Posts filed under 'Recipe'
has my heart
The last few days of cooler weather and earlier sunsets have me nostalgic for the summer that’s all but slipped away. For long nights on the deck. For meandering walks through the neighborhood. For fireflies and hoses and ice cream on a Wednesday evening. There was all of that this summer, and there was a perfect weekend in the northwoods, too. One I won’t forget soon.
Kevin and I drove from Chicago to the south shore of Lake Superior, to meet my family for a night of camping. (Note to self: camp with my parents more often. Their version of rustic is one that I can definitely get behind.)
Then we went into Minnesota, up along the north shore of Lake Superior—the shore I know like the back of my hand.
in a split second
The best recipes are born in an instant. Or, at least that’s how they emerge in my world—in a split second, when hunger and inspiration collide, a product of the exact moment, the day, my mood, the weather, the season. It’s what happened with this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and this one. And it’s what happened with this very satisfying, very quick, very of-the-season recipe: bucatini with cherry tomatoes, pancetta and basil. This one was the result of a grey day—one that followed a brilliant string of blindingly sunny days; a long work day; a few nights of less-than-stellar sleep. I wanted a warm bowl of something hearty and nourishing, but something that would not waste the precious, waning days of summer.
A basket of tiny tomatoes, red and gold alike, sat on the counter. A package of bucatini was stashed in the pantry. A few basil leaves threatened to wilt in the fridge. And two thick rounds of pancetta were a mere trip to the corner market away—nothing a sweet call to Kevin, a quick bat of my eye lashes, and a promise of pasta! with pancetta! and plenty of parm! couldn’t solve.
sweet spot of sorts
It’s that time of August when you realize that the end of summer is near, even if you can’t see it—like the moment after you pull the drain-stopper from a sink full of suds, just before the dishwater starts to twirl down the drain. All is still and calm, before it unstoppably slips away. Right now, in this moment, it’s not yet unstoppable.
Really, it’s a sweet spot of sorts. The overnight temperatures have started to dip, granting a crisp early-morning reprieve from the sweltering weeks gone by. But the evenings are still long and warm, sun-streaked and scented with grill smoke. The markets are resplendent with tomatoes and melons and peaches and corn; we won’t be apple-picking for a few more weeks yet. Hydrangea bushes heave with great big poms and the lush leaves atop the trees on either side of the street meet in the middle, arching into a sun-dappled canopy. Those same leaves will go golden and crimson soon, before they the carpet sidewalks below.
summer kind of cooking
The kind of cooking that’s been happening in my kitchen lately is a summer kind of cooking. Most of the time, it’s barely “cooking” at all. It’s largely based on fresh produce—whatever has caught my eye. Last weekend it was tomatoes, an heirloom variety that was deeply red and wonderfully misshapen. They were sliced onto seeded bagels, under thin rounds of cucumbers and purple onions sliced into half moons. They were stuffed into BLTs, mine doctored up with snipped chives, while Kevin’s gilded the lily with a fried egg. They were diced into a salad—just the tomatoes, a crack of pepper, and crumbled feta. Salt, too. It’s the difference between a really great tomato and a transcendent one. Yes, transcendent. If there’s a cause for hyperbole, friends, it’s a ripe summer tomato. It just is.
There’s been some more involved cooking and baking (a baked pasta for our friends who have a newborn; homemade burger buns for a BBQ last Saturday; a smoked pork butt; endless batches of my favorite ice cream), but even that has taken on summer’s rhythms. I cook and bake in little pockets of time—when it’s raining, or after it’s dark, or before we set out on a giant walk. I love that kitchen—I do—but it will be there in the fall and it will be there still in the (dare I say?) winter.
on a road trip
Kevin would be in L.A. the week before the Fourth of July. So, we set our sights on a road trip up the coast over the long weekend. Kevin picked me up at LAX, and we drove north along the coast, where the endless blue Pacific slipped from the pristine beaches of Malibu, studded with surfers and life guard stands, into golden, rolling hills and rugged coastline.
Our first stop was Big Sur, and we got there just in time for sunset. An orange sun slid down through the trees and over the ocean, and we ate at Big Sur Bakery, on the front porch, with a votive candle flickering between us.
sizzle and sputter
I made this dish last week, on the eve of the holiday weekend, and, while it was spot-on that night, it felt all wrong as I flipped through the photos. Who wants cauliflower over the Fourth of July weekend? When burgers beckon, and fire crackers sizzle and sputter, and ice cream is mandatory, whether it be perched atop a sugar cone or plunked into a frothy pint of root beer? When vegetables, if they must be eaten at all, take the much more summery shape of corn on the cob, or juicy tomatoes? When fruit is suddenly available in all hues, and often in pie format?
Right: me neither.
the icebox part
If I had to pick one thing—a single, solitary thing—that I loved most about June, it just might be the strawberries. There are peonies, and fireflies, and graduations, and kids out of school, and the true start of the BBQ season, and car washes in the sun, and baseball every night, and sunshine past 8 pm, and farmers back at the market in Wicker Park on Sunday mornings, and new swimsuits, and marshmallows burnished by the bonfire. To be sure, these are all fantastic features of June—a month that, if you ask me, has got exactly the right idea. It begins (Memorial Day) and ends (Independence Day) with 3-day holiday weekends, for Pete’s sake!
But, between those bookends, there are strawberries.
call for cake
Hello! Happy June! Happy belated Memorial Day! Happy summer! Happy farmers’ market season! Man, I’ve been gone longer than I thought I would be. I’ve missed all these beginnings, but—the good news is—I have cake.
Well, okay, the cake was for my mother-in-law’s birthday, but you don’t mind if I recycle it for all of the aforementioned occasions, do you? No? Good! You’re so kind. But, really, a cake like this—two thick layers, covered in frosting—is best suited for birthdays.
i flew north
Last weekend, Kevin flew west (for a weekend with his friends in Yosemite) and I flew north (to Minnesota, to see my family). The camera went with Kevin (filed under “The Things I Do For Love”). But my iPhone came with me and I kept it busy documenting a rainy, chilly, but still-perfect weekend with my parents and sister. There was beer (Fulton and Summit and Surly, but not Grain Belt, alas):
And fat spears of asparagus shaved thin and tossed in lots of lemon, olive oil, parmesan and coarse salt:
something very new
When we moved back to Chicago from DC in 2005, one of the biggest draws of this town was that it was where many of our friends were living. Kevin had grown up here, we’d both gone to college here, and it wasn’t so far from Minneapolis, where I’d grown up. Unlike Washington, where everything was new and where we were wrapped up in anonymity much of the time, this was a place where you could run into someone you knew at a Cubs game, where you could go to a place that you’d been five (or, in Kevin’s case, ten or fifteen) years ago.
There were a lot of great things about being back in Chicago—but returning to a tight group of college friends was certainly one of the best. There were BBQs and nights of unending Taboo and weddings and chili cook-offs and fantasy football drafts and Fourth of July fireworks and book clubs and girls dinners and street festivals and concerts.