Not Derby Pie

DC does not mess around with summer, and boy, this one’s a scorcher. This week, temperatures climbed into the upper 90’s — maybe even the triple digits — and the A/C at our apartment is, well, the little engine that could. We’re getting to that point in the season where it’s too hot to even consider turning on the oven, and even stovetop cooking must be kept to a minimum. Needless to say, we’re not doing much bread-baking around here.

But let me tell you, we’re eating salad like it’s our job. It’s cool and refreshing, it requires no heat (phew!), and it can take on many different personas. There’s a big bunch of romaine in our fridge right now, waiting to become a crouton-loaded Caesar; I’ve got a couple heads of butter lettuce that I dress simply with horseradish dressing and top with toasted breadcrumbs; and of course, I’ve been making my way through a pound of arugula in salads just like this one.

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Remember last week when I gushed about the beginning of sour cherry season? Well, the gushing continues. I’ve gone through 3 pounds of cherries so far, and while I know that’s not very much for folks making 12 jars of jam, the cherry pits are accumulating rapidly. Sour cherries have made their way into 5 or 6 different recipes, and I’m just getting started.

Yes, there was jam. Thick, gooey jam that, after just a quick stint in the fridge, got much firmer than I expected it to! And there are pickled sour cherries. Well — there will be pickled sour cherries. They need to sit for a couple days. But in the meantime, I’m feeding my sour cherry craving with slices of this sour cherry almond torte.

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One of the first cookbooks I owned was Nigella Lawson’s Nigella Bites. I bought it at Anthropologie, back when Nigella was a Travel Channel sensation. The Food Network had already gone the way of the dodo, its cleavage-showing hostesses flashing smiles as they tasted “delicious” homemade tarts filled with the scooped-out innards of a store-bought pumpkin pie. No thanks. Nigella’s show was where the fun was at. You could catch the gorgeous broad sneaking downstairs at 1 am in adorable pink PJs, in search of a late-night snack. The camera would zoom really close as she opened the fridge, stuck a finger into a big bowl of chocolate mousse, and licked her finger clean. A dip into the chocolate mousse, pudding, anything, at 1 am is a classic Friedman move. When I saw Nigella do it, I was hooked. She seemed real.

Her cookbook conveyed that same honesty. There were pictures of her with curlers in, wearing a bathrobe. There were sweet ramblings about her favorite suppers, and a mouthwatering picture of homemade pasta and meatballs. And it didn’t stop there. Nigella devoted a chapter of the book to what she called “Legacy.” The section contained humble recipes that were the hallmark of her childhood, things like “Granny Lawson’s Lunch Dish” (a slab-pie of sorts, filled with hard boiled eggs, ground beef, and olives) and “Soft Boiled Eggs with Asparagus Soldiers.” I loved this section because even though I’m pretty sure I never made any of the recipes contained within, it provided the most sincere picture of where Nigella came from.

If I had a cookbook (to dream!), and it had a legacy section, this recipe for cheese puffs would certainly make the cut. It’s a humble recipe; if you saw cheese puffs at a party, you’d probably pass over them in favor of the the rhubarb curd. But to do so would be quite a mistake. A cross between pancakes and biscuits, cheese puffs are crispy and golden around the edges, soft and chewy within. They’re a bit sweet, but unexpectedly, refreshingly, tangy. My father likes them with just sour cream, but I prefer a bit of mascarpone cheese or greek yogurt, and fresh strawberries. But however you eat them — with sour cream, with greek yogurt, with berries, with nothing at all — once you start, you kinda can’t stop.

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While I’ve usually thought of May as the true spring-to-summer transition month, these days, June seems to be taking on that role. One day the weather’s as hot and sticky as boiling caramel, the next it’s as cold and damp as the dish towel. But the erratic weather carries with it the promise of vegetable bounty. I may be mourning the end of asparagus season (how did I not realize until now that asparagus are the best vegetable on earth?) but I’m ramping up for my full-blown annual tomato courtship. And it’s just tomatoes that roll around in June — peas, snap and shelling varieties, have finally made their debut. Few things make me happier than bright green peas and tender, juicy tomatoes: there, I’ve exposed myself in all my nerdiness.

Over the past few years, I’ve settled into something of a routine when it comes to tomatoes and peas. I love tomatoes raw in salad, or simply sliced with a little flaky salt and olive oil. I get thrills from popping peas out of their pods and into blanching water, or tossing them with asparagus into pasta primavera. These bruschette are every bit a part of that routine. The tomato bruschetta occupies that middle ground between unadulterated raw tomato slices and a good, rich, labored tomato sauce, concentrating the flavor of the tomato without sacrificing its essential texture. Ditto the pea bruschetta, which celebrates the freshness of the peas’ by adding complementary flavors, but retaining their plump firmness. I suppose by now it’s pretty clear: I’m totally hooked on pea and tomato bruschette.

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Pies are finicky, finicky things. Taming bursting, juicy berries into a perfect pie is the ultimate challenge of summer, and getting that bottom crust to stay crispy requires nothing short of a miracle. I’ve tried everything: I paint the inside of the bottom crust with egg before adding the fruit, I’ve drained the fruit, tossed it with extra flour, with cornstarch, with tapioca, with playdough, and still — apple pies are fine, but the piece of dough resting beneath those juicy rasp/straw/blue/blackberries just gets suffocated by all that juice.

If you’re reading my pie confession and think, “don’t give up just yet!,” that’s great. I’m ready for help. Have any advice for making the perfect berry pie? Don’t hesitate to share it in the comments. (Mrs. Wheelbarrow, I’m looking at you — I know you’re canning pie filling, and I’d love your tips!) But amid this pie nay-saying, don’t for a second think I’ve given up on crusty summer fruit desserts. Au contraire, mon frere! I have moved on to smaller but better things. Hand pies are the way of the future.

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It’s officially sour cherry season! I got my first quart at the market today, and I simply can’t wait to turn them into this lovely aperitif. Originally posted last July, sour cherry liqueur is back!

Want to do something awesomely cool and really flippin’ easy along with me? Make sour cherry liqueur. It’s the height of sour cherry season, and markets are bursting with those tart little bubbles of juice. The season’s pretty short: I was thinking of hitting up a u-pick next week to get some sour cherries out in the countryside for cheap, but they said they’ll be gone by Sunday. So grab some now, like, now now, and put them to use in a way that’ll keep well into the fall.

My dear friend Dellie had D and me over for an early Thanksgiving dinner last November, and her mother served this liqueur as an aperitif. I was totally blown away: it was sweet, very sweet, but also tart and zingy. It tasted strongly and distinctly of sour cherries, and sipping it sent waves of summer nostalgia down my spine. I sauntered into the kitchen where I found the always-graceful Mrs. S pulling a whole turkey out of the oven to rest. What better time to bother someone for a recipe? She said to come knocking again when it was sour cherry season, and she’d give me the rundown. Unlike most other things, I didn’t forget this promise, and last week, I emailed Mrs. S begging her recipe. She graciously obliged, and her instructions were so thorough that I can easily share them with you. Granted, you won’t be tasting the fruits of your labor until the fall — but if you feel like preserving some of summer’s bounty in this unusual way, I can promise that your patience will be well-rewarded.

That's a knife jutting out of the pitcher -- I used it to stir the stuff, and I did fill it to the top after taking the pic.

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In my kitchen, cucumbers are always the bridesmaid, never the bride. They find their way into so many of my salads, and play supporting roles in soups and even cockails (working on a sake-ginger martini…). But still, I’ve never been one to swoon over a dish composed entirely of cucs. In my mind, it’d be like eating a bowl of nothing but tofu. Meh. Where’s the good stuff?

I hope cucs can forgive me for overlooking their star power. In this salad, this humble combination, cucumbers need no company. In fact, what makes this salad great is that without the dominating flavors and textures of their usual salad accompaniments, the cucumbers can really shine. Their fresh crunch provides a perfect canvas for an addictively spicy dressing of lime juice, hoisin sauce, chopped scallions, and the real magic — freshly ground chili powder. Subtlety has no place in this dish. The combination is at once sour and salty, tongue-lashingly spicy and utterly clean. Make enough for two, and I guarantee just you will eat it all.

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