But it’s a funny thing, the bean. So many legumes satisfy me in ways that nothing else can—refried, they fill me in a ½ c flat. In soups, I need a scant cup. Just a few pods of edamame and my belly swells. But no humble bean can match the might of pureed garbanzos, swirled with sesame paste. The rich, nutty combination puts my gut at ease—and keeps it there for a long time, which is a good thing when you’re hearing stomach rumblings at 10:30am (as I often do), but not so pretty when you’re preparing dinner for company and are looking forward to dessert.

I’ve mastered the art of hummus making, I dare say, largely because of my friend Carlos, who whips his up with some garbanzo juice (whether from boiling or from the aluminum jar) to lighten the oil load. The dip is no less satisfying, just slightly less unctuous. Throw in some garlic, roasted or raw, a lot of lemon and a generous scoop of tahini, and you’re on your way to healthful satisfaction. I’ve found—gasp—that a tablespoon or two of humus even kills a chocolate craving.

Because I don’t have a lot of self control, and making a batch of anything involves innumerable licks of the spoon, I try to make this on an empty stomach and around mealtime. I’d say I lose a conservative ¼ cup during the hummus making process, which is a guaranteed appetite-spoiler. I might have room for a small salad or a soup after that, but certainly nothing substantial. The point is, this is an extraordinary little dish—an energy powerhouse. When people try to argue that vegetarians don’t get enough nourishment, I wonder if they’re crazy—or if, perhaps, they’re not so well acquainted with beans.

On another note, we planted garbanzos in the Rodriguez Elementary school garden, and guess how? By opening a bag of dried beans! They’ve since grown into the most exotic, majestic looking plants, and have dropped fuzzy pods, each one suspending its very own shriveled chickpea, soon to be a glorious garbanzo.

Simple Hummus

4 c cooked chickpeas (or 2x 15 oz cans)
½ c cooking liquid (or juice from can)
1 ½ large lemons, juiced
2 raw garlic cloves, minced
3 ½ tbsp tahini
3 tbsp olive oil

In a food processor or blender, combine the beans, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil and tahini, adding chickpea liquid a tablespoon at a time to loosen the mixture.
Season with salt and pepper and garnish with parsley.

*If you’re not sure what kind of hummus you like, you can add the garlic, lemon juice, tahini and olive oil in small doses and taste along the way until you’ve reached the desired thickness. NOTE: If you do this, you will quickly become full. Goofy, but true.

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.

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.

CRUST:

1 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
½ cup confectioner’s sugar
2 cups all purpose flour
¼ teaspoon salt

FILLING:

2 cups granulated white sugar
4 large eggs
2/3 cup fresh lemon juice (approximately two large lemons)
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 lemons)
4 tablespoons all purpose flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9 x 13 inch pan with butter.

CRUST: Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the flour and salt and beat until dough comes together—don' t over do it, or you' ll have tough dough. Press into the bottom of your greased pan and stab all over with a fork to prevent crust from rising out of pan. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove from oven and place on a wire rack to cool while you make the filling.

FILLING: Beat the sugar and eggs until smooth. Add the lemon juice and zest and stir to combine. Fold in the flour. Pour the filling over the shortbread crust and bake for about 20 minutes, or until the filling is set. Remove from oven and place on a wire rack to cool.

Sprinkle with powdered sugar. I like to do this by pouring a cup of confectioner' s into a strainer and pressing the sugar through with the back of a spoon so that it falls evenly over the pan. Serve with fresh fruit if possible.

All the while, I hesitated to make the filling in case my crust was a bust. With 3 minutes remaining on its bake time, I started zesting and juicing, mixing and measuring. I ran out of sour cream and had to use 2 tablespoons of the fat free variety to complete the recipe. I ran out of sugar (what kind of baker runs out of SUGAR?) and had to replace ½ c with confectioners' . The potential for massive failure was again mounting.

What would I do if all had been for naught? Pout. I was, in fact, no better than the six year old “whizz”baker I had scorned in my imagination just moments before. I gave the crust a little spatula uplift before pouring in the rapidly mixed batter. I would know its fate in 21 minutes. To my amazement, the dessert didn’t die. In fact, the lemon mass seemed to come to life in eerie and spectacular ways, rising up out of the crust as a looming, yellow, flat-topped cloud. Something was reacting right. After a full 25 minutes in the oven, I removed it and let it cool. The puffy center sank a bit, and the crust held together. My only complaint: these squares are not quite lemony enough. I wish the author of this recipe had called for more lemon zest. As a self-proclaimed “baker,”she should know better.

Here' s what she calls for, and how I did it. If you want an extra rich (albeit slightly temperamental) batter, go with my version.

Crust:
1 ½ c all-purpose flour ( I added 2 tbsp); 1/3 c sugar (I added 1 tbsp); 2 tsp lemon zest; ¼ tsp salt (I doubled); ¾ c butter, chilled and cut into chunks—here' s where I added 2 tbsp. * “Whizz”together the dry ingredients in a food processor, add butter, mix until “crumbly, sandy, pea-sized chunks”form. Press into pan. If you do it my way, you' ll use your arm instead of a machine, and your batter will be smooth. * Bake 19 minutes at 350 in a 9×13 incher.

Lemon Filling:
3 large eggs at room temp; 1 ½ cups of sugar ( ½ of mine was confectioner' s); 6 tbsp sour cream ( 2 of mine were fat free); 3 tbsp all purpose flour; ½ tsp baking powder; ½ tsp salt; ¼ cup lemon juice; Zest of 2 lemons (DON' T BE FOOLED! USE MORE!!!) Pour this in once the crust has been removed from the oven but is still warm. * Bake 25 minutes or until corners brown. * Dust with confectioner' s sugar. * Cool completely. These are fluffy and puffy and yes, indeed rich. But personally, I prefer a more traditional lemon square.

I made these squares the night before last between thumb twiddling, while I waited for 6 cups of strawberries to settle into the hollow of a piecrust. After opening and closing the refrigerator door a dozen times to peer at my stagnant fruit pie, I opted to busy myself. I had both an hour and a half and an oven to fill.

I flipped through “Mom' s Best Desserts”looking for recipes with very few ingredients because I' m a guest in someone' s New York kitchen, and my host is not a chef.

But there was flour, sugar, confectioners sugar, baking powder and salt in the cupboards. And there were a few upstate eggs, plus lemons I' d picked up from a farmer' s market. All of these otherwise unremarkable ingredients were just waiting to be thrown together, whipped, spread and baked into something more extraordinary than the sum of their parts. By the time I' d selected my recipe and found a rogue cookie sheet, there was only an hour left until my pie was cool enough to impose upon my soon-to-return hostess.

I preheated the oven to 350, and greased the baking sheet. It should have been a 9 x 13 incher but, as I noted, I was short on baking tools. So I hedged my bets and went with one that was shallow and long.

I mixed 2 cups of unbleached all-purpose flour with ½ c of confectioners' sugar and a pinch of salt. To those I added 1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest and 2 sticks of butter at room temperature. [Note: do not make the mistake I made with my first zesting—I got a bit aggressive with the grater and zested some skin into the mix. It was a pity to toss the fine rind, and it was also tough to find a band-aid in an unfamiliar bathroom…]

I rolled the dough into cohesive rounds then spread it onto the greased pan. It was a bit shallow, so I pressed the edges up with the back of a thick spatula in order to create a hollow for the lemon filling.

As the crust baked for 20 minutes, I beat 4 eggs into a light fluff. To that I added 2 cups of granulated sugar…g…r…a…d…u…a…l…l…y. Once it was done, I shifted gears and rapidly beat the sugar and eggs until the liquid was a rich yellow. I added 6 tablespoons of lemon juice (it took 1 ½ generous sized lemons) and 1 tbsp of finely grated lemon zest along with 2 tablespoons of flour plus 1 teaspoon of baking powder.

Once the crust had baked into a light brown, I pulled it out of the oven and poured the lemon mix into the shell. There was too much. I had to pour some of it out. I debated serving lemon curd soup the next day, but realized that my Puritanical food hoarding must end somewhere. So, I relinquished ¼ cup of lemon filling while a plaintive citrus dirge droning in my head.

I baked the tart for about 25 minutes, until the top was light brown and the filling no longer jiggled when I danced around the stove in anticipation. When finally the tart was finished, I pulled it out and sifted 3 tablespoons of confectioners' sugar over the top, spreading it with the convex side of a teaspoon.

Despite sacrificing some of the lemon filling to the too-shallow pan, these squares worked quite well. The crust was flaky and buttery enough not to dryly underwhelm the lemon mix, which is a real peeve of mine. Once the squares were finished, it was time for pie. Perfect! It would take me about ½ an hour to enjoy that, while I waited for the squares to cool…

PS: Dear Kyle, I am sorry glamorous events demanded your company and that you were yanked from the festivities of the apartment kitchen. You’ll have to come to TX soon and feast for a long while.