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I hope I didn’t give you the impression that peaches were the only stone fruit for me. Because, in actuality, I love them all. Nectarines and plums have a special place in my heart right along side (fine, slightly below— but don’t tell) peaches. But I do have a bone to pick with all of them. Every time I see a recipe calling for stone fruits, I have a little silent (usually) conversation with the peaches-plums-pluots-what have you’s called for. It goes a little something like this:

“Stone fruits? Are you there? It’s me Kristin. I know I’ve loved you since I was a wee girl. I love your vibrant colors, your tart flavors and your juicy flesh. But, honestly? Those pits? They are the worst. The Worst. So awful in fact that I have looked at dozens of recipes that have called for halved and pitted stone fruit and I just move right along, saying no thank you, ma’am. The thing is, I can always halve you buggers. That’s not the problem. The problem is that one side slips away clean, with a neat little divot where the pit once was. But the other side? Well, that’s a different story. In that mean-spirited half, the pit remains firmly lodged in the fruit’s flesh. And it won’t budge. Won’t Budge. And you have no (to my knowledge) nifty tricks like your more meaty friend the avocado (the old whack your knife into the pit-twist-and-remove move; oh, and don’t forget to make sure not to lop off your other hand in the process!). So, near tears, I give up. Don’t you owe me a little more than this, dear stone fruits? After all we’ve been through together.”

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I made these cupcakes on Monday, which was the kind of rainy day that makes one mopey and quiet and even a little broody. Worse yet, the day had started out sunny—a ruse that lured me in and had me envisioning a nice, long stroll through the neighborhood. But as dark, heavy charcoal-colored clouds rumbled into the sky, those hopes washed away like the persistent streaks of rain that were soon coming down the windows. It was the kind of Chicago fall day that I try my best to forget every year, instead conjuring visions of crisp blue skies and golden leaves floating through the sun-drenched air. That’s the fall I prefer to remember. And, every year, I get reminded.

All this was compounded by the fact that I had contracted a very serious case of the post-vacation blues. Not only was our week in Canada over and done, but my post-bar exam life of leisure was rapidly drawing to a close as well. I wondered: Was it over already? I had a sneaking suspicion that the same stealthy thief who snatched summer away from me had returned to abscond with my vacation too. Suddenly I felt like I must jealously horde my time, doling out the precious seconds to only the most worthy tasks.

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After four nights in a row in hotels and five dinners running in restaurants, I could’ve cried when we arrived at our cabin in Golden, the final stop on our tour of the Canadian Rockies, and saw the glorious kitchen. While Kevin was awestruck by the sweeping mountain views from the cabin’s wrap-around deck, I immediately started to poke around the cupboards (some basics—oil, salt, sugar, pure maple syrup, coffee!), size up the cookware (more pots and pans than I own myself!!) and peer into the oven (some charred remnants of guests-past scattered on the bottom of the oven, but it would do!!!). We might have different priorities, me and Kevin, but we both agreed that a home-cooked meal would be a welcome vacation from, err, vacation.

So, we set out for the local grocery store (called Overwaitea and pronounced “Over-Weighty,” or that’s what sprung to my mind, at least) to get a feel for the available raw materials. If I thought I was excited about the cabin’s kitchen, you should have seen me in the store’s bulk foods section. Bin after bin was filled with spices, baking staples, nuts, dried fruit, all manner of chocolate, a host of trail mixes and granolas. I almost did cartwheels, but decided against it at the last minute (read: if even Kevin thought I was going a little overboard, surely the British Columbians would agree).

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Last week, as recipes featuring the jewels of summer produce were hopscotching across this page, Kevin and I were driving, hiking, eating, relaxing and photographing our way through the Canadian Rockies. In decided contrast to the late Augusty menu that was unfolding here on this site, Calgary and the mountains to its northwest were a bit more autumn (and at times, downright winter, especially when it, you know, SNOWED). And while it wasn’t quite the summer vacation we had envisioned, I didn’t really mind. Fall has always been my favorite season and with each brisk mountain breeze, I could feel the cozy cocoon that comes with cool weather stitching itself up around me.

Inside this cocoon, very, very good things happen, including, but not limited to: soft, nubbly sweaters; fleece jackets zipped up tight to the chin; blazing fires; mugs of steaming beverages (which may or may not be spiked and, in case you’re wondering, they should be spiked when in the mountains because, well, just because—and it’s just so après-ski-ish); crocks of hearty soups (between Kevin and I, we slurped no fewer than a dozen bowls of soup!); an extra blanket on the bed; rosy cheeks. We indulged in all these fall treats on our trip and also the upside-down apple cake you see atop this post—but more on that later.

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Today marks the final item (save for the cornbread panzanella, but you’ve already heard about that) on my Summer’s Last Stand BBQ menu that we’ve been highlighting all week. And I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been saving the best for last.

You might have noticed that there are recipes for tarts and cakes and tortes and bars on this site but not even one lone pie recipe. Until now! Because, ladies and gentlemen, I have procured a real, non-disposable pie plate. I’ve been coveting Emile Henry pie plates for months. In fact, my hankering has spanned several seasons worth of pies: pumpkin last fall, pecan around Christmas, strawberry this spring, and, well I’d finally had enough. I couldn’t justify the expense of the Emile Henry beauties (I figured that, realistically, I’ll only make one pie a season, if that) so I settled on a Target cheapy: about $5, kind of cute (though, sadly, it’s not a retro cherry red or lemon yellow, as I’d envisioned) and perfectly fine.

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I’ve made no big secret of my mayo aversion. It’s perhaps most evident in the collection of slaw recipes on this site, closely followed by the potato salads, another picnic staple. None of the slaw or potato salad recipes on this site include mayonnaise (nor does this one, which I’ve been making faithfully every couple weeks since Heidi posted it) and today’s recipe is no different.

That said, you might not guess that it’s mayo-free on first, or even second, bite. It’s creamy and lush, like a traditional slaw, but instead of using mayonnaise as a binder, this recipe relies on a combination of buttermilk and blue cheese, brightened by a splash of apple cider.

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It might not surprise you to learn that before going to a new restaurant, I (rather obsessively) read up on the restaurant, relying on community web sites, online menus and traditional media reviews. I know for some diners, this takes the fun out of the experience—but for me, it only adds to the fun. Particularly when the reviews are unanimously good: the anticipation just builds and builds.

But this little pre-reservation routine of mine has some serious drawbacks. If the reviews are poor, I find myself either dreading the experience or trying to steel myself against what lies ahead. And, sometimes it has me downright delusional. Such was the case with a new restaurant that opened just down the street from us. It was to feature a wood-fired oven; seasonal, local and painstakingly-sourced ingredients; and a BYO policy. And did I mention it was just down the street from us? All these things, combined with pre-opening buzz, had me very excited and we made a reservation the first chance we got. And then.

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Can you believe that I’ve never made barbecue chicken before? I’m fully aware that it’s a summer BBQ staple, ensuring a grill wafting with delicious smells and a table full of people with sticky hands and sauce-smeared grinning faces. Which of course, makes them the perfect centerpiece for my Summer’s-Last-Stand BBQ Menu (components of which I’ll be posting about each day this week).

But barbecue sauce has never been my thing. I think a certain fast-food chain is mainly to blame for that: those little rectangular vessels of the stuff seemed to accompany all my childhood friends’ Happy Meals, a dunking pool for McNuggets and French fries—and a constant source of nose-wrinkling on my part. Growing up, I also eschewed the barbecue-flavored chips, much to my friends’ dismay. The sauce was just too sweet, too cloying, too overpowering for me.

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Every season has its produce seductress. Early spring’s thin, verdant asparagus and juicy, tiny strawberries lure you in with the promise of longer, warmer days lying just around the corner. Fall’s tart apples beg for cinnamon and a hot oven, while it’s gourds tantalize you to split them open, clean out their middles and roast them until their flesh yields. Even the barren winter has it’s temptresses—the humble potato, so smooth, hearty and comforting, especially when a pat or three of butter is involved and the mirage-like appearance of sunny citrus just as January lowers its heavy hammer of bluster and brrr.

Summer’s seductress is a little more difficult to nail down. It’s a season that has a litany of contenders: sweet corn, which Garrison Keillor apparently deemed “better than sex”; tomatoes, both the lovely jeweled-toned cherry varieties and the big supposedly-ugly heirlooms too, with their lacy cross-sections; berries, bursting and stain-inducing. But for me, the peach is summer’s grandest seductress: tinted in a warm palette of corals and pinks; skimmed by the softest layer of fuzz; so tender that one sitting in a bowl full of other peaches can become bruised simply from the voluptuous curves of the peaches nestled around it; juicy, sweet, tart and fragrant. Yes, I’ve got it bad for peaches.

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