Market Zucchini & Hanging Squash Scramble

"This is tremendous." I say, taking another bite.

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From: Roberto

RE: Wednesday

Or we could shred the zucchini on the box grater, and make a zucchini/egg hash... and not have any pasta. I don't need pasta every night. ;)

From: Tracy

RE: Wednesday

Ooh...excellent idea. Fodder for the next blog post :)

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The lengths we go to for our eggs, milk, and sunday morning coffee.

Small cooler. Frozen blue ice blocks. Last weeks egg carton, cut in half.

"Just a dozen this week." I said.

"One dozen, large brown." Roberto said to the egg man.

FRESH FISH, FRESHEST FISH IN THE WORLD

"How does he yell like that all day." Roberto asks.

"I don't know, but it's got to annoy the egg and pickle people." I say.

Ugh...The sun, this heat, it's relentless.

Back at the car Roberto transfers the dozen large brown into the egg cartons we've brought from home. Next, stacking them in the cooler beside a now sweating bottle of ice cold whole homogenized. We nestle the blue ice just so.

...

"This might be too much." He said.

"Not once you squeeze out the water and cook it." I said.

Roberto places half the grated zucchini and squash (baby hanging squash from his parents garden) into a towel, squeezing out the excess water into the sink. He does this with the second half as well, before transferring to the pan where butter (now melted) and red onion (diced) wait.

"Can you check for salt." He asks.

"It could use a little." I take a second taste, just to be sure.

Roberto motions for me to add the salt while he cracks the eggs into a bowl. "A little cheese would be nice."

"You want me to grate some cheese?" I ask.

Roberto pours the beaten eggs into the pan and begins the gentle scramble. "That would be nice. Just a little." He says while folding and whirling with the rubber spatula.

I grate the parmesan, a small pile into a paper towel.

I chop the chives.

Roberto presses on with folding and whirling. He adds in the cheese. He adds in the chives.

Remarkably the eggs stay warm as I twirl around the pan with camera in hand.

...

"Do you like it?" I ask.

"It's good." He says.

We eat. It is kitchen quiet (except for an occasional hilarious quip from Arthur, Doug and Carrie).

This is so good. Mmmm.

"Do you like it?" I ask again.

Caprese

By the end of summer, the newsprint was bleached and peppered with tomatoes.

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If one needed a tomato for a tomato sandwich, one would walk barefoot across the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor, slide open the screen door, step out onto the warm patio, and lazily pull one from the picnic table.

White bread. Mayonaise. Slice upon slice of juicy red, sweet and dripping. Salt and pepper. The last soggy bit just melting in your mouth as rogue droplets of tomato juice travel from your fingers down your forearm.

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While ear after ear of Silver Queen was boiling, mom alternated slices of tomato with onion on a plate. Fanning them around in a perfect circle. Finally sprinkling with Domino sugar.

Contrary, like salted watermelon or salted cantaloupe. It's bliss.

...

When it was getting to be too much, into the boiling water they went. Their skins peeled. Their bodies jammed into mason jars using waterlogged fingers.

To be used in chili's or for smothering pan fried pork chops with mashed potatoes. Made pink and thickened with a touch of milk and a little flour.

...

"Isn't this the freshest basil you've ever seen?" The man asked.

So many firsts with Roberto. Caprese in Rehoboth. I had never eaten such a thing.

"How is it, folks?" The man asked refilling our water glasses.

I looked up, my mouth full. I gulped. "It's very good." I said.

The man smiled and walked away.

I would have better in years to come. Much better.

...

"We'll use the big tomato we bought today." Roberto said.

"That will be perfect." I said.

Thick slices of market tomato alternating with imported buffalo mozzarella and the freshest basil you've ever seen from our garden.

A loving drizzle of the most perfect olive oil, salt, and the slightest crack of black pepper.

When something is this good, it's rude not to talk with your mouth full. "Oh my god. This is good." I said.

The tomato was sooo sweet. Sooo juicy. The mozzarella, it melted on my tongue. Creamy and sweet. The basil, well, that goes without saying.

We sopped up the caprese liquor that had pooled at the bottom of the platter with torn pieces of freshly baked baguette.

...

It really doesn't get any better than this.

Saturday Market

One block over, two blocks down...

Loads of tomatoes. Blackberries. Cantaloupe. Plums.

Fresh donuts from the bakery. Coffees from Zeke's. Whole bean Tell Tale Dark (ode to our man, Poe).

Oppressive heat.

Summer.

A squidge of lemon would have been nice...

"It smells like sardines in here." He said.

...

The idea had been collecting all afternoon. The long oval plate perched on the shelf of the buffet. The tiny bunch of baby greens. Those sweet, juicy, multi-colored heirloom cherry tomatoes from the farmers market. Our first cucumber from the garden (a bit squatty in size, this one). Thin slices of red onion (onion in almost everything, it seems we love onion). Chunks of sardine. That lovely little green pepper (we're managing lots of green peppers this year from our lone plant sitting full sun). Tiny green olives floating in a jar in the door of the fridge. Pine nuts. Oh, what am I forgetting? Yes, that's right. A good squidge of lemon! Forgotten. But plenty of fruity olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper. A grate or two of parmesan. And a chiffonade of basil (we've been eating lots of basil lately).

A  midweek salad.

Prepped.

Layered.

Dressed.

Anticipated.

Devoured.

...

I placed a wedge or two of peach, skin on, into what was left of my glass of red. Smashing it with the back of my fork to release the sugars.

"Dessert." I said.

Linguine with Zucchini and Shrimp

Monday pasta

To: Roberto

Found this on La Cucina Italiana. What do you think?

Re: Monday pasta

To: Tracy

Looks like you forgot to include the link...

Re: Monday pasta

To: Roberto

Shoot. So much for a clear head from raw foods.

It was a recipe for pasta with zucchini and shrimp. The zucchini was sliced long and thin like you did with the mandolin last week.

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The forgotten link…

La Cucina Italiana "tossed" linguine

linguine al salto

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I could feel a slight rush. Extracting myself from the sweltering second floor with Canon in hand. Rushing down the stairs to the cool kitchen. Popping the battery into the charger. Pulling the zucchini from the fridge. Pulling the knife from the drawer.

"I'm going to go sweep up, outside." He said.

"Okay, I'll get dinner going." I said.

The lettuce was rinsing. The heirloom cherry tomatoes, cucumber, and onion were sliced and waiting.

I cut off the ends of two medium zucchini and proceeded to whoa and be careful my way through the long slippery bodies. Slicing first into long quarters and then slicing the long quarters into matchstick-like strands.

...

"It was a mess out there." He said.

...

Roberto stood over the strands of zucchini gently cooking in the pan. "You can drop the pasta." He said.

"Did you salt the water." I asked.

"No." He said.

I pulled the lid off the pot of boiling water, rinsing it under cold water before retiring it to the draining rack. Roberto poured salt, first into his palm, then into the water.

I dropped the pasta, giving it a quick toss to prevent the strands from sticking.

"Can you slice off the end of a lemon?" He asked.

"Yep." I said.

I handed Roberto a third of a lemon.

"Is this good enough?" I asked.

"Yep." He said.

...

This second helping is even better than the first, I thought. All the extra pasta liquor from the pan saturating the leftover strands. That final grating of parmesan before the few remaining twirls of linguine enrobe the fork...

Summer

Saturday

We reminisced about summer over lunch. Going to the pool, sustaining ourselves with greasy french fries, ice cream cones, and small Coke's with lots of ice.

Every Breath You Take.

Sunburns.

Not a care in the world.

...

Sunday

Early rise.

To market, to market...

Two loaves bread.

Milk.

Peaches.

Cucumbers.

Zucchini.

"Do we need lettuce." He asked.

"We've still got some." I said.

Mushrooms.

Tomatoes.

More tomatoes.

Corn.

...

"How much did we spend." He asked.

We tallied over breakfast dishes.

...

"I'm going to make gazpacho." I said.

...

I opened up Joy of Cooking to use as a guide.

1 medium cucumber (peeled, seeded and chopped).

1 small green pepper (seeded and diced).

1 small white onion (diced).

1 pound tomatoes (peeled, seeded and chopped).

1 garlic clove (diced).

Many leaves of basil (in lieu of parsley, to taste).

Extra virgin olive oil (to taste).

Red wine vinegar (to taste).

Crushed red pepper (to taste).

Salt (to taste).

Parmesan (to taste).

...

It was all very I Love Lucy.

Clean up took longer than anything else. In addition, we are now the proud owners of one gazpacho stained Joy of Cooking.

...

Our Sunday summer supper:

Gazpacho;

Red Snapper filets perfumed with extra virgin olive oil, white wine, flecks of parsley, flecks of chive, and lemon;

mixed green salad with heirloom cherry tomatoes, cucumber, and onion dressed with extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper;

corn on the cob;

toasted baguette rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil and maybe a grating of paremsan;

and red wine.

...

Nap.

One Chocolate Cake

July 2nd

"I made you a birthday cake!" I said.

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Two layers. Chocolate. Chocolate. Chocolate icing. Cherry on top.

I slid the cake carefully off the board onto the pedestal. I could hardly wait.

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July 3rd

"Happy Birthday!" I said.

Two slices of chocolate cake followed by two slices of chocolate cake. It was Roberto's birthday. Two slices each. How could we not?

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July 4th

Two slices chocolate cake.

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July 5th

Two slices chocolate cake.

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July 6th

Two slices chocolate cake.

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July 7th

Two slices chocolate cake.

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July 8th

I eyed up the chocolate cake. Curious. Under cover it looked fine. It had tasted wonderful day after day after sweltering day. It just sat there. Under the dome. On the counter. I felt vexed.

"I'm worried about the cake." I said.

"It's fine." He said.

"How is it lasting this long sitting out on the counter? I'm surprised it hasn't melted or molded." I said.

"If you're worried, put it in the fridge." He said.

Two slices chocolate cake.

I slid the cake onto a plate. We tented with three toothpicks and a layer of plastic wrap. Into the back of the fridge.

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July 9th

Two slices chocolate cake.

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July 10th

"This is the last of it." I said.

"It was a really good cake." He said.

"It was." I said.

Two slices chocolate cake.

...

Nine days. One chocolate cake. Two people. Eighteen slices. I still can't believe it lasted that long.