The figs are here...

and I'm as happy as a clam.

...

"They're almost too sweet." Roberto said.

I was in full agreement. Nodding my head. Pulling apart a second fig.

Figs on toast, I thought.

My fingers are sticky, I thought.

If I get up and rinse them they'll only get sticky again, I thought.

...

It will be us against the blackbirds (the fig tree has to be netted). They are rather skilled. Landing on the fence. Jumping into the garden. Fluttering their way up to a branch. Pecking, pecking, pecking.

Damn birds!

Zara will have to work harder for her supper.

"Get the birds, Zara!"

But it's so hot out there. She doesn't want to go outside. She doesn't seem to give a damn about birds or peanuts these days. Lazy bones spread eagle on the tiled floor, sleeping, waiting for dinner scraps.

Roberto's mother gives Zara a scrap.

Roberto's father gives Zara a scrap.

My eyes survey the pan of goat in search of a tiny piece. "Don't give her that piece. It's the best part." Roberto says. I look again. "That's good too."

"It's so tiny." I say while pulling it from the pan.

"Zara...Zara."

Zara takes the tiny piece of goat from my fingers and swallows it whole.

"Does she like figs?" I ask.

Squash Blossom & Mushroom Ragu

To: Roberto

Monday

I think I just thought of a great way to use up those squash blossoms. Tonight, in addition to the chicken, we should sauté the mushrooms we have along with the blossoms. I think it would taste good and go well with the chicken, smothering it along with a nice layer of prosciutto. Could be a brilliant genius move on our part.

To: Tracy

Re: Monday

That sounds like a good idea...very inspired!  :)

...

No pasta.

No Pasta?

No pasta.

...

I prepped the salad, Roberto pounded out the chicken breasts—THWACK—THUD—THWAK (salad greens rinse no. 1), layering it with grated parmesan, pecorino romano, chopped parsley (salad greens rinse no. 2), and prosciutto. By the third and final rinse, the chicken was prepped and waiting on a plate.

Roberto tore open a paper bag, coating it with a layer of flour for dredging, I cleaned and prepped the mushrooms and squash blossoms (they were tingling with fur, the blossoms—I pulled off the stem; sliced off the bottom; shook out the innards; slit open; and rinsed). By the time I had everything sliced and waiting in their respective bowls, Roberto had the butter and olive oil coating the bottom of a pan, ready to start the sauté.

"Is this all of them?" He asked.

"Yep. Once you clean them, they don't amount to much." I said.

Kitchen quiet.

Assembly of salad (sauté of squash blossoms and mushrooms transferred to a bowl).

Roberto had butter and olive oil coating the bottom of another pan, ready to start the chicken (a delicate maneuver, the dredging in flour).

Olives (oil cured and a mix of green both with and without pit) and mozzarella arranged on a plate (chicken into pan, prosciutto side down—a sear).

"How much time?" I asked.

"Not much. You should prep the salad." He said.

Bread sliced (a bit stale—into the toaster oven).

Salad hit with salt, extra virgin olive oil, and red wine vinegar.

The chicken rested on a plate while Roberto deglazed the pan with white wine. The sauté of squash blossoms and mushrooms added (perhaps a bit more butter—just a nub—I'll never know). The chicken added back in, gently, one cutlet at a time, prosciutto side up. The juice left on the plate, remnants from the rested chicken, poured back into the pan as well.

Red wine poured into glasses.

...

We sat down to the table, piling salad onto our plates, taking sips of wine, and securing pieces of bread for sopping. My eyes glued to my plate, my mind focused on the task at hand. Fork in left hand. Knife in right. Slice.

"How does it taste?" I asked.

"I haven't tried it yet." He said.

I looked up and smiled.

Afoot

95 degrees.

...

They swayed and bobbled like excited puppies, the flowers.

It was the wind, but I couldn't help but whisper calm down.

My fingers were sticky from beheading the frail and deflated petals. Melting trumpets mashed together in the palm of my hand. The hosta flower kept gently tapping my shoulder. What is it? I wanted to ask.

...

Black-Eyed Susans. Passed down from my grandmother to my mother. Passed down from my mother to me.

Lavender. Standing guard between the roses.

...

"It smells like you-know-what back here." I say.

An open bag of plant feed just feet away. 95 degrees. Shooooweeee.

"I'm going to eat this one." I say.

I pluck the first ripe cherry tomato.

"Rinse it." Roberto says with the hose kinked in his hand.

I lean forward. The cherry tomato in my palm. The cool water gushing from the hose over the tomato and through my fingers. It feels like summer. 95 degrees.

I pop the tomato into my mouth and with one solid bite, the first of our tomatoes bursts open in my mouth. I can taste the heat from the day trapped inside its thick, fleshy wall. The taste is sweet and sour.

"Are you going to water the side yard too?" I ask.

"Do you want me to?" He replies.

"Yeah." I say smiling.

"Okay." He says.

...

Back inside, I wash my hands and catch a glimpse in the mirror. My nose is pickled with sweat.

Bonne Maman Cherry Preserves Tart

You can do this.

You've done it before...Why all the fuss?

...

A third attempt in a years time (make note in cookbook that this is a pat-in-pan, not a roll-with-pin dough).

...

"I made a cherry tart. Did you see?" I asked.

"I peeked." He said

"I hope it tastes good." I said.

...

Flour.

Salt.

Butter.

Worked with hands until incorporated and crumbly.

Make a well in the center...

Egg yolk.

Vanilla.

Water.

Swirled around until incorporated.

Well, whaddya know?!

A disk of dough was created and wrapped in cling film, chilled for 30 minutes.

Lunch.

...

Pat in pan.

Fill with preserves (one full jar minus two pieces of toast worth).

Bake.

...

"It's sweet and tart. It's good." He said.

I lifted my piece to examine the crust.

"The crust is perfectly baked." I said.

I took a bite.

"Wow, this is sweet (tooth achingly sweet)!" I said wincing.

...

Friday through Tuesday. A nine inch, ten slice, Bonne Maman Cherry Preserves Tart.

"It held up well." I said.

Linguine with Squash Blossoms

There was a knock at the door. A crisp white paper bag was handed to me, the top folded over just the once. I peaked inside. My eyes lit up. My lips curled into a smile.

Orange flames nestled ever so neatly. I started to panic.

"How many are in here? Didn't you keep any for yourself?" I asked.

...

I grabbed the Canon. Removed the plants from the window sill. Cut open the white paper bag.

On.

Macro.

Shoot.

...

"You're mother brought these. We need to eat them. She said to dip them in egg, dust them with flour, fry them. Can't we just throw them into pasta?" I asked.

"Sure. We'll need to clean them really well." He said.

"They're furry." I said.

...

"Lidia has a pasta dish." I said.

I held the cookbook open in my hands.

"What does it say." He asked.

"It's basically aglio e olio with squash blossoms thrown in." I said.

"Okay. Let's do it." He said.

Cleaned squash blossoms were cut into ribbons and thrown into the pan just moments before the linguine was pulled from its salty bath.

Busying myself with grating cheese and a bit of dishes, Roberto prepped a dish.

"Do you want to take a picture?" He asked.

"Oh, I didn't even think there'd be light...YES!" I said happily.

He knows me so well.

...

"This is delicious." I said.

"This is delicious." I said again.

Topped and Toasted

Sunday

Moments before Sunday supper, an impromptu olive oil tasting. The vessel, an old white wine bottle with a homemade label, corked. From Tuscany.

I sliced a bit of bread. Roberto poured just enough into the shallow center of an espresso saucer.

I hesitated, but knew the truth that had just landed on my tongue. "This is GOOD."

"This IS good." Roberto agreed. "Let's try the others."

Two more shallow pours into the centers of two more espresso saucers. One from the Chelsea market. Fruity with a peppery finish. One from the supermarket. Good, but mellow. A good salad oil.

...

Saturday

"I'm starving." I said.

"I'm hungry too." He said.

I stood waiting at the top of the stairs.

"Should we eat now or grab something while we're out?" He asked.

"We should eat here. It will be crap if we go anywhere." I said.

Gently scrambled eggs on toasted bread with a slice of cheddar. Enough to push us through errands, just enough.

...

Friday

Tart dough chilled. For sweet, not savory (I made a cherry tart).

Vanessa made a tart.

It was meant to be a tart. I had every intention of making this tart, but I made bruschetta instead.

Bread

A slather of dijon mustard.

Slices of cherry tomato.

Clumps, lovely clumps of goat cheese.

Salt.

Pepper.

Parsley.

The toaster oven went through two cycles. Ding. Ding. I let it sit for a moment more before I opened the door. Just right.

Eaten quickly. Fuel for housecleaning. I should have made more.

Amuse-bouche for Two: One Year Anniversary

It was exactly one year ago today (June 10, 2009) with a recipe for Bouchon au Thon.

Potato Salad

The house was quiet. The sun was shining. The baby reds, quartered, were boiling (only about six minutes—really). The celery and onion diced. The parsley and capers chopped. The shallot minced. The pickle juice measured. The mayonnaise and dijon mustard glopped. The olive oil glugged. The salt and pepper ready for to taste.

It's good.

Oh, I hope he likes it.

The dough was rising. No pasta. Pizza using leftover sauce, globs of mozzarella, diced onion and black olives.

And potato salad.

Oh, I hope he likes it.

Nerves, but good nerves.

...

"Whatcha got?" I asked.

"Peanuts." He said

I transferred the nuts into a plastic container while Roberto cleaned up for dinner.

"I made potato salad and I thought we'd have pizza." I said.

"Sounds good." He said.

"Taste it." I said.

Roberto took a bite.

"Is it okay?" I asked with hesitation.

"It's good." He said with enthusiasm.

...

"My mother wants you to make potato salad for Monday." He said.

Nerves, but good nerves.

"Which potatoes should I use? Should I use mayo? Leave out the capers?..." I asked.

"Just like this." He said.

"Really? Leave the skin on?..." I asked

"Just a small bowl. Just like this." He said.

"Okay." I said.

...

Monday arrived. I followed Roberto across the street. A small bowl of freshly made potato salad covered with plastic wrap in hand.

Nerves, but good nerves.

From Brooklyn to Baltimore & Sunday Supper

Merci.

De rein.

...

I hunched and squinted. I pressed play again and again. No matter how many times I looked over, looked over, looked over, it continued to vibrate and rattle. That damn painters tape worked three hours ago, why isn't it working now? Do re-in...de reeyen...duh ray on...ugh. I can't hear myself think.

Apple > sleep.

AC off.

...

Roberto made frittata. Zucchini and potato. Three eggs. It's more about the filling than the egg, frittata. Slid onto a plate. Covered with another plate.

I prepped salad. Oak leaf and other from the garden. Rinsed four times. Cucumber, tomato, carrot, red onion. Covered. Into the fridge.

Red sauce. Basil from the garden. On the stove.

...

From Brooklyn they brought bread, fresh from the bakery this morning. Two large loaves. $3 each. Unbelievable (don't get me started on Baltimore bread—sore subject). Roasted ceci and 90% dark  from the Chelsea Market. We've been away from New York City, Brooklyn, far too long. I wish we had gone this weekend, I had said again and again and again. I was a broken record before, during and after. I hope we go soon...but, I've already said that.

Just a three hour drive from Brooklyn. They made great time.

Roberto dropped the pasta at 15 minutes to 1:00.

By 1:00 there were four bowls filled with ziti and homemade sauce, a pile of spring onions, freshly grated cheese and two bottles of red open on the table.

By 1:08 we were clearing bowls, tossing salad, slicing frittata, reaching for bread, and jabbing olives with fork tines.

By 1:45 we were cracking open peanuts and spitting cherry pits onto our plates.

By 1:50 we were opening the bag of roasted ceci.

By 2:00 the dishwasher was loaded, the coffee was brewing, and Roberto's parents had made their way back across the street with a bag of cherries.

"They're already washed." I said.

...

Dark rain clouds overhead, but nothing substantial falling. Wind, birds, police helicopters, screaming kids, random firecrackers, a communion prosession down our street...a chaotic clusterfuck (pardon my French) of activity.

Sunday.