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.

In summers past, it has come with a pinch of sea salt, some parsley, butter and lemon zest. Or grilled with some spiced butter. This summer, I can’t stop making spicy corn salad, which has an incredible balance in its consistency and flavors. It’s wonderful how silky avocado seems beside kernels and cherry tomatoes. If you mix it up thoroughly, the avocado acts like a dressing, which is different from how this recipe is intended, but not at all inferior. In my case, the discovery was a happy accident, and one well worth repeating—although the end result is not as pretty as when the avocado is managed with a gentler touch.

I was first inspired to create this after eating a tomato ‘ceviche,’ at Backstreet Cafe in Houston. The name seemed odd, given how often tomatoes are served raw, but the dish was spot-on: spicy, crunchy, smooth, salty and slightly sweet. I’m always so happy to find recipes that highlight the best of summer while requiring minimal effort—maybe I should call this one corn ceviche and be bold enough to serve the kernels raw.

Spicy Corn Salad

Serves 4

4 ears of fresh corn, kernels sliced from the cob
1 pint cherry tomatoes, halved
½ cup cilantro, chopped
1 jalepeno, diced
2 green onions, chopped
1 small avocado
1 T olive oil
juice of 2 limes, divided
salt and pepper

Sauté corn in olive oil until just softened, about 2 minutes.
In a large bowl, toss corn, tomatoes, cilantro and green onions and a bit of lime juice (this can be done ahead).
Just before serving, slice avocado into 1” pieces and gently toss into salad, adding remaining lime juice to prevent browning.
Season with salt and pepper and serve.

Before things get too quaint, I have to confess: sometimes my house makes me crazy. Lupe has a knack for finding our dirtiest clothes—mostly socks and some other unmentionables—and dragging them with her around the living room while we’re gone. Her habit is part retaliatory, part intoxication. I imagine the little dog shaking my socks in her jowls, inhaling the scent of my toes and cursing me for going away again.

She also rips up mail and leaves a confetti trail of bills from the mail slot, across the dining room and through the kitchen. The number of socks and papers she shreds is invariably proportional to the amount of time she is left at home without us. On the rare occasion that I can’t get back for a few extra hours, I hold my breath at the threshold and pray she hasn’t found the wedding photos.

Well, on Saturday we got distracted by Christmas shopping and pub-crawling and when we came back, the living room was riddled with hazmats. Nothing like a hole in my favorite woolen socks, tiny pieces of The Weekend Journal and shards of a recyclable plastic to make me adore coming home again. Especially when guests are set to arrive in less than 2 hours.

In my world, cleaning up is no small feat. Once it starts, it tends to go until the bitter end—I’m talking bags set aside for Goodwill; a closet arranged by hue and alphabetized bookshelves. I can’t let myself get to tidying too often. Instead I devise ruses to keep my mania at bay—in this case, it came in the form of a savory crostata.

Christopher and our dear friend Peter (who came all the way from New York to pick up Lupe’s pieces) helped clear the wreckage while I got to the kneading and freezing. I always forget how many times a cook has to cool pate brisee, but in the end it’s always worth the process. Plus the half an hour bouts when my dough ball rested in the fridge gave me perfect—and controlled—spurts at organizing before our guests arrived.

By the time the crostata was ready to bake, the house was positively shining. Candles were lit, the tree blinked its silvery lights, and champagne bubbles gave a serious lift to my spirits. But of all the fun we had, charades included, nothing made me happier than eating winter foods with my favorite folks—except of course, falling asleep with everyone on the couch with the hope of a snow cover in the morning… and leftover crostata topped with fried egg for breakfast.

Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Crostata

Serves 4 as a side dish

NOTE: This can be assembled ahead of time and baked off just before dinner.

Pate Brisee (see below)
2 tbsp butter
1 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2 medium, white onions—or one large, sliced thin
1 c cherry tomatoes or ½ c sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil
½ c goat cheese at room temperature
¼ c shaved Pecorino or Parmesan
Sprig of parsley for garnish
1 egg, beaten
S & P to taste

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Melt butter in heavy bottomed skillet then add onions.

Cook on low heat, stirring regularly for about 30 minutes or until onions are tender and amber in color. Salt and taste towards the end. (If you prefer your onions very sweet, you can add a ¼ tsp brown sugar to help them along.)

In the meantime, put olive oil and balsamic vinegar in another heavy bottomed skillet over medium heat, adding tomatoes when warm.

Allow tomatoes to wilt and caramelize in the pan, stirring them occasionally for about fifteen minutes.  When they are fully deflated and the skins are peeling, turn off the heat.

(If you are using sundried tomatoes, simply warm them in a bit of vinegar.)

When tomatoes and onions are ready, remove pate brisee from refrigerator and roll out crostata until it is about 12” in diameter, lightly flouring the board and rolling pin. Don’t worry if it is not perfectly round—the edges will be folded to give it a ‘rustic’ look anyhow.

With the back of a spoon, spread the softened goat cheese along the dough, leaving about an inch and a half naked around the perimeter—this will be folded into a crust.

Spread caramelized onions evenly over the cheese, then place tomatoes on top. Sprinkle shaved Pecorino or Parmesan over the top and garnish with parsley.

Fold the edges of the dough over, creating a crust around the perimeter of the crostata.

Brush with egg wash and bake for 30 minutes.

Pate Brisee

(Double this recipe if you are making a pie)

1 ¼ c all purpose flour—use high quality stuff here. I like King Arthur.
¼ tsp salt
2 ½ tbsp sugar
6 tbsp (¾ stick) cold, unsalted butter cut into ½ inch pieces
¼ c ice water (you may not use it all)

In a food processor, stand mixer or with a vigorous fork, mix flour, salt and sugar.

Add the butter and pulse until mixture resembles small pearls.

Add the water, pulsing intermittently until the dough comes together. (You may have to add more water as you go to get the dough to form a smooth ball.)

Pat the dough into a disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to 1/8” thick.

Transfer it to a Silpat or parchment paper-lined baking sheet and refrigerate for 30 more minutes.

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.