Summer

This hearty salad is packed with so many vegetables that I often serve it as a main course. It’s a real lifesaver when guests announce, “Oh, by the way, did I mention I’m a vegetarian?” It welcomes just about any edible treasure from the farmers’ market or my garden, from sliced sugar snap peas to colorful nasturtium flowers, slender French green beans to crunchy cucumbers, plus all kinds of peppers. Think seasonally: try fall veggies like roasted acorn squash, steamed broccoli florets, or fall lettuces, or bias-cut and steamed spring asparagus. Any good artisan bread will do, but I prefer a dense white or whole-wheat sourdough; try day-old loaves from your bakery.

Every summer I have out-of-control basil growing in my garden, and it’s a serious challenge to come up with ways to use it all. It sometimes seems to grow faster than I can pick it. Then there is my garden arugula and several bountiful bushes of candy-sweet cherry tomatoes of varying colors. This salad guarantees that no cherry tomato or basil leaf goes to waste. For parties, I take a huge platter-size version of the salad, drizzle the pesto vinaigrette over the fresh mozzarella, and leave a small pitcher of the vinaigrette on the side for those who can never get enough of the deliciously pungent stuff.

My mother loved fresh peas and she’d routinely prowl local farmers’ markets to find them. Purple hull peas were her favorite, but she also had a thing for cream peas, black-eyed peas, or just about any fresh legume that showed up at the farmstand. She’d make us kids shell the peas, and I always suspected it was to keep us out of her hair. I didn’t mind, though. For some reason I enjoyed shelling peas. Naturally, I liked eating them better than shelling them and this recipe, which makes enough to feed a crowd, showcases peas and my mother’s other summer favorite, fresh corn. Just like my mother, I find fresh peas at Texas farmers’ markets and sometimes even at my regular grocery store. Any fresh southern pea (see Tip) will work, but I especially favor cream peas. Do not use green peas, which will not hold up. I use canned black-eyed peas if I can’t get my hands on fresh and the salad still shines.

After handing guests a drink, I often like to offer them a special morsel of food to perk up their taste buds and to make everyone feel at home. My friend and Austin farmer extraordinaire Carol Anne Sayle shared this recipe, and it warmed my southern gal’s heart. (For skeptics, these little pancakes do not suffer from the slime factor some associate with okra.) I served these at my annual garden party for chefs and friends, and people couldn’t get enough. The trick is to serve them hot off the griddle, so make sure you have someone to fry them in a skillet, and someone else to pass them around while they’re still hot. For this kind of job, I often enlist a shy guest or two. It keeps them busy, and frees them from the stress of having to make small talk. I’ve found that people will eat as many of these as they can get, but one or two per person is plenty and when they’re gone, they’re gone. (The recipe doubles easily if you’re serving a crowd, though.) I have added a little touch of my own to Carol Anne’s recipe. My garden was producing way more jalapeños than I could manage, so I decided to pickle them. I tossed a few chopped, pickled chiles into Carol Anne’s pancakes and loved the result. You can leave them out if you like.

This is an easy, off-the-cuff dessert with plenty of options and jumping-off points. If you want something richer, feel free to use higher-fat yogurt. I pair the rhubarb with strawberries because the two have overlapping seasons and are such stunning partners, but if you’ve got access to other good fruit, this parfait also works beautifully with blackberries, raspberries, blueberries—even winter citrus, such as neat slices of Cara Cara or blood oranges, clementines, or tangerines.

I stumbled across this idea when I was making one of my regular summertime batches of hibiscus tea, while also wishing that the peaches in a paper bag on my countertop would hurry up and ripen already. I peeled a peach, let it steep in the hot tea for a while, and there you have it. Not only did the peach soften, but it also took on the loveliest color from the hibiscus, not to mention that addictive flowery tang. I later gilded the lily by boiling down a little more of the tea to make a glaze. The best part: I still had my tea, which I later cut with sparkling water and spiked with tequila.

The thought of this dish came to me when I saw new varieties of individually sized cantaloupes, about the size of grapefruits, at my local farmers’ markets. As a single cook, I’m drawn to anything with that single-serving thing going for it. But if you can’t find any of these little ones, use 1 cup of the flesh from a larger cantaloupe and save the rest for breakfast or a snack the next day. Now, I can imagine what you’re thinking: pasta with cantaloupe? Seriously? I first read about it in Giuliano Hazan’s Thirty-Minute Pasta and knew I had to downscale it—and add prosciutto, such a natural thing to pair with cantaloupe.

Like so many other American cooks, I learned to make risotto from Marcella Hazan—not directly, of course, although wouldn’t that be great? This is a quintessentially summertime recipe; make it when fresh corn, tomatoes, and basil are all converging on your local farmers’ market or farmstand. Risotto is one of those dishes that makes great leftovers—especially to form into balls, stuff with cheese, roll in bread crumbs, and fry to make arancini. So if you like the thought of that in your future, feel free to double or triple this recipe. Eat this with a vibrant green salad and some chewy bread for a filling supper.

I never liked raw spinach that much until I started eating it from my sister’s huge garden in southern Maine, where she and her husband grow almost everything they eat—a year-round endeavor, thanks to lots of canning, freezing, and the smart use of greenhouses and the like. She even brought me spinach seeds so I could start growing it in my own community garden. My garden is a tiny fraction of the size of hers, but the spinach comes out of it just as tender and sweet. This recipe barely wilts the spinach, so it still has that fresh flavor, but helps compensate for the sturdier texture of supermarket spinach, if that’s what you need to use, by softening it slightly. If you have tender garden-fresh spinach, you can feel free to let the topping cool before adding it to the spinach for a cold salad instead.

This is like a taco in soup form. It is not a traditional tortilla soup, but a black bean backdrop for a double or triple hit of corn (stock, tortillas, and fresh kernels), plus just-cooked shrimp. Like a taco, it’s hearty and satisfying without being fussy, and once you have the black bean soup base (page 52) ready and waiting, it’s a snap to put together.

When I spent a day making jams with Stefano Frigerio, a chef-turned-food-producer, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. Frigerio, who sells his Copper Pot Food Co. jams, sauces, and pastas at Washington, D.C., farmers’ markets, resisted set-in-stone recipes and instead cautioned me that the most important thing is to taste, especially if you don’t want the jam to be too sweet. In the true spirit of preserving, use only fresh, local, in-season berries for this jam. (There’s really no reason to preserve something that you can get all year-round, so why use supermarket strawberries?) Without any added pectin, this jam has a slightly loose consistency, which I like, given that my favorite use is to stir it into yogurt.

This recipe started the way all jam recipes should: I came into a bounty of stunningly delicious, in-season fruit. It wasn’t from a blueberry patch like those in southern Maine my homesteading sister, Rebekah, picks from, but it was the closest thing I have to such: the Dupont Circle FreshFarm Market. One of my favorite vendors there, Tree and Leaf, had blueberries one summer that were better than any I’ve tasted outside Maine. I paid a pretty penny for them, went home, and broke open Mes Confitures, the tome by famous French jam maker Christine Ferber. I found her take on a wild blueberry–lemon jam, and I took shameless liberties with it, as anybody working with much different fruit should. I used much less sugar (her wild ones must be very tart), and streamlined the process. The result is a celebration of the blueberry, brightened with slices of candied lemon, peel and all. Use it anytime you want good jam: on toast, stirred into yogurt, and even as the basis of such desserts as Blueberry-Lemon Tart with Toasted Coconut (page 165).

It’s too bad so many cooks, when presented with a basket of beautifully fresh and local corn, strip off those husks and toss them. That’s a lot of flavor headed for the compost pile or, worse, the trash. I got the idea to use the husks to make corn broth from Vitaly Paley of Paley’s Place in Portland, Oregon, as mentioned in The Flavor Bible by Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg. I was already using the cobs, so I threw the husks in the pot along with the silks, too, to get as much corn flavor as possible. This broth is best made in the very height of local corn season and won’t be as vibrant with supermarket corn. Once you have the broth on hand, use it as the base for soups, especially as a stand-in for chicken broth in Corn Risotto with Roasted Cherry Tomatoes (page 135) and add it in increments to sauces for a boost of summer flavor.

I have made these tomatoes for more than a decade now, but it wasn’t until my sister’s homegrown Maine wedding, where I made hundreds of them for the appetizer table, that I realized how perfect a technique this is for “putting up” local tomatoes in the peak season. The low heat of the oven turns the tomatoes almost jammy, concentrating the flavor beautifully, which makes them perfect as a topping for bruschetta, pasta, or pizza (see Smoky Pizza Margherita, page 106). They also can be served on an antipasti platter with mixed olives, cheese, pickles, and/or smoked fish. I call them 12-hour tomatoes, but the amount of time it takes depends greatly on the size and juiciness of the tomatoes. So for the least fuss, don’t mix varieties or sizes in one batch, but feel free to multiply this recipe as you wish. Left in the oven long enough, the tomatoes will start to become a little chewy around the edges, which make a nice counterpoint to the moisture inside. Try other spices instead of the cumin: regular paprika, smoked Spanish paprika (pimenton), and cinnamon also work well with the tomatoes, or you can stick with just salt and pepper for the purest tomato flavor.

Imagine running through the tessellated shadows of the forest with a mustard jar of just-caught pollywogs and a sharpened stick for a spear, scrambling up the levee and lunging into culverts, your dog baying ahead in the distance. You slip on a wet log, stumble, catch yourself on the mossy shoulder of a boulder, oblivious to the mud and moist lichen flecking your arms. You are lean, quick, alert, leaping streams and plunging through dense brush. Lungs filled with the crisp air, perspiration on your back, eyes wild with happiness—you are free, alive, home. The old hound nuzzles up to your hand as you mount the porch steps, your mother’s greeting at the screen door, the aroma of cherry pie on the windowsill, your life a storybook distilled in the sweet mirth of salt.

Behind the jubilant liquid tomato smile of pasta margherita lies an intellect of herbs and garlic. The one covering for the other is a seduction of sorts, an invitation that propriety prevents you from accepting too eagerly. Sprinkle your margherita with the crystalline sweetness of Fiore di Cervia, the fine salt from the balmy Adriatic flats south of Ravenna, and marvel as the tart-sweet play of tomato and pasta asserts itself. Ennobled by the salt’s fruity warmth, the sauce is freed of its ties to the herbs that first defined it. Eyes open, head borne aloft, your margherita is as beautiful in body as in spirit.

They say we use only 10 percent of our brains. That assessment is immensely appealing. We are all potential supergeniuses with telekinetic and mind-reading powers, and could easily enjoy Heidegger or Joyce for light reading over coffee and donuts in the morning . . . if we only tried. But there is an easier way to experience the unbridled horsepower of our full consciousness: try roasted peaches in bourbon syrup with smoked salt. Your first bite will expand the boundaries of sensation separating your mouth from the rest of your body, and you’ll be feeling spiciness in the warmth of your hands and smokiness in the tingling of your toes. And by the third bite your mind will have moved on to peel the black backing off the edge of the universe, filling the unending space beyond with your pounding heart.

This was one of the first spring desserts we made for Ko. It is simple but somehow hits home in just the right way.