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.

It’s been tough in most places this winter, and these are the cold doldrums. In lots of cities, there are heaps of hardening, sandy snow. We don’t have that in H-town, but I did have a snow day a few weeks back. Nothing fell from the sky, but there were icicles on my window. It was so nice to have that front come. I even saw a frozen puddle.  While it was cold I made lentil soup and wished I lived in one of those snowy cities.

I haven’t experimented nearly enough with lentils. They seem so humble: tiny little things, typically brownish green, easily mushed. To be honest, beans tend to get away from me all together, unless they come from a can. The soaking process is too technical, I guess. Beans always lose their skins in my pots.

But not lentils! They don’t even need to soak at all. And it’s perfectly ok (actually delightful) if they come apart in a soup. This is helpful for someone who tries at all times to keep one eye on the Constitution while cooking. Tonight, I got spaghetti sauce on my Amendments. I marked due process (from the Fourteenth) with a splattering of red.

In fact, I was learning spending powers on my snow day. I rolled out of bed at 7 to a crystalized pane, had a bowl of oats, and finished a paper (we had to write a snow day paper!) by 11. I made this pot in time for lunch… and it made my Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I wish I’d saved some to freeze, but I was greedy.

The soup is adapted from 101 Cookbooks, where it’s called, “Lively Up Yourself Lentil Soup.” It does that. Especially if you add a little bit of sausage. Whole Foods has a wonderful spicy chicken link that tastes like it should be from a much bigger, mammalian animal. If you’re picking that up, I recommend grabbing a loaf of Seeduction bread. I flirted with seeds and soup until the Texas weather warmed up, and when it did, I missed winter. Some day, I will make heaping pots of hot soup and snowshoe across my favorite bridge. I’ll hike my way to a pot of coffee at the Dirt Cowboy and enjoy a cold nose and the static of a wool hat. But I’ll remember that this soup first came alive for me in Houston.

Saffron Lentil Soup

2 cups lentils, rinsed, rocks removed

1 T olive oil or butter

1 large, white onion, chopped

A 28-oz can of crushed tomatoes

2 cups water

3 cups spinach

A pinch of saffron

1 spicy chicken sausage (or otherwise)

1/4 c grated, hard cheese for serving (I like Peccorino)

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Place about 6 c of water in a sauce pan and bring lentils to a boil.

Cook about 20 minutes, or until tender and drain.

Bring a bit of boiling water to a boil and soak saffron threads, set aside.

Heat oil or butter in a large pot, and saute the onion, adding the chicken sausage as the onion begins to brown.

When the onion and sausage are browned, add the tomatoes, lentils, saffron broth and 2 c of water and bring to a simmer.

After the soup has reduced a bit, add the spinach.

Serve warm with a sprinkling of cheese and good bread.

Tomorrow, I will make one of my favorite forms of chicken salad–the kind that doesn’t leave you with an unctuous film at the corners of your lips. I would be a damn liar if I claimed not to like mayonnaise, but this has none, and that makes it easier to pack for lunch. It’s so simple, even a law student can blog about it, which generally means it’s quick to make. I tend to spend more prose on the recipes that involve a lot of steps, if only because I like to keep my cooking and writing efforts somewhat commensurate.

So for those of you with big weeks ahead, here’s to a bird that will keep you sated for at least a few lunches. Sunday supper rolling into healthy Monday lunch–and all you have to do is supply the vegetables, the fork and the appetite. And please don’t let this post implant in you any identification with a grotesque and greedy cartoon man, although I will say that if it were possible to down a drumstick in one fell swoop, I’d be all about it.

Chicken Salad with Herbs and Vegetables

Makes 4 servings

Leftover meat from a 4-5 lb chicken (about 1 lb), shredded

2 T olive oil

2 t lemon juice

1 t dijon mustard

1/2 c chopped parsley

2 scallions, diced

1 c cherry tomatoes, quartered

2 celery ribs, diced

1/2 bell pepper, diced

1/4 medium red onion, diced

salt and pepper

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In a large bowl, whisk olive oil, lemon juice and dijon mustard.

Add chicken and toss to coat–you may not need all the dressing. Then again, you may want more.

Add chopped herbs and vegetables and toss to coat. Season with salt and pepper.

This recipe tastes best if left to marinate over night–toss again before serving to distribute dressing.

If I end my life feeling like a crimson bell pepper, I know I will have lived to height of my sweetness. I plan to be a very delicious old woman. But here the simile ends, because I cannot compare my life so far to that of a green pepper. I love my life—it has already been ripe, juicy, satisfying. Green peppers, on the other hand, are repulsive. I find them entirely too bitter to eat raw, although I might eat one roasted-if the alternative were starvation. In fact, green peppers may be the one and only food I have a genuine distaste for based on flavor and not on principles. (Although I don’t make a habit of eating babies, I’d be a liar if I told you my mouth didn’t water at the scent of roasting lamb…)

Where summer is concerned, I can bring back my literary device. We are heading out of this sweet time, but just before we do, the Earth seems to offer up her very best—her reddest peppers. I can’t eat nearly as many as I can procure in the next few weeks, but I can convert a good many into soup to enjoy during colder months, where the lushness of a bell pepper can only be imported—flown from timeless, far away lands, like California.

This recipe actually came to me from a spa in the Golden State, where I’m sure they never suffer a dearth of fresh produce. It’s intended to be rather light, and I like it the way it is. If you prefer more depth to your soup, the coconut milk is easily substituted with ½ cup of cream. I have stored away a few batches, and look forward to revisiting the taste of early September when the days are very dark and I’ve gotten tired of sweet potatoes. I may polish it off sooner than that, though, as it’s absolutely delicious chilled and served with sliced avocado, or just a few sprigs of cilantro.

Roasted Red Pepper Soup

4 large red bell peppers

4 large tomatoes

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon all purpose flour

1 large chopped yellow onion

4 cups chicken broth

¾ cup light coconut milk

salt and pepper

garnish of your choice

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Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Coat the peppers and tomatoes with olive oil and place on a baking sheet.

Roast for 20-30 minutes, or until the skin begins to peel and blacken.

Remove peppers and tomatoes and place in a bowl covered with plastic wrap until cool enough to handle.

Peel and roughly chop peppers and tomatoes, being sure to collect their juice in a bowl.

Discard stems and skins.

In a large saucepan, heat remaining olive oil and sauté onion until translucent.

Add tomatoes and peppers and sweat over low heat for 2-3 minutes.

Add flour and stir to coat.

Add chicken broth and coconut milk and simmer for 30 minutes, adding more broth if the soup reduces too much.

Puree in a blender and pass through a sieve or food mill if desired.

Keep warm, or serve chilled, with garnish.

For the last two years, Christopher and I have grown our own herbs and a few potted tomatoes on our stoop. In October, when we returned from our honeymoon, we decided to lay some real roots in Houston and build a garden bed in the backyard. Fortunately, this southern season makes it possible to begin planting in early October, and our first harvest was lovely: Brussels sprouts, carrots, broccoli and lots of leafy things. This spring, I was especially excited to put in the tiny melon seed—far, far away from the other plants, in a corner all its own.

When I got home from Africa, most of our plants had done remarkably well, hostile weather aside. My basil had bolted and been bored by some hungry bug, but many leaves were salvageable enough to chiffonade. There was a bright orange summer squash, a hot red pepper, a few final cherry tomatoes and two very demure melons, which contrasted starkly with their unruly vine: it had wrapped itself around the entire garden perimeter, and was actually crawling along the grass in search of greater heights. I think that before summer ends, it might find the fence and take over our neighbors’ yard.

The melons were so special to me, I wasn’t sure exactly how to put them to use. After careful consideration, I settled on a summer favorite that would showcase several of our survivors: melons, basil and a few cherry tomatoes. It’s the consistencies that make this salad special—the mozzarella is soft and rich, while the tomatoes resist the fork just a bit. The melon pulls it together, bringing out the sweetness of the cheese and tempering the gentle acid of the tomatoes. A little sea salt will draw out the melon juice, which mix nicely with some olive oil for a light, sweet dressing. Best of all, making it will only costs five minutes of summer.

Cantaloupe Caprese
Serves 2-4

1 medium-sized Cantaloupe, very ripe, cut in half and seeded

1 pint cherry tomatoes

4 large leaves fresh basil

1.5 C bocconcini cheese (or small mozzarella balls)

1 T best quality olive oil

sea salt

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Scoop melon in tiny rounds, about the size of cherry tomatoes.

(I don’t have a melon baller, but used a round teaspoon measuring spoon, which worked perfectly.)

Place melon, tomatoes and cheese in a bowl and coat with olive oil.

Toss and set aside until ready to serve (salad can be made a few hours ahead.)

Just before serving, tear basil leaves and toss into salad.

Sprinkle with sea salt and serve.

I rarely make a trip to that part of town without some kind of edible giveaway. As it turns out, the gentleman wanted nothing to do with my chips. I slowed to the red light and rolled down my window, preemptively joyful at making his day. He grinned toothlessly back: “Thanths but no thanths.” I drove away, dejected, and sheepish for my own good fortune. I am grateful for a lot of things, but not nearly grateful enough for my teeth. I now remember this gift in my prayers of thanks.

Do I sound like I’m being ironic? Because I am not. I am very serious. I am thrilled to have teeth. Thrilled that I can eat corn chips, broccoli tips, macadamia bits. All of those crunchy foods aside, my teeth have gotten a bit of a break lately. It’s Houston, it’s summer and it’s time for cold soup and ice cream. I have tried to share the wealth—driving to the corner with packed up pints of soup and a plastic spoon, but the toothless gentleman has not reappeared.

More often than not, my liquid inspirations come to me in corpse pose: just before my brain shuts down entirely, I have a vision of dinner. Lately, that has involved lots of pureed cucumbers, avocados, tomatoes—even melons. I know a lot of people like smoothies, but I’ve never taken to them. Something about soup just feels more like dinner. Even if it’s a smoothie eaten with a spoon.

But this is not that. Nobody puts red onion and jalepeños into smoothies. This is a savory, silky concoction that came to me long before savasana. I was in downward dog, one of the first of the evening, and it just happened to pop into my brain. And that was that. I knew I had to have it. And I knew I had to share it with my man from the bridge. Then my mind went blank—of course—for the remaining 86 minutes of my yoga practice.

The beauty of this soup, like so many, is that it just gets better with age. But unlike a warm soup, this takes just a minute to make. Christopher hadn’t even emerged from the shower before dinner was on the table: radiant, delicate, velvet cantaloupe gazpacho garnished with a flower from our own (yet unfruitful) melon vine. If Georgia O’Keeffe had painted soup, she’d have started with this. If I were a soup, this is what I’d like to be…sweet, salty and a with an unanticipated kick. And pink is the best color on a woman, of course. I hope the beggar at 59 finds love like this someday. I’ll keep trying.

Cantaloupe Gazpacho

1 large, ripe cantaloupe, in cubes
3 large, ripe tomatoes (not green), cored and roughly cubed
1 jalepeño pepper, diced
½ red onion, chopped
½ c fresh basil
Juice of 1 lemon
Dash of nutmeg
Salt and pepper

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Blend everything together, adding herbs, pepper and spices to taste.
(I prefer my soup with the full pepper and all of the lemon.)

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.

I met the pair just before Christmas, when the weather was beginning to nip a bit. They came to Houston for an event that Recipe for Success was holding at a new restaurant called Canopy. The chef cooked recipes inspired by their book “In Late Winter We Ate Pears,” a chronicle of falling in love while following a hunger trail. I didn’t eat the food that night because I was helping to the event run smoothly, but I did sneak into the back, buy the cookbook, head home, and drink almost an entire bottle of wine while losing myself in a Mediterranean love affair.

I finished the book the next day and even managed to meet Caleb and Deidre for a drink at Anvil, a favorite bar that serves esoteric, antique cocktails, which—as it so happens—are one of Deidre’s specialties. The two-day whirlwind of book reading and author-meeting gave me a very clear sense of fate: Deidre and Caleb own one of the restaurants where Christopher and I flirted over pizza during weekends when we escaped the quiet Dartmouth campus and went to the (even quieter) town of Woodstock. Their restaurant, Osteria Pane e Salute is in the center of Woodstock—just a short walk from the church where we got married in October. Christopher and I spoke to Deidre about wine years ago while eating at the counter, though at the time I had no idea that cooking and growing food would become such serious habits of mine.

And then she reappeared, full of uncanny ties to my life. I first met she and Caleb amid sawdust and cherry pickers as restaurant workers tried desperately to get Canopy ready for the event that evening. Connections to food and gardening were unearthed, and I invited them to join me in the classroom that afternoon, where my co-teacher and I would be making pizza, pesto and tomato sauce with our students. After observing the garden and the classroom kitchen, Deidre spent some time deconstructing a recipe with a rather pouty 3rd grader while Caleb showed a group of 5th graders how to make the perfect dough: not too sticky, not too dry.

Later that night they disappeared into the bright lights of Canopy, while I snuck out through a dark back door after the last guests were seated. Don’t get me wrong: it exactly what I wanted to do. Somehow I knew that the book they’d written would make my own path clearer. I learned about their vineyard; their greenhouses; their own raised beds. I learned that they don’t grow certain things so that they can feature the produce of other local Vermont farmers. They keep Woodstock and its visitors warm and welcome year round—except when they head back to their own gastronomic homeland when winter becomes impossibly bleak.

There is a card on my desk that I bought for them at Christmastime that I keep meaning to send to commemorate our evening of retro drinks and everything that they have inspired me to remember. But I keep forgetting to send it. I’ve written more than one, in fact, since the Christmas card quickly became untimely. Instead of reaching out, I reach in: I’ve made almost a dozen recipes from their book and I dream of myself learning someday at their oven. I keep my fingers crossed that Christopher will go back to Dartmouth for business school, so that I can sneak away to Woodstock once again—going somewhere new and familiar all at the same time.

Which brings me back to tomato sauce. I always have a Ball jar full, waiting to be spread over all sorts of things in addition to pizza dough. I spoon it over baked yams, set it beside grilled fish or just dab some onto warm, buttered bread. Caleb and Deirdre have a wonderful recipe for wintertime pizza sauce, which I beef up with onions and serve as a full-blown tomato sauce perfect for pasta or as a thicker spread on pizza. It’s just right when you want something savory and “blessedly simple,” as Caleb describes. The sauce reminds me of the tastes of childhood, yet brings into relief all the delicious details of being an adult: the pleasure of watching garlic go gold; the glow of home-grown herbs on the countertop and the pride that comes from making something so good that people eat it straight from the jar, with a spoon.

Tomato Sauce

Inspired by “In Late Winter We Ate Pears”

1 15 oz can of crushed, concentrated plum tomatoes
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 T tomato paste
1 T red wine vinegar
1 bunch fresh Oregano, chopped or 1 T dried
2 pinches crushed red pepper flakes
¼ c olive oil + 2 T
s & p to taste

In a medium sized sauce pan, sauté onion in 2 T olive oil until golden—about 6 minutes.

Add garlic and sauté until light brown—about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix remaining ingredients together in a separate bowl.

When onion and garlic are ready, add tomato mixture and allow liquid to bubble.

Lower the heat and cook until sauce has reduced somewhat—or thin it out with 1 c water and use for pizza sauce.

It started, as with all great holiday seasons, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Giving myself over to a solid month and a half of revelry was not even a question and I smiled from ear to ear at the sound of that first POP. This year, I drank my weight in champagne. I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff, a predilection that was born about a year ago, when boxes of congratulatory bottles started rolling our way. Worried that our house would be buried in booze before the wedding even arrived, Christopher and I began slugging back the bubbly, a drink I had formerly considered outré on any night other than December 31. Well 2009 really was a year of changes. And I rang it out just as I’d rung it in: with a very effervescent belly.

New Year’s Day ended on a high, if slightly indulgent note, punctuated by my ordering (with embarrassing gusto) “S’mortinis!” Let me just tell you, the S’mortini is a toxic way to end an evening—or start a year for that matter. Cream, chocolate liquour, vodka and a Godiva swizzle stick are topped with toasted marshmallows floating about… not exactly health—or dignity—in a glass.

Saturday marked my final indulgence: all-I-could-eat General Tso’s and dumplings finished off with dozens of chocolates, Dots and Tootsie Roll Pops that had been smashed out of a piñata. Our friend James, in town from New York, had a craving to visit his boyhood again and we obliged by hanging a rainbow donkey in the threshold. We stuffed it greatly with candy—some of which I pilfered through a hole in the Ass. After the ceremonial smashing, the floor was littered with candy wrappers, the confetti falling mostly at my feet.

Well, one massive, pickled belly-aching body later, there I was, standing at the grocery store on Sunday morning, deciding that all of those January health nuts have something right after all… at least for a month or so. So here I am, grinning in a whole new way, two day deep in soup. I’ve had at least 8 cups by now. The stuff is better than any swill I swallowed from November to January 5.

Believe it or not, I’ve already finished the batch. I made it just two days ago and have been the only one to touch the stuff, yet merely a single bowl remains. If my skin turns orange, I shall wear it proudly as an all-body badge of righteousness and good health.

Cleansing aside, this is a delicious soup: it is entirely vegetarian, but could easily be supplemented with some pork salt or Parmesan. It is a thick, sage-y brew, full of bright spots of tomato and smooth Cannelini beans. I had it for dinner last night with some salmon and wished I’d invited someone over to share in my merriment.

Butternut Squash and Sage Soup

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves 6

1 large butternut squash, cut into ½” cubes
1 clove of garlic, minced
1-2 T sage, chopped (or to taste)
1 medium onion, diced
1 15 oz can of Cannellini beans
1 small can of whole tomatoes, chopped
1 Qt vegetable (or chicken) broth
2 T olive oil
S & P
Toasted pumpkin seeds (for garnish)
Parmesan (for garnish)

Heat olive oil in a large, heavy bottomed soup pot.

Add onion and cook over medium until translucent, about 10 to 15 minutes.

Add garlic and cook until slightly brown, about 4 minutes.

Deglaze pot with tomato juice from can then add squash, sage, tomatoes and broth.

Bring soup to a boil then turn down heat and simmer for thirty minutes or until squash is soft and broth has reduced somewhat.

To thicken soup, smash cubes of squash against the sides of the pot.

At this point soup can be refrigerated for up to 3 days. Reheat soup and add beans about 15 minutes before serving.

Garnish with sage and, toasted pumpkin seeds or Parmesan.

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.