elegant as a fritatta, I say go with roasted baby potatoes. A few of these, skins browned and wrinkling up over the flesh, mixed with garlic and olive oil and flecked with sea salt and rosemary are a true joy to behold, and even more so to eat.

Suddenly your sandy lumps are transformed: crisp on the outside, smooth and hot on the inside and bursting with savory crunch from the herbs, oil and salt. They’re even great cold the next day tossed into a salad— Tuna Niçoise takes kindly to these, I’ve found. They’re especially tasty when dug by local hands. I just love buying a bag of potatoes and getting change from a farmer whose fingernails are still encrusted with their dirt.

Roasted Rosemary Potatoes with Garlic Olive Oil

Serves 3-4

2 cloves of garlic, diced
1 tbsp sea salt, plus more for flecking
1 lb baby red potatoes, washed and dried
1/3 c olive oil
4 sprigs fresh rosemary, stemmed and chopped, divided

___

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Pour salt over diced garlic, and rub with the side of a wide-blade knife, so that the garlic and salt mix into a paste. You’ll know it’s finished when the garlic is wet and the salt is completely incorporated and smoothed.

Pour olive oil into the bottom of a large mixing bowl, whisking in garlic paste and ½ of the rosemary.

Place potatoes in the bowl and toss to coat. Spread onto a baking sheet and sprinkle with a bit more sea salt and remaining rosemary.

Make sure the potatoes are evenly spread and not overlapping. Bake for 30 minutes, or until skin wrinkles and browns. Serve immediately.

* If some potatoes are larger than others, cut them in half or quarters. It’s best to roast things of comparable size to ensure even cooking.

I woke up to no dog begging for breakfast. That is to say, I woke up when my body wanted to—a very tender, rested 8:30 am. Mom has kindly taken charge of my little canine lass in preparation (gasp) of being a grandmother. The prospect is far along a very distant horizon, let me assure you, but she seems to be looking forward to it. So she has adopted Lupe as her own for the time being, making mornings just a little bit later for me.

Shortly thereafter I made peace with a rather heaping bowl of granola and some just-picked blueberries (we hauled away six pounds for a mere $5! yesterday) with fresh—thank goodness—raw milk. Sounds treacherous at first, I understand, but it’s delicious. I hope never to have to go back to the conventional variety.

The day progressed into a series of activities: yoga class, a walk in the forest with Mom and the pup, lunch by the water, and eventually a trip into town for some new books. I’m particularly thrilled about “American Earth: Environmental Writing Since Thoreau,” though its 1,000 + pages and spiffy cover did burn a hole in my wallet. It promises to be well worth the price, however, chock-full of essays by people I wish were my best friends—or at least my hiking companions.

A mile-long swim in the afternoon was punctuated by reading the first few chapters of my new tome. But nothing compared to the best part of it all: an unexpected encounter with an extraordinary frittata. Those who know me are aware that I’m prone to egregious exaggeration, but this, friends, is no such instance. I am serious here, and the proof is a mere 35 minutes away. I didn’t expect baked eggs to taste this good. But really, I am glowing still.

Before I sat down to limn the account, I wondered what would get you to actually get up and make this thing. I contemplated a dare… thought of threatening (all for your own good, of course)… but determined that making a seemingly hyperbolic claim all while wrapping the meal up in the irresistibility of a glorious summer day might be the most effective tactic. It is, after all, the most authentic account of how I experienced Sunday, July 19, 2009.

Make this, I implore you, before summer wanes and fresh zucchini, tomatoes, scallions and parsley are impossible to come by. I’m sure there are many extraordinary frittatas to be had in the colder months—potatoes, prosciuto and caramelized onions come to mind as possible add-ins—but this particular summertime combination is worth every day it took to grow these ingredients, and every moment it takes for you to turn them into a soft-on-the-inside, crispy-on-the-outside supper, which, I think, is the mark of so many well-wrought meals.

Mom and I each had thirds. THIRDS. That’s because each piece is light as air and absolutely worthy of such indulgence—grated zucchini adds an invisible yet wholesome sweetness, as do roast cherry tomatoes embedded in each bite. Meanwhile, grated Manchego cheese lends richness, and sliced herbs perk things up a bit.

I served this with roasted rosemary potatoes and a green salad. We both lamented the absence of a baguette, but that would have required a trip to the store… and there’s something really satisfying about making a meal with what you’ve already got. Just the kind of thing you want to eat on a Sunday evening, after a quintessential summer day, gazing out at a fluorescent sky. That is, until the mosquitoes drive you back into the house.

Summer Frittata

Serves 3-4

6 eggs
2 tbsp heavy cream or full-fat milk
1 ½ c grated zucchini (about 2 large)
1 tbsp kosher salt
6 small tomatoes, quartered (or 10 cherry tomatoes, halved)
¼ c chopped scallions (whites and all)
¼ c chopped parsley
¾ c grated Manchego
2 tbsp butter
s & p to taste

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Preheat oven to 400.

Mix salt and zucchini in a colander and let sit for 15 minutes before draining liquid.

In a large bowl, beat eggs with cream or milk. Add zucchini and mix to incorporate.

Add remaining ingredients, except butter, mixing gently.

Heat butter in a heavy-bottomed, well-curved skillet.

When butter is melted, pour in egg mixture. Transfer skillet to oven and cook for 18-20 minutes. You’ll know it’s done when the center looks firm.

I served mine directly from the skillet, as you can see.