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.

But eggplants can also be the best of what a vegetable can be—crispy or soft, at once charred and sweet, generally the best combination of side-dish flavors. There are quite a few ways to play it well: ratatouille is a personal favorite. Eggplant is still coming up in Texas by the bushel, and I thought it might be nice to share this summertime (and fall-time) favorite with anybody courageous enough to: 1. Stick his or her hands into open flames and 2. Serve eggplant—fairly naked—to a group of guests.

My folks have a nice big fire pit on their concrete dock out on Lake Waramaug in Connecticut. Much was grilled this summer over that fire, but few dishes excited me more than the eggplant I was able to roast while taking a dip. It’s too cold for swimming now, but everybody likes to stand by a fire in the fall, and I highly recommend that you do this dish on a wood-burning, outdoor flame… it’s one of those carnal experiences reminiscent of coming down from the excitement of a great hunt. Or in this case, twenty minutes of wading.

What I loved most of all, was that fact that several naysayers—of the, “Oh, no thanks, I don’t do eggplant,” variety—were greedily dipping into the serving bowl, with markedly more relish than those who’d expected something delicious from the get go. I hardly got a taste of this delight, but for the unexpected happiness of converted guests, it was well worth abstaining.

My friend Gardner Landry, a real Texas boy, taught me this trick in July when he came for a visit to the lake house. A few months later, back again to visit my parents, I tried it on my own, but instead of roasting the eggplant over charcoals from a grill, I called upon my inner Neanderthal and threw my black prize straight onto a load of burning logs. Then I jumped into the water, emerging just in time for dinner.
After about twenty minutes, the eggplant was thoroughly charred on one side, and needed to be turned. Some dubious onlookers—wimps who had decided not to swim in the late September water—wondered how this already detestable vegetable would taste when covered with ash and splinters. They poked at it with curious index fingers. I told them not to worry, but I could tell they weren’t listening. After another 20 minutes of roasting on the other side, the eggplant was ready: fully collapsed, wrinkled and covered with a layer of grey dust.

I took it inside for some doctoring: slipping off the skins with a knife, and pulling out the flesh with the tines of a fork. I cut off the eggplant’s tiny green top, reserving it for presentation. I mashed the garlic with some olive oil and garlic salt to taste, then cleaned the cutting board and re-formed it into the shape of an eggplant, adding back its green stem cap. I then drizzled the flesh with a bit more olive oil and covered it with a sprinkling of chopped parsley and toasted pine nuts. I got back to the dock at around 7:30, and the dish was done by 7:45—I kid you not. Serve it up with some thin crackers or toasted, crusty bread.

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.

Nobody tells you that when a boy gets down on one knee and asks you to be his bride that you will become a slave, slave to the nuptial process. Don’t get me wrong, if ever there were occasion to be indentured, this is it, but it is a big, big time suck. You end up devoting your life to fittings and phone calls to make sure that everything goes just right, and even when you’re not getting things done—like personally addressing 200 invitations—you’re constantly bearing the weight that there’s more to do and that you might forget something. Or that God will just laugh on your big day and pelt you with a hailstorm.

This lead-up is half the fun, I suspect: all of the hope, all of the suspense, all of the dreams—for the rest of my life. But at the end of the day, I just want to be in love and eat cake. Olive oil cake, preferably, in the morning, because that is when I find it most tasty. I am imagining myself now, a Mrs., sitting on a white rocking chair, wearing a big flannel shirt, a soft woolen blanket and nothing else, while my husband brings me a slice of olive oil cake on a sunny Autumn morning. I don’t dream about my train, dragging down the aisle, or how the photographs will turn out. All I want is to sling my bare feet up on a balcony banister, rock back and forth with a cup of coffee, gaze longingly into Christopher’s eyes and swallow rich, golden crumbs lightly drizzled with maple syrup. Christopher—are you reading this?

I made this cake to pass an afternoon, wondering what I could do that wouldn’t require a trip to the grocery store. It turned out to be much more delightful than I expected, not too sweet, not too rich, but perfect straight from the oven. For a few days (it lasted three!) I toasted my slices and spread them with butter and a thin drizzle of maple syrup. Who would have thought? Maple syrup and olive oil? Yes. Well, turns out olive oil goes great with vanilla ice cream, too. Though I’m afraid it’s not quite schmancy enough to make a wedding cake out of.

Olive Oil Cake

Adapted from Bon Appetit, Serves 6

1 ½ c flour
1 cup sugar
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp kosher salt
2 large eggs
¾ c whole milk
½ c olive oil
2 tsp orange zest

Preheat oven to 325.
Grease a 9 inch cake pan.
Whisk flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and kosher salt in a large bowl.
In another bowl whisk eggs, milk, oil and orange zest.
Gradually blend wet ingredients into dry–yes, you read that right.
Pour into pan and bake for 60 minutes, or until tester comes out clean.
Cool for at least 20 minutes and serve.

Garnish with a sprig of rosemary, maple syrup and / or vanilla ice cream.