Life is changing a lot–unlike my friends in Texas, who have endured nearly three months of 100+ temperatures, I can feel the fall moving into North Country. It starts with a subtle gust of cooler wind, whirling at my feet. I hear a few more crows cry, and the smell in the air changes a little. It’s not electric yet, but that’s coming. We still have warm, golden afternoons. The wildflowers and hay are high, the leathery day lilies just beginning to wrinkle. The next few months are my favorite time of year, especially in this part of the world. Home.

Moving is difficult. I haven’t written about it: there were so many emotions, and I didn’t know what to say. Christopher and I spent four years making a home, building our own village, and then suddenly–albeit at our own discretion–the place and the people faded in the rearview mirror. We packed up our books, our rugs, our bed. Our belongings were skillfully arranged on the truck like Tetris bricks, set to be carried along thousands of miles of highway.

We drove through Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia, Pennsylvania then up to New York and Connecticut. The moving van lagged behind, picking up other homes en route. I lay in bed at night in motels with florescent lights shining through grey curtains, itching from stiff sheets. My belly ached and my head spun from too many sweets at Cracker Barrel. I thought about our home… where we lived after we got married, where we collected books and made meals and memories. It unnerved me to think of our things in boxes, rumbling along some unknown highway. We couldn’t get more than an estimate on what day the movers would arrive. They said, “We’ll call when we’re close.”

My parents live in Connecticut, and we stayed with them, waiting for the call. In the meantime, I grounded myself in the kitchen. I love what the land offers in late-summer. Eggplants, squash, tomatoes, maize and fruits became ratatouille, corn salad, blueberry crumbles, peach pies. Still, there were monarchs in my stomach. For over a week, my whole life was up in the air, (or out on the road) and I had no idea what it would be like where I landed.

Well, it’s quite nice here. Our house is small and cozy. Right now I want to stay forever, although that, too could evolve. I’ll miss these summer squash as the September breezes blow in and clear the fields for something new. But I can’t wait for the apples.

Raw Zucchini and Sun Gold Salad

Serves 2 as a side-dish or stater

Slice 1 medium zucchini and 1 medium summer squash into matchsticks.

Cut 1 c Sun Gold or cherry tomatoes into halves.

Make a vinaigrette (reserve extra) and coat zucchini, squash and tomaotes generously, letting them marinate at least 15 minutes.

Toast 1/3 c pine nuts.

Pit and chop 1/2 c black olives.

Chop 2 oz feta into small blocks or crumbles.

Chop 1 large bunch of herbs (I like parsley or basil).

Wash, dry and chop 6 c of greens (optional).

Just before serving, toss greens in enough vinaigrette to coat. Lay zucchini and tomato mixture on top.

Add cheese and olives and sprinkle herbs to garnish.

Add pine nuts last, preserving their crunch.

I am a big fan of blending my gazpacho, although I also like it chopped. It depends on the goal: if avocado and lots of herbs or a green pepper are part of the plan, then pureeing is not the strategy, except when I dine alone. I don’t mind eating brownish soup. (Shhh.)

But tonight I had mostly red in my kitchen, and a puree was ideal. (Although I didn’t have any strawberries or cantaloupe on hand, I would likely have added some for the sweetness–a little fruit in gazpacho is really subtle and delicious.) When I’m making a blended batch, I reserve some of the chopped vegetables for  texture, and usually add some other garnish–sometimes shrimp, crab or avocado. I’ve never considered a floating crostini…that would feel too fussy for this kind of edible spontaneity.

Tonight I had some sweet, jumbo lump crab, to which no mollusk or crustacean compares.

**Note: this soup is best if it has time to sit: I recommend making it in the afternoon (or a day before) and blending once more just before adding garnishes and serving.

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Today’s Gazpacho

Generously serves 2

3  medium tomatoes, cored and rough chopped

1 large, red pepper, cubed

1 medium, yellow pepper, cubed

1/2 red onion, diced

1 large cucumber, peeled, seeded and cubed

1 jalepeño pepper, diced (optional)

Juice of 1 lemon

Generous bunch of fresh basil

Olive oil, s & p

1/2 c jumbo lump crab

—

Blend the vegetables, reserving about 1/2 cup to mix into the puree just before serving.

Add jalepeño in parts, to taste.

Add a few leaves of basil, and more if you’re happy with the taste and color.

Drizzle olive oil into the puree, and add lemon, salt and pepper to taste.

Just before serving, chiffonade remaining basil and garnish bowls with chopped veggies and jumbo lump crab.

The first time my mother made it this year (it’s most satisfying in the cold), Christopher and I were en route from a late flight for Thanksgiving. We debated grabbing something from the new–very culinary–Kennedy Jet Blue terminal, but were convinced to hold off. When we finally arrived at home, it was 10:30 and we were numb with hunger. I didn’t tell Christopher what was waiting: he doesn’t like sweet vegetables and I was sure he’d envision some purée of maple syrup, apples and cinnamon, which seem to be prominent ingredients in most squash soups. Fortunately, the deep curry and herbs disguise the sugar and starch typical of so many root vegetables. This soup is subtly spiced, rich from a ham-hock and fit for those with a hankering for savory food. In fact, if it weren’t so orange, you might not even recognize its main ingredient.

On another note, Christopher and I are going to Paris tomorrow. Last night I started reading Paris Was Ours and woke myself up with excitement at 3:30am. Fortunately, I had a generous nap, but I haven’t been so excited for a trip in as long as I can remember. I will be heading to E. Dehillerin, on the recommendation of Christopher’s grandmother. Her suggestion reminded me of a quote I recently read  by Florence King: “A house without a grandmother is like an egg without salt.” I can’t wait to eat hardboiled eggs in little french cups with little french spoons. Copper pots aren’t bad either… neither are croissantes, the Musée d’Orsay, Shakespeare and Company or the smell of wooden cathedral pews, smoothed through years of use.

Curried Squash Soup

Adapted (by memory) from Green on Greens

1 medium-sized butter nut squash, cubed

2 T butter

5 scallions, thinly sliced

1 green pepper, diced

1 red pepper, diced

2-3 garlic cloves, chopped (depending on their size and your taste)

1 ham-hock (1/4 lb of salt pork could also work–add it at the beginning with less butter)

2 qts chicken broth

1/2 c chopped basil

1/4 c chopped parsley

–

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet until brown and bubbling.

Add the scallions and peppers and sauté until soft, about 7 minutes.

Add garlic and squash and sauté a few minutes more, just until garlic begins to brown.

Add chicken stock and ham hock and bring to a boil.

Lower the heat and cook until squash softens, 45 minutes.

Add herbs and cook another 5 minutes.

Blends, or pass through a food mill, being careful not to cause any explosions.

Serve with a small spoonful of crème fraîche or additional herbs.

No matter how beautiful—or how well their flavor stands up to their wan, grocery store brethren—these early tomato specimens don’t thrill me the way a sun-ripened fruit might. But that’s ok, because the weather here has still been dipping at night, and I’m not yet averse to turning on the oven and coaxing a little sweetness out of my preemptive tomatoes. In a few months, when the season is at its peak, I’ll eat nearly everything raw. But for now, roasted tomatoes with a dash of sugar are a total pleasure, especially if you gussy them up a bit, say with some basil, peppers and a dash of cream.

I’m also highly inclined towards soup in the evenings. It is the epitome of comfort to slowly spoon your dinner—savoring each bite by necessity. I wish I were capable of eating slower in general, in which case food would probably satisfy me more quickly. Alas, I am not. Instead, I play tricks on myself, like roasting and pureeing and making things boil in order that I might enjoy them for a slightly longer period. It doesn’t always work: right now, I have a burnt tongue, for example.

But what is better, a blistered mouth or the stomach ache I’m guaranteed through July and August, when I go about devouring quarts of gazpacho? I think it’s a symptom of having been to prep school, where dinner lasted fifteen minutes and I spent four years rushing to get my marinara and penne  down in time for study hall. There are some things I savor: wine, chocolate, cheese (whatever wine, chocolate and cheese I consumed in high school was undoubtedly of low quality). For some reason, I spend the warmer months of my adult life rushing at the tomato—perhaps because they come and go, apparently abundant, and then notably absent for so long. Well, my cup runneth over with spring and I really do need to take a deep breath and give thanks for modern technology: God bless the hoop house and all its advances.

This soup put to use a few other things, lurking locally: some fennel from the garden, and basil, too. I also have lots of onions on hand, and loads of roasted red peppers, a jarred recollection of August 2009. The recipe is a rendition of one I read in my favorite vegetarian food blog, 101 cookbooks, although I’m not shy about swirling in a bit of cream at the end. Roasted tomatoes and cream… who needs strawberries?

Roasted Tomato Soup with Basil and Bell Peppers

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size
1 c roasted red peppers
(alternatively, you can roast two raw peppers alongside your tomatoes)

1 fennel bulb, sliced
3 medium yellow onions, quartered
1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil
3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken
1 c basil, torn plus 1 T chiffonade for garnish
2 t turbinado sugar
2 T olive oil
1 t balsamic vinegar
Heavy cream for garnish
s & p

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Heat oven to 375.

In a large bowl, coat tomatoes and sliced fennel with olive oil.

Spread evenly across two baking sheets, placing the tomatoes on one sheet and the onions, fennel and garlic on another.

Sprinkle with salt and roast about 20 minutes, or until vegetables begin to soften.

Drizzle balsamic vinegar and sugar across tomatoes and rotate both pans.

Cook an additional 25 minutes, or until caramelized.

While vegetables cool somewhat, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins.

Place ingredients in a blender and puree until smooth, working in small batches to prevent heat-related injuries.

Just before serving, reheat blended soup and garnish with cream and basil.

Alternatively, allow to cool completely and serve chilled.

But the garden at the school where I teach has changed all of that. And it’s not just parsley that is growing like delicious kudzu: it’s basil, dill, cilantro, mint and rosemary. I am embarrassed to admit to my former ignorance here, but herbs are not limited to being tiny sprouts—they can be vegetation at its most expansive.

This herbal bounty is something I have never enjoyed. In fact, I’ve always sort of detested fresh herbs, if only because a bunch can cost upwards of $5 to enhance a single dish before slipping into the darkest corner of my crisper, only to be found black and mushy months later. I wonder how many dollars have rotted in my refrigerator in the form of un-tapped flavor. Those were the herbs that I cursed.

What I really should have regretted was my dependence on the grocery store. But thanks be to the parsley shrub, I have been set free. Herbs growing in this quantity never go bad because they are always content: sucking water, swaying in the breeze, happily rooted and alive. Now that I have them, I never cook without them. I even keep bunches on my dashboard to keep the car smelling good. Try that with an overpriced basil leaf.

I feel wealthy, really. Sort of spoiled. But I have vastly changed my view of planting: I’ll never have a garden without rows of my favorites: basil, parsley, oregano, thyme and dill. I will plant them like lettuce. I realize that someday I may not be lucky enough to have herbs growing so abundantly in March, in which case, I’ll be sure to build an extra bed so that my summer crop can be dried and hoarded through a more traditional winter.

So what do I do with so many herbs to spare? Aside from making everything with meunière sauce, I like to make dips. Pesto is an obvious choice, but some parsley butter can be just as satisfying—especially when spread on a homegrown radish. I was recently inspired by Melissa Clark’s Greek Goddess dip, a spin off the more typical Green Goddess dip. She made it in anticipation of the Super bowl, which was easily accommodated by my Texas garden. That said, if I ever live on the east coast again, I won’t be making this much before June.

If you can’t wait for the season, or simply don’t have the requisite herbs growing nearby, make enough of this dip to use up whatever fresh herbs you buy: it’s really extraordinary stuff and  will practically guarantee that those extra basil leaves don’t rot forgotten.

Herb Dip with Feta and Greek Yogurt

Adapted from Melissa Clark, Serves 6-8

½ cup packed fresh dill
½ cup packed fresh mint
½ cup packed fresh parsley
½ cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
½ cup Greek yogurt (preferably 2%)
1/4 c cream cheese, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Raw chopped vegetables (radishes!) or pita chips, for serving.

Place herbs, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a food processor, pulsing until finely chopped.

With food processor on low, drizzle in olive oil until blended. Add feta and pulse until smooth. Add cream cheese (if using), and pulse until smooth. Finally, pulse in yogurt. Add salt, pepper and lemon juice according to your taste.

Serve dip cold with vegetables or pita chips. This dip can be stored in the refrigerator for a few days—it also goes well on a toasted onion bagel for lunch.

Houston, Texas is another story. If you’ve ever gardened this far south, you know that the summer lasts a lot longer—and that ‘winter’ isn’t the same arctic affair as it may be up in places where snow and hail put the soil to sleep. When I gardened in Connecticut, it never crossed my mind to put anything in the ground as late as or November, but here I am, seeding lettuce near Halloween.

But beets, radishes and recently planted broccoli aside, this lack of cold does bring with it certain small tragedies—namely the pulling up of crops that don’t seem ready to go. It’s hard for me to believe, but I’ve actually had to unearth a tomato plant while fruit still dangled from its branches. It’s tempting to want to keep it in the ground, one of moments of defiance against inevitability, which I so often have while watching great, tragic films: maybe, just maybe, I think to myself, the director changed this particular DVD and made it a happy ending.

I’ve gone through it enough to know that there are certain things that simply must happen: Rosebud will burn and the tomatoes will inevitably tumble to the ground, leaving a dry, brown bush in their wake. I’d never thought of gardening as a violent sport, but this month it is: you have to know when to make room for the next crop, even if it means the jig is up for some of summer’s favorites.

This may fall on deaf ears for Yankees, (who I hear have been wearing winter coats for the last few days) but here in Houston, where the 90 degree weather just broke, it’s hard to imagine willfully ending the life of my favorite culinary fruit. But even the farmers don’t have them anymore: markets have moved on to string beans, mushrooms, garlic. And so this post is an ode to an old friend: a plant that gave me so much this summer—I roast to you.

These photos are from a few weeks back, but the tomatoes were just spectacular, ripe, red, gorgeous. They came from a place called Waldingfield Farm, where I once spent a summer twining unruly toms and learning to love the bitter, yellow chalk that graces the hands of any tomato plant handler. The tomatoes were soft and sweet, though their undersides had a slight crunch from caramelized sugar and their skins slipped off invitingly. Their insides were smooth, warm and a perfect mix of tangy and sweet.

I made these to serve on a bed of buttery orzo, flecked with parsley and pine nuts. Alongside was some roasted salmon, whose rich flakes were a nice compliment to the flavor of the tomatoes. And here’s the really wonderful thing: if you’re absolutely dying for the flavor of tomatoes, but you know all you can look forward to until next June or July are whitish, grainy things from the supermarket, fear not. Even mealy, tasteless tomatoes can be roasted into something good—enough time, heat, sugar, salt and herb oil will surely make you feel like summer graced your plate.

On that note, if you have a toaster and are making a small batch, definitely use it. Your small oven will heat much more quickly than its larger brethren, and will use up a lot less energy in the process.

Roasted Tomatoes with Herb Oil

For 4
Adapted from Gourmet

1 lb of tomatoes, halved lengthwise (use whatever variety you like best—even a medley
is nice here)
1 1/4 teaspoons turbinado or brown sugar
¾ tsp Kosher salt, divided
½ tsp black pepper, divided
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
10-12 fresh basil leaves
12 whole, fresh oregano leaves plus 3 tablespoons finely chopped
2 teaspoons fresh lemon zest
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

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Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 250°F.

Toss tomatoes with sugar, half of salt and half of pepper and nestle together, cut sides down in a snug, shallow baking pan.

Heat oil in a heavy skillet over medium heat until hot but not smoking.

Cook garlic, stirring constantly, until golden. (About 2 minutes)

Add in basil and whole oregano leaves, and heat briefly.

Pour oil over tomatoes and roast 2-2 ½ hours until soft, but intact.

You can then transfer tomatoes to your serving dish and pour oil over them as is, or strain the oil first—I don’t mind a few sautéed herbs in my orzo, so I left them in.

Otherwise, pour oil through a fine-mesh sieve into a small bowl or measuring cup, discarding solids.

Stir in chopped oregano, zest, juice, and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and pepper, pour over tomatoes, and serve immediately.

There’s nothing an eggplant couldn’t do, I think, spongy wonder that it is. You slice it, drain it and lo! Never have I met a vegetable so obliging in its texture, so willing to crisp up against some bread crumbs or soggy-down with a nice sauce. They’ve got their own flavor, sure, but better still, they’re the chameleon of the produce kingdom, able to suck in whatever you pour onto them, happy to absorb everything, while holding out some delightful texture and a signature chew. Chew and chew and chew. I could eat eggplant all day long—and in so many forms—which is good, because that’s what happens this time of year.

There are eggplants popping out of every garden in all their oblong glory, and I’ve found more than a few things to do with them lately. This quick spread is something of a baba ghanoush-pesto hybrid. Sometimes I find the pungency of pesto a bit sharp for plain old crackers or crudités, but this smooth, nutty dip is slightly softer and easier to palate on its own.

The day after I served it, I found myself spooning it onto salads as well: it goes well with some arugula, roasted tomatoes and cured olives, as you might expect. Best of all, I was able to surreptitiously serve it to someone who simply refuses to eat eggplant. It was a little bit sneaky of me, I’ll admit, but I think it’s always wise to feed people vegetables when you can. Especially when they’re overwhelming your garden.

If you’re too bashful to bring bushels of straight eggplant next door, I suggest a nice dainty mason jar of these as a neighborly offering—a basket full of pita chips won’t hurt either. It may seem like an effort, but the one thing eggplant doesn’t do is freeze well.

Basil Baba Ghanoush

Inspired by Patricia Wells

1 large eggplant or 4 small eggplants (In total about 16 oz worth)
2 Tbsp sesame tahini
Juice of 1 lemon
2 garlic cloves
1 c fresh basil
s & p to taste
sesame seeds for garnish

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Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Prick eggplant all over with a fork. Place directly on oven rack, with baking sheet below.
(Patricia Wells explains that roasting eggplant in the oven must be done this way in order to keep air circulating, which prevents the vegetable from steaming.)

Roast until eggplants are soft and start to implode, about 25 minutes.

Remove eggplants from oven and trim off ends. Cut eggplants in half lengthwise, and scoop out flesh with a spoon. Discard the skin and tops.

Place the tahini, lemon juice, garlic and basil in a food processor and pulse until combined. Add eggplant and purée.

Season to taste—if you like a richer blend, add more tahini.

Garnish with basil and sesame seeds and serve cool or at room temperature.

*This recipe can be made with the herb of your choice. If you’ve got lots of parsley around, add some  pine nuts or sun dried tomatoes for garnish.

Perhaps it was served to you. Perhaps you made it. Either way, if you’re looking for some help putting away all of those eggplants, zucchinis and basil bunches popping up in your garden just about now, then welcome. This is all about how to avoid lifeless ratatouille—from a gal who has had (and made) her fair share of both good and bad varieties. Before I launch into the finest recipe for ratatouille I’ve discovered, let me first admit that I hate recipes. The raison d’être of this blog, is in fact, my distaste for recipes—especially where things like ratatouille are concerned.

When I started this site, I wanted to create a place where it would be OK to riff a bit, because, even after years of cooking, I never fail to look at a recipe and wonder what I can change about it. When I open a cookbook, I glance at the ingredients, jot them down, and proceed to modify the steps involved to suit my fancy. Often this happens much later in the game—as in, when things are already simmering, boiling or stewing. There are always, always, at least two or three aspects of a recipe that I don’t appreciate and am not interested in following, and sometimes I change my mind at the last minute.

Because of this particular character trait, (good cooks would likely call it a major character flaw) I’ve made some pretty wilted ratatouilles in summers past. Nothing is worse than overcooked vegetables. Except, perhaps, wasting pounds of good produce. But still, every garden yields different results, every farmer’s market has different colors and shapes to offer. I can’t just follow every detail of a prescribed dish… at times like these, it’s actually impractical. That said, I’ve learned that some rules cannot be broken: when we cook, and especially when we bake, there are processes to abide. The trick is knowing where you can improvise, and where you must honor the author’s wisdom. I really do believe that once you learn some basic techniques—both in cooking and in baking—you can execute something right, but add your own touches as you go. That is the dream, at least.

Alice Water’s advice from “The Art of Simple Food,” was a great jumping off point for my summer stew ambitions in 2006—the year I finally got ratatouille right. Despite what I’ve said about her in the past, Waters does a slightly ingenious thing in the layout of her books: she lists the ingredients of her dishes with the steps in between. That way, you go along, adding things in clearly laid out steps, rather than staring at a long ingredient list separate from an even longer list of directions—which is, unfortunately, the way I write my recipes. Oh dear. Anyway, it was exactly this style of authorship that illustrated the importance of steps in the ratatouille process—even if you vary your ingredients a bit. Sometimes I feel like using different herbs, more onions, fewer peppers, a new type of zucchini, etc. etc.

Waters’ recipe allowed me to experiment while honoring the integrity of the flavor and consistency of fresh vegetables. In other words, she made my dreams come true. No wilted zucchini, no pulverized eggplant, no rubbery tomatoes resulted when I proceeded in a certain way—even if I did make my own substitutions. Ultimately, dear Alice taught me a great lesson: it all boils down to the order of things.

You must cook the eggplant first, then remove it, allowing it to soak up enough olive oil to have flavor and heft, but protecting it from your whirling wooden spoon and from the hard-bodied peppers and squash that might otherwise turn it into mash during the cooking process. Then, you must add onions; garlic and herbs; peppers; zucchini and tomatoes in that order, as it coincides with how long each vegetable will take to cook down to an equivalent consistency. When you’ve done it right, each vegetable will retain its integrity, suspended in a warm, salty and basil-tasting tomato sauce.

Finally, something all good cooks know, but that must be said: make sure that all of the pieces of produce you put in the pot are equal in size. That will ensure even cooking even if your ingredients are varied in consistency.

Le voila, un ratatouille parfait… there are so many possible versions, but a few essential steps.

Classic Ratatouille

Serves 6-8

Adapted from “The Art of Simple Food”

(Do this in a heavy-bottomed skillet over medium heat. Cut ALL vegetables into ½ inch pieces.)

3 Italian eggplant, sliced, salted and left to drain 20 minutes
Large can San Marzano tomatoes
2 chopped, red onions
4 tbsp olive oil, divided (plus more if necessary)
6 diced cloves of garlic
20 basil leaves, divided
1 tsp red chili flakes
2 chopped peppers (red, yellow, green or orange)
5 summer squash or zucchini (mix and match as you choose)
Additional herbs of your choice

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Sauté eggplant in 2 tbsp olive oil until tender and golden, about 10 minutes.
Use juice from the canned tomatoes to deglaze pan, scraping brown bits into the eggplant mixture as you cook them—chances are they will start to brown the pan before they are cooked, and you don’t want to burn them or lose the flavor of the brown bits. Once cooked, transfer eggplant to a bowl.

Pour remaining tablespoons of olive oil into the pan to sauté onions. Cook until golden and translucent, about 8 minutes.

Add garlic, about 10 basil leaves and red chili flakes to the onions and stir a few minutes.

Add chopped peppers and cook until just softened, stirring constantly.

Add zucchini, and cook until golden and just softened, stirring constantly.

Add remaining tomato juice and tomatoes.

Season with herbs of your choice (or just salt and pepper) and cook another 3 minutes.

Add eggplant and cook another 10 minutes until vegetables are soft, but not insubstantial. If some remain too al dente, cover pot and simmer a few extra minutes.

As a side note, I like to serve this with a grilled cheese sandwich, preferably one made from Anima goat-cheese Gruyère on a toasted French baguette. For those of us working without a Panini maker, it’s easy enough to flatten out a thick sandwich like this between two piping hot skillets and a couple of pats of butter.

This spring, I worked as an organic gardening teacher at a Houston public school. It was at once inspirational and terrifying, as most new experiences are. My sister, who has been assisting at a summer camp, recently theorized that children grow up by sucking the life out of everything around them. A haunting way to consider one' s youth, though probably true: I ended each class feeling like a wrung out rag, used and floppy, drained of all capacity.

Fortunately, we ended our experience on a happy note, which is to say, a cessation of my top-of-the-lung instruction and a belly-filling feast. Thanks to a generous supervisor at Urban Harvest, I got my hands on a traditional Mexican molcajete y tejolote—an ancient, granite mortar and pestle and some locally grown pecans. With a block of Parmesan, some homegrown basil and a touch of lemon juice and olive oil, we ground together one of the tastiest pestos I' ve had: never again will I make an herb-based sauce without pulverizing the leaves beforehand. It really does take pesto to new heights of delicious.

When I got home, I made quick use of my borrowed tool. I had to give it back at the end of the week, and, under such extreme pressure, was able to muster a tiny bit of post-gardening energy to roast some tomatoes, grind a few bunches of basil and create a few varieties of my favorite summertime sauce.

I started with a large batch of classic pesto, divided it and added roasted tomatoes to the second half. In anticipation of serving fish for dinner, I added a bit of lemon to some of the plain batch, which gave it a light citrus kick. Making these all at once turned into quite an efficient way to dress up all of my meals for the week, including a crunchy roasted broccoli salad. Second only to the super-spongy eggplant, broccoli is truly the best vehicle for sauces and marinades, given the many branches and crags of each floret. More on that to come.

Basic Pesto:

(Double recipe if you plan to make another batch using this as a base)

2 cups fresh basil leaves, tightly packed
¼ c toasted pine nuts
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of 1 lemon
¾ cup finely-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus extra for serving
Coarse salt

Grind basil (you may have to work in batches) into a paste using a mortar and pestle.

Grind the pine nuts, garlic and salt in a food processor until pasty.

Add the basil and lemon juice and pulse a few times until incorporated. Drizzle in oil and process until smooth.

Transfer to a medium sized bowl and stir in cheese.

Lemony Pesto:

Repeat recipe, adding juice of 2 lemons and 1 Tbsp lemon zest.

Roasted Tomato Pesto:

Add 1 c roasted tomatoes to pesto mixture after adding oil, and before transferring to bowl.

SALAD:
2 c chopped tomatoes
2 c crutons
½ c thinly sliced red onion
12 large basil leaves, chopped
½ c feta cheese, crumbled
2 tbsp. capers
4-6 tbsp dressing
1 head romaine heart lettuce, thinly sliced

Combine ingredients (except lettuce) in a large mixing bowl. Toss with 4 tbsp dressing to taste. Add more, if necessary. Arrange romaine lettuce on serving platter, top with tossed panzanella.

DRESSING:

1 tbsp chopped garlic
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
2 egg yolks
2 tbsp. capers
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
6 large basil leaves
1 c olive oil
¼ tsp. black pepper

Place ingredients (except olive oil) in blender. When the blender is running, drizzle olive oil in a slow, steady stream. Season with black pepper and reserve. Keeps for a week in the fridge.