Sucker for Sour Cherries

I'll admit it, at first it was the packaging that attracted me to these beauties. Those nubby pint containers, the aqua blue cardboard was complementing the crimson of the cherries so poetically. Really, there could have been slop for sale in those pint containers and I would have had to stop and comment, "Look, the rough-hewn finish of those beautiful cardboard containers so matches the bumpy nature of the slop it contains." But you have been mostly saved from those ridiculous musings, because instead of slop, there were juicy sour cherries.

Maybe it's the growing climate, but in California, a place where I spent the bulk of my life (okay, I'll be honest here, 27 out of 28 years of my existence) the sour cherry is somewhat of a rarity. But at the Union Square Greenmarket, which has been stupendous as of late, they have been absolutely lousy with sour cherries. Vendors selling them loose by the pound, stacked high among the Ranier and Bing style cherries, vendors selling them in the pint, and quart containers in a stunning array of muted ocean hues. I had my pick.

I tasted the sweet-tart fruit, and bought my pint, thinking about what I would make with my cherries on the subway ride home. A bit too sour to be eaten out of hand, yet soft, and bursting with juice, it took me moment-- and then I knew.

Sour Cherry Sweet Rolls, made mostly from this recipe, were the perfect breakfast treat to celebrate my newly crowned queen of the summer fruits. I used this recipe mainly because it allowed for refrigeration of the dough, retarding the rising process, which allowed for a freshly baked sweet roll in the morning, not the afternoon as many double rise doughs will have you do. For the filling I kept it simple. I brushed the dough with a few tablespoons of melted butter, and sprinkled a half cup of dark brown sugar, before studding it with pitted sour cherries.

Roll, slice, and place in a baking dish, and then the fridge, and soon they are ready to be baked. As the rolls were baking they perfumed the house with the of homey smell of yeast, and when brought out of the oven-- they were beautiful. Some of the cherries had worked their way to the top, popping out of the sweetened dough, and getting a caramel-like glaze from the filling. I honestly can't say enough about these rolls, they were sweet, but not too sweet, tart from the cherries, but not too tart, chewy but not too chewy. But they were just delicious enough to make me want more.

The Urban Milkmaid Makes Soup

And then there was buttermilk. But this wasn't the staunchly tangy stuff that you buy in a carton for making waffles, and then sits in the recesses of your refrigerator, separating, growing more sour, until the carton begins to emit a peculiar odor. No, this buttermilk was pleasingly watery, ever so mild, with just a hint of tang hitting you in the back of the throat. Daniel Patterson's butter article, also gave a recipe for chilled pea soup with mint, utilizing the newly made buttermilk. With the butter being such a success, I was sure that the pea soup would be delightful. Well, sometimes things don't work out as planned. They work out even better.

I went to the Union Square Greenmarket on a gorgeous, and busy Saturday, set on purchasing my peas of choice. Well, I should have remembered that one never goes to a greenmarket with a set idea of what one wants to purchase. One lets inspiration be the guide, buying what looks best-- and the peas, dear readers, where a little less than inspiring. Swollen, and starchy, and far from the bright green that I had anticipated, these peas were not rockin'. But luckily I found another leafy green to be inspired by-- sorrel.

Now I had never cooked with sorrel before. In fact I rarely saw this herb at the market, and when I did, it was hermetically sealed in a plastic box. But here sorrel was, mounds upon mounds of it, loosely laying in a wooden crate. I asked the vendor if I could have a taste, and given the all clear, I chewed a piece as delicately as a cow chewing her cud. Tart, acidic, grassy, almost tannic, it was a delight, the perfect complement to the mellowed buttermilk. I grabbed an armload, along with some beautiful garlic scapes, and ran home.

The soup couldn't have been simpler or more delicious. I diced an onion, gently sauteing it in some olive oil. Once the onion was softened I tossed in the loosely chopped sorrel, and cooked it just until wilted. Pouring in the buttermilk, I stirred until bubbles began to form at the edge of the pan. I let this mixture cool a bit, then plunked it in blender. I whizzed the soup around, then poured it through a strainer, to get any fibrous bits out. The soup took a healthy does of salt and pepper, as it was already at room temperature.

That evening we had friends over for dinner. First course? Chilled sorrel soup topped with crispy fried garlic scapes. The perfect way to start a summer meal.

I'm an Urban Milkmaid

In this modern day and age, one where we can buy everything online, including our groceries, and it's possible to never have to actually speak to another person again (that's what email and IMing is for!), I think it's very easy to idealize an agrarian lifestyle. Or at least I do. I dream of waking up from my restful slumber on the farm to the mournful mooing of fat cows, udders full , waiting to be milked. Or stopping by the hen house, gaggles of cluckers ready to be pushed aside in order to collect still-warm eggs. Yes, the smell of hay, the sweat of manual labor, and tons of steaming manure, can seem attractive.

When I was reading the Sunday NY Times a few weeks back, ignoring the salsa music coming from the street below, and sipping on a delicious cup of bodega/deli coffee, I spied Daniel Patterson's recipe in the magazine section for fresh, homemade butter. I squealed with glee, my high-pitched emoting blending in perfectly with the jangle of the salsa music. Here was my opportunity to become my very own milkmaid , never having to leave the comforts of my couch in New York City. I ran out to the store to buy the only ingredient, a quart of heavy cream.

Who knew that making butter would be so simple, and so satisfying? All that is required is block of time, and a heavy duty mixer. Have you ever whipped cream into pillowy mounds to top your favorite dessert? Well imagine doing that, but not stopping when the cream reaches the desired billowy stage. There you have butter. (For anyone who would like to become an urban/suburban milkmaid themselves, Luisa has the complete recipe, with pictures, on her blog.)

As the minutes pass, and as you continue whipping that cream, just as you are about to wonder if anything will happen, little pebbles of butter emerge from the watery whey, which I learned is actually buttermilk. Then, there is draining, and some kneading (which I will admit is a little bizarre), in order to release even more buttermilk from the butter, yet in a matter of moments you have it-- pure, rich, butter. And you can say that you made it.

The butter was good, not delicious, but very good. Light, unsalted, sweet, and it didn't taste a bit like the fridge, always a dangerous threat when buying butter at the store these days. But the thing that was most gratifying about this little experiment, was just knowing that you made the butter, something we buy so readily, and may take for granted, yourself.

The original article, had a recipe for pea and mint soup, made with the buttermilk the butter produced. Sounds good right? Well, I didn't end up making the pea soup, but stay tuned for what I did make.

When Children Eat Chorizo

This is what I would have imagined being fed if as a child if I grew up in some Spanish villa. Instead I grew up in a ranch style house in suburban San Francisco eating macaroni and cheese. Not that there is anything wrong with that cheesy goodness, but chorizo sausage it is not.

When I saw this recipe in July's issue of Gourmet magazine, it intrigued me. Crispy bits of chorizo sausage, buttery chickpeas, and the crunch of toasted almonds sounded perfect. And this pasta dish was terrific, as long as you cast aside any preconceived notions as to what pasta should be like, in the Italian sense. This is not an al dente dish. The body that comes from this dish is not coming from the swollen angel hair noodles, it is coming from the other Spanish ingredients added to the pasta.

Homey, settling, all around satisfying. First, I cooked the garlic and then the chorizo, removing these goodies and leaving behind the delectable grease. As I broke up the dried angel pasta into bite-sized shards, and quickly browned them in enriched sausage grease (how bad could that be?), the nutty smells perfumed the kitchen. Then I cooked the pasta-- completely, and as I added back in the plentiful cloves of garlic, and the shiny, spicy chorizo, I just knew that supper would be delicious.

Adorned with roasted and sliced almonds (save the Parmesan for another day), and some soapy clean cilantro (my addition), I felt like I had made a meal fit for a child. Chewy, warm, with the slipperiness of spaghetti, I got the same good feelings from eating this pasta, as I do from sitting down to a bowl full of my mom's macaroni and cheese. With a slice of whole grain bread, and accompanied by cool, crisp salad this dish proved to be a wonderful weeknight meal. And the leftovers were just as good as the previous night's dinner.

But It Sure Is Pretty

Sometimes you just make those salads that sound so good. With summery ingredients like juicy tomatoes and crisp cucumbers, bits of torn, aromatic basil, and my favorite, slithery, salty anchovies, it should be great. You follow the recipe almost to the T, and you know what? It just falls flat-- not on its face but skidding ever so gently on its bum.

When I saw this recipe for what seemed like a delectably simple farro salad in The Zuni Cafe Cookbook my mind began to reel with all of the pithy titles I would name this post. So Near, So Farro. Farro Too Good. Or maybe, Once Upon a Time, In a Land Farro Way. (Yes, I know that none of these titles make a lick of sense.) But then I made this salad, and I'm sorry to say, for the sake of the English language (or maybe that is a blessing), I was underwhelmed.

This salad just needed something. The dressing was not acidic enough for my taste, with a 1:6 ratio. I even salted heartily, and that didn't do it either. The best word to describe this salad? Meh. I like each of these ingredients on their own, so why not all mixed up to make this summer salad?

Instead as I sat in the living room, gazing out the window as I am wont to do, choking down this bland melange, I found myself thinking of the seasons to come. Wouldn't a warm winter salad of dried fruit and farro be delightful? What about a farro porridge, drowning in piping hot milk? Or a mock risotto of sorts, farro kernels plumped with broth and speckled with reconstituted dried mushroom? Ah yes, so near, so farro...

Sandwiches Can Definitely Be Cookies

I have a soft spot for sandwich cookies. Or maybe a better turn of phrase would be: I have a sweet spot for sandwich cookies. Always have. Oreos, with there unpronounceable list of ingredients, are pretty darn close to perfect. Nutter Butters, part gooey peanut butter, part crisp, peanut-shaped confection, were a favorite afterschool for snack. Even the refined Linzer cookie, delicately dusted in puffs of confectioner's sugar, are eaten like the heartier American sandwich cookies by me. Twist of the top, gobble this plain cookie right up, then move on to the other adorned half. I love ritualistic dining.

I've made one sandwich cookie on this site before, so why not make the blond counterpart, the Caramel Cream Cookie?


This cookie doesn't have snowy white, lard-based cream, and it doesn't have stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth peanut butter, it has complex cream of nutty browned butter, reminiscent of caramel swirls ribboning their way through mounds of vanilla ice cream. The cookie itself is not too sweet, and delicately crisped with brown sugar. And the cream, the cream is a stunning brown sugar buttercream-- what more needs to be said about that?

Can you tell that I really enjoyed this cookie? I found the recipe here, so get into the kitchen!

My New Favorite Way to Eat Melon

If you're a long-time reader of this blog, you probably know by now, that I love summer. No, it's not the warm weather, in fact that makes me wilt like a cut flower. And when I was younger, and in school from September to June, I looked forward to the summer recess just like every other child. But as welcoming a break as I knew it to be, I really didn't need it. I was one of those children who actually liked school. No, the thing I most love about these warm summer months is the fruit, and all that can be cooked (or not cooked with it).

A delicious stone fruit pie is divine; a clafoutis chock full of tree-ripe apricots; and a nectarine cobbler, the juices bubbling out from under the nubby crust, each are list-toppers for me. But sometimes turning on the oven, even for only an hour, its steaming surface puffing more hot air into my already warm apartment is too much to bear. So then I turn to another summertime favorite, melons of all sorts.

This melon salad has proven itself time and time again this season to be one of my favorites. Its salty-sweet combination is a delight, and the crunch of dry-roasted peanuts adds yet another crisp dimension. A mixture of Thai ingredients, this salad proves to be a refreshing snack, or a pleasing side dish to a lite meal.

The dressing is simple. The zest and juice of one lime, are combined with a lump of brown sugar, and the secret, salty ingredient-- Thai fish sauce. Yes, that stinky stuff adds the perfect briny element to the mix. Chop up some refreshing mint, bash up a handful of salted peanuts, and garnish your melon pieces with this whole concoction. Serve and eat this right away, so the mint remains sprightly, and the peanuts still have their crunch. And most importantly, enjoy the summer, and all of the bounty it has to offer.