Category Archives: Food

Out of the three varieties of tomatoes we tried this year, only these cherry tomatoes came to any serious fruition – and boy were they serious. For the two of us, one single plant provided more than enough cherry tomatoes for salads and snacks and even a Virgin Mary. Next year we will do two containers of these, and forego trying to grasp at the elusive glory of the Beefsteak ones. Andy could make some great summer sauce from the cherries if we get a slightly larger harvest. 

This year I kept it simple, focusing on their flavor by popping a couple in my mouth on my rounds around the backyard, or slicing up a bunch for an afternoon snack, drizzled with some Balsamic vinegar and freshly-ground pepper. The joys of summer need not be extravagant or complicated. 

The picture hardly does it justice, but after sixteen hours of intermittent fasting the chicken sandwich from Popeyes is probably the most foodgasmic moment I’ve had in years. There’s nothing left to say. 

Oh wait, fuck Chick-fil-A – who wants to taste hate?

The brown turkey fig I managed to overwinter from last year put on a beautiful show of foliage beginning in spring, and started fruiting in the past few weeks, but it was the new fig tree I bought earlier this summer that provided the first ripe figs (and likely the only ones – we simply don’t get the right climate to bring them to full fruition). 

I plated them up and enjoyed them without any frills or accompaniment, focusing on their delicate flavor and savoring them unadorned. Stripping things back to their essence is another good lesson of the past few months. Beauty resides in simplicity. 

Tastes evolve and mature, and these days I prefer dark chocolate to milk, so this bar of dark chocolate studded with almonds, pistachios, candied citrus, goji berries and cranberries is a thing of delicious beauty. I found it at Eataly, and their sweet treat section is just about the most dangerous thing for me right now. That said, dark chocolate has its benefits, so we shall focus on that. Everything in moderation, and blah, blah, blah…

Chocolate is one of those things that makes me feel better, and if that’s wrong then let me be wrong until the day I die. A sweet treat is mandatory after an afternoon meal.

The first time I remember eating dill dip and rye bread was at a party at the Ko home. It was summer, and one of Suzie’s older brothers had graduated. They were so much older than us that their stories and lives operated on a level beyond what our focus could hold. We found our own fun, exploring the gardens and the carriage house, behind which chickens used to live. There was an element of danger to them, lending excitement to the lower driveway, and as our parents mingled with their friends, we passed the time near the big rubber tire filled with ice and soda cans. A red and white checkered tablecloth fluttered in the wind, and on it stood a round rye filled with dill dip. Alternately hiding under the long table, and popping up to pop some bread an dip in our mouths, we did what kids did and blended into the background, literally disappearing beneath the food table while adults did what adults did – the mystery of which I’m still not sure I’ve figured out. 

Ever since that day, dill dip and rye bread has been a favorite party food, something I serve faithfully at all our gatherings – a classic slice of Americana that I’ve spread about to friends and family. It’s one of those dishes that I’ve toyed with taking a break from, but that would cause a revolt, and sometimes it’s easier to acquiesce than try something new. 

This summer, without a gathering or opportunity for making it, I found myself missing its tangy creamy richness, so I made a quick batch and sat by the pool nibbling on it and remembering parties of the past. Here, at long last, is the simple recipe I use. It can be changed up and revised as you see fit – this is what has worked for me. The key is mixing it up and tasting it AFTER it’s had a chance to sit and meld. 

DILL DIP

• 1 package cream cheese (softened – I leave it on the counter for a few hours)
• 1 container sour cream
• 1/2 cup mayonnaise
• 1 Tbsp dill weed
• 1 Tbsp Herbes de Provence 
• 1/2 Tbsp dill seed
• 1/2 Tbsp garlic salt
• 1/2 Tbsp freshly ground pepper
• 1 tsp. fennel seed (to echo the rye bread)

Combine all the ingredients and mix well, then chill. Taste after a few hours to adjust seasonings as needed. Carve out a round rye bread, saving and roughly chopping the bread for dipping. (I usually get a couple of loaves of rye bread for dipping, and double the recipe for parties. We eat the leftovers for breakfast the day after a get-together.)

Summer demands the indulgence of nostalgia. 

The idea came to me as a wave of loneliness washed over me in the pool. Paddling by myself in the deep end, I looked up to the darkening sky as the evening lowered its light. I tried thinking back to the last time I’d gone to the movies, but I couldn’t remember. Somewhere in Skip’s repository of movie knowledge and memories he will have the recollection. Instead, I asked if Andy would pop a batch of popcorn, and I sat down in the shallow end and ate the entire bowl, savoring each kernel as the aroma brought back all the fun and laughter of movie nights out. 

Along those same lines, I’ve recently been craving dill dip – which would have been a staple at our summer gatherings, but that we’ve not had a reason to make this entire year. I might put together a small batch and find a little round rye to rekindle memories of parties from the past.

Maybe it’s not the silly dishes I’m craving as much as the company, and maybe this new collection of comfort food is how we’ll make do until we can have company again. 

Like certain songs or musical motifs, certain food brings me back to a specific place in time and circumstance, recalling memories from a life that seemed so long ago, when really it’s only been a matter of months. The world has shifted remarkably in those months, however, and the shift may be more permanent and lasting than any of us can fathom or make motions to understand. This wasn’t meant to get so deep so quickly, and for a Wednesday morning post it may break the week in half before we even cross the formal hump. It’s really just meant to describe the joy and melancholy I experienced as I assembled this simple summer snack of apricots and prosciutto.

The last time I enjoyed the sweet and salty combination was when I was visiting Boston with Andy last summer. I’d stopped at Eataly for provisions and found a little container of apricots, along with some impossibly-thin prosciutto that you could practically see through – ribbons of salty pink glory for citrus-hued sweetness. We took our places at the table overlooking Braddock Park and slowly ate our way through the apricots and meat. This is what other people get to do, I thought at the time. Other people being those with the money and leisure and luxury I’d never have. Back then, and it was only a few months ago I have to keep reminding myself, comparative living was how I went about things, hence a nagging, gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, even when I ate the things more fortunate people ate, even when I wore their cologne, or walked in their fancy shoes.

Today, I savor the apricots and prosciutto on my own, not bothering with comparisons to other people. It’s a more peaceable and happy existence to focus solely on the sensation of a ripe apricot bursting with its juicy, ripened flesh, paired so spectacularly with the soft, savory flavor of the prosciutto. It’s more fun to appreciate what I have on its own merit instead of wondering how it compares to those around me. That’s a fundamental shift in my own perspective that has changed in the past few months. In some ways, the change came just in time, just as the world was shifting its paradigms with gigantic effects. Again, I didn’t mean to plummet so deeply into chasms so rife with relatively unexplored shadows. Luckily, there is beauty here, a more subtle and shaded beauty perhaps, the sort that must be held a little longer, heard only in the silence and stillness that a certain state of calm confers.

A number of years ago, before I really took a liking to cooking, I made a mango salsa to go with some grilled swordfish and it turned out deliciously. It was also, to my somewhat hazy recollection, a huge pain in the ass. However, something so good demands another try, and after honing some chopping methods and getting a more confident feel for my way around the kitchen, I returned to find this one of the simplest dishes to prepare. That’s what a decade of practicing will get you, so don’t knock persistence and perseverance, even when you’re not entirely aware of what you might be practicing. 

In this case, Andy prepared a perfect piece of grilled swordfish on the grill, while I assembled the mango salsa. Since he doesn’t eat much fish, this dish was all for me, which meant a single mango would suffice. I chopped that (avoiding the fibrous and tough center pit) along with a small slice of red onion (a little of that goes a long way for me, but if you enjoy it, don’t be afraid to chop up two hefty slices) and most of a jalapeño (I say most because the pepper I had was enormous, and while I like it, a little of that also goes a long way). That’s basically it, though it can be modified and played with to no end, so add your own preferred veggies or herbs. 

I squeezed the juice of half a lime onto this, along with some salt and freshly-ground pepper, before mixing in a handful of cilantro, roughly chopped. Again, the proportions depend on preference. I finished with some olive oil and a dash of white wine vinegar, then stirred it all together to meld while the fish cooked. 

The next night I did the same thing with a piece of mahi mahi, only this one I did inside on the stove. It worked just as well, and when it rains you’ve got to do the cooking indoors. Even in the summer. Enjoy!

Is there anything simpler or better for an almost-summer lunch than a BLT sandwich? Perhaps a BLAT sandwich because I do love an avocado. For this one, Andy kept it true to the original, and on my lunch break I stepped onto the backyard patio and indulged in this summer treat. There are no tricks involved in the making of a BLT. Toast the bread, if you like, and be sure to slather mayonnaise on both pieces of it, but that’s about it. The ingredients take care of themselves, and there’s nothing tastier than that pink mix of tomato juice and mayonnaise that always ends up running down your hand. I’m not so proper to pretend that I don’t lick it up. 

Is there anything as joy-inducing as the first bite of a recently-baked chocolate chip cookie? I suppose the second bite comes close. And the third. Hell, my joy goes on well into the fifth cookie. During these socially isolated times, when we have spent days on end at home, where the pool remains unopened and the options for exercise are running around the basement, I’ve curbed the baking for a bit to stay within the waist size of 31.5 inches. It’s worked, but every now and then you need a chocolate chip cookie, and that calling came on a sunny Saturday. For most of my life, childhood and adulthood combined, I have tended not to want any nuts in a chocolate chip cookie. In the last few years, however, I’ve come around to nuts, and even, on occasion, raisins, something I never thought would happen. This isn’t about sour grapes though; apologies for the digression.

As I was saying, sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. On this night, I was looking for some walnut action to go with the chocolate, and stumbled upon the copycat version of the Levain Bakery Chocolate Chip Crush Cookie here. I followed it pretty closely, having to make do with all purpose flour instead of the cake flour (since markets are still out of most flour for some reason ~ who is still doing all this fucking baking right now?) and I thought for sure we had a can of cornstarch but it had disappeared. (I know because the last time I tried to use it I almost used the baking powder because they looked identical and I put them next to each other to prove I wasn’t losing my mind.) A quick search showed me that some rice flour could be used in place of it, and it was only a teaspoon so it didn’t look to make a huge difference. The only other change I made was using our last cup of chocolate chips and then using a cup of chocolate chunks. That change was for the better. 

I was slightly wary of the recipe’s size of each cookie. Four per large cookie sheet? I shaped them into baseball-sized chunks, then flattened them into thick cookies, indenting the center a bit. The batter made eight, as described. I wasn’t sure. I baked on the underside of the timing, then ended up extending it about five minutes beyond the max. They turned out. A few more tweaks and this might be ready for sharing when it comes to be around people again. Last pic shows you one in the palm of my hand for some perspective. They really are this big!

I had two.

When faced with the prospect of an extra shallot and some leftover tarragon from a béarnaise sauce made the day prior, the only thing to do is whip up a fluffy French-inspired omelette. When faced with a sunny but cool Saturday morning, the best thing to do is to enlist the help of your husband. In truth, this was a joint effort. I sautéed the shallot and tarragon in some butter, found an extra mushroom to add to that, and then handed it all over to Andy, who made it into an omelette, flipped it and reversed it or however you create the fold-over magic, and it was done. 

Taking it out onto the backyard patio, I set up a lovely little brunch scene, marred only by a little garter snake who wanted to join in the festivities, giving me a heart-attack and Andy some entertainment in the process. Another sign of the impending apocalypse. First ducks, then an opossum, now a snake. I shudder at what’s next. A bear? Bears are sweet. Besides, you ever see a bear with forty-foot feet? 

When I’ve segued into Sondheim, it’s time to take my leave. 

Taking pancakes out of the equation, I can do a decent job when rustling up some grub for dinner. Not being able to go out for dinner for months, and not being the biggest fan of take-out, we’ve been doing a lot more cooking than usual. I’ve also been working from home, which makes marinating and prepping things in the morning much easier than texting Andy and asking him to defrost the chicken because I forgot about it. That said, approaching the three-month mark of being home means that some of the luster of cooking dinner every night has dulled, but when I had a hankering for Pad Thai, and no idea of where to look for take-out, I decided to try my hand at making it.

A few years ago when JoAnn was visiting I made us up a batch of vegetable Pad Thai, and I remember it being a rather arduous process – lots of cutting, lots of tofu, and lots of delicate maneuverings that seemed counter-productive to reproducing a simple street dish. This time I sought out a simpler recipe – and you can find any number of variations on the web so seek out one that works for you. The main choices are chicken, shrimp or tofu – or any combination of them. Rice noodles are the base, and I used a chopped shallot and two scrambled eggs sliced into little ribbons. The secret is in the sauce, which in this case was equal parts fish sauce, brown sugar, and tamarind sauce (some say you can use rice vinegar in place of tamarind, but just go find some at an Asian market because the taste is important).

The garnishes are vital to this dish: crushed peanuts (which you must roast first for a lovelier flavor), cilantro, fresh bean sprouts, chopped scallions and lime wedges. I incorporated these into the whole dish at the end of the cooking – healthy portions of each, stirring them throughout the dish while the noodles and protein was still steaming hot. I love cilantro so I topped it with a bit more of that, along with extra roasted peanut pieces. Make your own choices throughout the cooking process – this is a forgiving dish to which you can bring your own variations.

It was a comfort dinner when such food was needed to lift the spirits.