A Christmas Triumph of sorts

My life took a significant detour in October and ever since then I've been working on a course correction. After putting up with back and hip pain for many months, I elected to have a spinal fusion -- major surgery that really rocked my very foundation -- and it's been a maddeningly slow recovery. Not only did I not have energy to cook, I didn't even have any interest in eating. Not the fodder for a blog that focuses on cooking and enjoying the end results.

Faced with dealing with the holidays, I've made a concerted effort to get back into the groove. I've been making one dish at a time and putting it in the freezer to enjoy when the family is here for Christmas. (It's amazing how physical cooking is! Lifting mixing bowls, stirring heavy doughs, holding the electric beater long enough to whip cream, even peeling, chopping, dicing vegetables are simple tasks that sap my energy.) But each finished dish gave me the confidence to forge on, and this week, heady with new-found energy, I decided to take on The Yule Log.

For years, I created a chocolate Buche de Noel that wowed my family when I placed it -- with dramatic flare -- on our Christmas Eve table. I got away from that annual triumph when I lived in Maine and commuted back to California for the holidays and just didn't have the time to make it. Call me crazy, but this year just seemed to demand a return to some kind of triumph. I needed to prove to myself that I was strong enough to pull it off in the kitchen, and probably my family also needed to see that my life was getting back to normal.

I'd made a Yule Log so many times in the past I really didn't need to rely on a recipe, but this year I was rusty. To my chagrin, I found that I'd stockpiled 3-4 recipes for this classic dessert, and therefore decided to consult them all, working back and forth between them. That was probably not my best idea. I'm not thrilled with the texture, and I'm definitely not happy that the softer cake refused to cooperate when I tried to craft the "knots" in the log. I've done better. But, here it is, and considering everything I had to deal with, not a small victory for me.

Apple Time

In my back yard I have what real estate agents would call a "family orchard." One apricot tree, 2 plum trees and an apple tree hardly qualify as an orchard in my mind, but in terms of pounds of fruit they produce in the fall, the yard feels like a commercial-sized orchard in the San Joaquin Valley.

When I first planted those fruit trees, I was incredulous when my landscaper insisted that apple trees would grow in Southern California. Most varieties of apple require 500-1000 hours below 45 degrees in the winter to produce good fruit, but there are a few varieties that get by on a fraction of that. Enter Anna, Beverly Hills, Fuji, Gala and Granny Smith, a variety that has adapted to low-chill areas.

Late September is when my Granny Smith tree ripens and that's when I scramble to pick as many shiny green apples as I can reach. It's hard to find a cool place to keep them chilled (September can be brutally hot, even in the garage), so I usually start cooking with them before they start to deteriorate.

This year, I make a couple of pans of apple cake that I can freeze and bring out during the holidays when the family visits. I refrained from adding chopped walnuts because a certain six year old in my life is in his nut-hating stage. But they really are a nice addition to the recipe, otherwise.


Granny Smith Apple Cake

3 Cups chopped Granny Smith apples
3/4 Cup vegetable oil
2 Eggs
2 Cups granulated sugar
2 1/2 Cups all-purpose flour
1 Teaspoon salt
1/2 Teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 Teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 Teaspoons baking soda

Glaze:
1 1/4 Cups packed brown sugar
1/3 Cup milk
1/2 Cup butter

Preheat the oven to 350. Grease and flour a 9 x 13" pan.

Chop the apples fine and place in a large bowl. In a separate bowl, beat eggs and oil together and pour over the apples. Let stand while you mix the dry ingredients.

In a medium bowl, mix the sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg and baking soda. Fold into the apples and mix well. The batter will be quite thick. Pour into the prepared baking pan and bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Glaze while the cake is still hot.

Sharing a Pizza

Although we are longtime friends going back almost 40 years, it had been way too long since KT, JM and I had met to visit and catch up. One had spent half the summer in Idaho, the other was in and out of town on short vacations, and the third was laying low, hobbled by a bad back and a broken toe. On a magnificent summer day recently, we met at Ojai's popular new restaurant, La Fonte Pizze, for lunch and conversation. We sat in a quiet corner on the restaurant's back patio so we could talk, and talk, and talk.

After much deliberation (their menu is lengthy), we decided to split a large salad and a pizza, and we agreed on their specialita del giorno, a chicken pizza adorned with sliced fresh peaches. I don't think the others were as enthusiastic about this dish as I was (maybe because I was the one laying low with the bad back and not getting out much), but I thought it was inventive and delicious. Delivered on a wooden peel, the thin-crust pie was piled high with chunks of white meat chicken and local yellow meat peaches, garnished with fresh basil.

This, I thought, probably wouldn't be too hard to do at home. I own a pizza peel, and the ingredients are easily available. So, why not? Well, because my homemade pizza would not come with two cherished friends and chit-chat refined over 4 decades. That is what can never be replicated.

Drying Garden Herbs

Here in sunny California, the weekend has been overcast and cool, Mother Nature's confirmation that Autumn is indeed here. Not that there aren't plenty of warm and sunny days left; in fact, October can be down right hot. But I also see a change in the garden. Most of the herbs have flowered and been cut back at least twice during the summer, but they are growing more slowly now and I already miss the blowsy, unkempt drifts of oregano, tarragon and lemon verbena.

Before the herbs hunker down for the winter, I'm going to try preserving some of their fragrance and flavor to use in cooking during the cold weather. I don't have a dehydrator, but there are plenty of options I could try: air-drying, microwaving or freezing. I've always liked the look of greens hanging on pot racks in the kitchen or rafters in a barn, so I opted for air-drying.

To start the experiment, I clipped off several 6-8 inch sprigs of the most tender lemon verbena branches, rinsed them thoroughly in cool water and let them dry on a cotton towel. I then bundled them up into a bunch about an inch thick and tied them together with cotton string. I left a length of string long enough to tie the bundle for hanging upside down.

The key to success, I'm told, is to let herbs dry away from direct sunlight where there is good air circulation but no dust, so I tied my bundle to the iron frame of my kitchen lights and waited.

After a couple of weeks, the lemon verbena leaves were crispy-dry and ready to be crumbled and stored in a glass jar. The reward? Lovely cups of hot lemon verbena tea.

Easy Curried Pumpkin Soup

Many years ago, when I was a young working mother, I was invited to a ladies' luncheon -- a rare treat in my over-scheduled life. My hostess, also a crazed working mom, was smart enough to eschew the usual frou-frou luncheon fare like tea sandwiches and petits fours, instead opting for an easy, do-it-yourself soup, a dump-everything-in-the-pot mixture that goes into the oven and emerges ready to eat. That day, it transformed into a sophisticated, light entree that she served with a crunchy green salad and crusty bread. I was so blown away that I begged for the recipe, and I have made it many times in the years since. Until there were grandchildren at my holiday table (who wouldn't try curried anything, no matter what), my family has asked for this soup every Christmas Eve.

But why wait for the holidays? Serve a batch of this soup as soon as the leaves turn color in the autumn and pumpkins start showing up in the markets and farm stands. Its rich fragrance will fill the house and warm up any chilly evening.

Curried Pumpkin Soup

1 Medium onion, quartered
1 Quart chicken broth
1 1-pound can unseasoned pumpkin
1-1/2 teaspoons Madras curry powder, or to taste
1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
Salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 Pint whipping cream, scalded
Sour cream for garnish, optional

Put the onion and a small amount of stock in the blender, blend and pout into a Dutch oven. Add the rest of the chicken stock, pumpkin, curry powder and Worcestershire sauce, and mix thoroughly. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Cover pot and put into a cold oven. Set at 450 degrees and cook 35 minutes. Removed from the oven and add scalded whipping cream. Stir well, correct the seasonings and ladle into bowls. Top with a squiggle of  sour cream.

Makes 8 cups. This soup is even better the next day, so make enough for leftovers. My pals at the Ojai Beverage Company, who are really smart about wine, suggest pairing this with a well-chilled Gewurztraminer, and selected a 2009 vintage from Ventana in Monterey County. Described as "both floral and spicy in an off-dry style," it should be perfect.

Cold Plum Soup

Years ago, I had a Satsuma plum tree in my backyard that yielded an egregious amount of dark purple plums every August. Even with friends and neighbors helping to gather the bounty, I couldn’t keep up with the volume of fruit this one tree produced. So I started to collect plum recipes and learned to make everything with plums: chutney, coffee cake, cobblers, tarts, preserves, tatins, pies, jam, turnovers. 

But my favorite recipe was for a cold dessert soup that at first caused a stir of doubt in the house, but soon became a family favorite. Gathered around the patio table on a hot summer evening, we slurped bowls of this fruit potage, and smiled in gratitude at our little plum tree.

When I left that house, my first concern about moving into a just-built home with a dirt patch for a back yard, was how much I was going to miss those plums so I quickly planted a young Satsuma sapling and prayed for plums that first summer. Well, it took a few seasons for that little tree to get going, but now it too is laden every year. Even sizable branches have broken under the weight of the fruit, and still the fruit keeps coming.

This summer, the birds have beaten me to the harvest, pecking at the fruit at their peak of freshness and causing just enough damage to start the rot. It’s a daily battle, but I’m determined to salvage enough plums to make my favorite plum soup.

Cold Plum Potage

2 pounds purple plums (about 10), washed, stemmed, pitted, cut in quarters

2 cups water

2 Tablespoons orange juice, fresh or frozen

½ cup sugar

Pinch of salt

Pinch of ground nutmeg

1 large egg, beaten until light and foamy

Crème fraîche, or whipped cream

Thin slivers of orange peel for garnish

In a 2-quart saucepan, add plums, water, orange juice, sugar, salt and nutmeg. Bring mixture to a boil, lower flame and simmer 20-30 minutes until plums are soft. Adding in a little crème de cassis or red wine wouldn’t hurt. Cool. Purée mixture in the blender. Add egg and blend mixture thoroughly. Taste to correct sugar, and chill soup for several hours. Serve with a dollop of crème fraîche and garnish with orange peel.

Serves 6.

If your friends and family are reluctant to try it because they’ve never tasted a cold fruit soup before, tell them it’s a Scandinavian delicacy, which it is, and is the signature summer dessert at toney restaurants on the East Coast, which it is. Or tell them it is an adult smoothie, and serve it in glasss instead of a bowl. Either way, you’ll win them over once they’ve had a taste.

Cafe Whatever

I ventured back to Santa Cruz for the long weekend to spend some time with my family. There was much catching up to do: the grandkids had just started a new school year, my son had completed his first month on a new job, and my daughter-in-law, the veteran teacher, was back in the classroom. That, and the cool, foggy coastal climate gave me a welcome break from the scorching temps in Ojai. As always, we poked around town looking for new places to eat.

Like moths to a flame, we gravitated once again to Asana, that hole-in-the-wall eatery where I got hooked on their Lavender Love milkshake earlier this year. But we were dismayed to find that Asana is no more, replaced by a new restaurant named Cafe Gratitude, an organic vegan restaurant specializing in gourmet raw and cooked foods. Skeptical, we sat down and studied menus that were lengthy and somewhat difficult to decipher. Every dish is named after an affirmation, to wit, "I Am Transformed" is two  handmade corn tortillas with cashew cheese. The word "live" is used liberally in the menu, as in live sandwich, live spinach, or live cracker.

I ordered the "I Am Complete" and the server smiled and replied, "You are complete." And around the table it went: "I Am Transformed," "I Am Hearty,""I Am Elated," until it was laughable. Our little guy, a picky eater, whose only hope for an acceptable dinner hung on what was billed as macaroni and cheese, was devastated when the bowl that was set down in front of him contained slivers of raw zucchini topped with a cheese made from ground Brazil nuts. So much for "I Am Comforted." A strike was declared by both kids, so in desperation we ordered them mint chocolate chip milkshakes, only it wasn't ice cream and the chocolate chips were raw cacao, and the mint was actually a green vitamin-mineral concoction.

By the end of the evening, I think each of us was thinking, "I am Frazzled." For a first visit, the gratitude gig is fun, but on subsequent visits it would soon become annoying.

Started in 2004, Cafe Gratitude has grown to a collection of 4 restaurants in the San Francisco area, 1 in Los Angeles (where it is a mecca for the Hollywood set), and another couple tucked into Whole Foods stores in the Bay Area, all using organic produce from their farm in Vacaville, California. But there's more: books, DVDs, food supplements, clothing, classes, and food items, all available online. Limited to California locations now, the restaurant franchise is bound to spread across the country, and Whole Foods could be a catalyst. So watch for it. And get your groove on by repeating this affirmation: I Am Forewarned.

Messing Around with Sumac

My father would spin in his grave if he knew I was messing around with Sumac.

Years ago, my parents had a lovely large house in the exceptionally beautiful Manhattan suburb of Bronxville. My brother, sister and I grew up in that house and played in a big back yard that was carefully manicured by my father with precious little help from his reluctant kids who did not appreciate the benefits of a magazine-perfect landscape. Every inch of that acre was carefully groomed, except for what grew behind the rock wall that defined the northern edge of the yard. It was in that no-go zone where my father battled the intractable bushes of Poison Sumac. Every summer, undaunted, he would don something like a haz mat suit and flail away at those shrubs to keep them under control, then carefully bundle the cut branches in burlap so that when the trash men made their rounds, they wouldn’t have to touch the venomous leaves. And every day he would admonish us kids to “Stay out of the sumac!”

Poison Sumac (Rhus toxicodendron vernix) is closely related to Poison Ivy and Poison Oak, but is far more toxic. Touching any part of the plant, including its white berries, can cause a painful dermatitis and getting it in your mouth or nose can be fatal.

So imagine my surprise last week when I joined my friends Judy and Sandy for lunch at Jonathan’s in Ventura and I was served salmon dusted with a paprika-colored spice that had a wonderful sour, lemony taste, which, when I asked, turned out to be ground sumac!

Back home, I immediately got online to find out how that lethal plant growing in my childhood backyard could be edible. Rhus coriaria, the culinary sumac, is related to the poisonous variety of sumac (Rhus toxicodendron vernix) but is completely harmless. Its red berries are dried and crushed to produce a tangy powder that has been used in food and drinks in the Middle East for centuries; in fact, the word “sumac” comes from the ancient Aramaic language. Fans of Greek, Turkish, Persian, Lebanese or North African food use the sumac spice in vegetables, eggs, chicken, fish, grilled meats, rice, sauces, or anything that needs the kick of lemon without the liquid of the juice. It’s better, I think, than paprika for dusting on top of hummus.

Needless to say, I ordered 4 ounces of imported ground sumac from My Spice Sage in New York, hoping to revolutionize my cooking. First, I tried grilling salmon dusted with ground sumac, just as I had experienced in the Ventura restaurant. Alas, I screwed up in two ways: first, I was too timid and didn’t use enough sumac, and second, I undercooked the salmon. But I was able to make fish cakes the next day with the leftover salmon and I added sumac to the recipe, which saved the day.

I’m a convert now and I wish my dad were around so I could share my personal discovery with him. I’d make him a dinner of seared lamb rubbed with sumac and other spices, potato salad dusted with sumac, fresh green beans dressed with lemon and sumac, and a dessert of blueberries with yogurt dusted with ground sumac. We’d dive in to every dish and have a good laugh about how delicious it is to mess around with sumac – the right kind.

Gourmet Tomato Tasting

I promise this is the end of the tomato rant. I had even promised myself that tomatoes were getting beyond boring, until I spied an announcement in the local newspaper: "Tomato Tasting!"

My favorite nursery had invited an expert vegetable gardener to display his best tomatoes, and offer tastes of as many varieties as one could consume. Almost as good as a wine tasting, but not as snooty.

There were purple-black, pale yellow, brilliant orange, green, red and striped tomatoes in all shapes and sizes. Some tasted bland, some very acidic, and some were full-bodied and complex, just like a good wine. But my favorite was the pale orange 'Garden Peach' tomato that was as sweet as candy. Maybe I'll try that next summer.

But in the meantime, my Satsuma plum tree is loaded with plums, and so a new rant begins.

Gazpacho

If you are a passable cook, you can probably recall pivotal moments in your childhood kitchen when your mother (or whoever was the best cook in your family) shared a culinary secret with you, a tidbit of knowledge or culinary insight that made the light go on in your head and you just knew that someday you were going to be a good cook, too.

My mother was an uninspired cook who passed precious few culinary insights on to me. In fact, so few that the only one I can actually recall is when she announced that one of her dearest friends could make soup out of leftover lettuce, along with all the bits from the bottom of the salad bowl. Whatever ambitions I may have had about becoming a decent cook went as limp as a used lettuce leaf at that precise moment.

Fast forward several years to the time I first tasted gazpacho, that icon of summer soups. It was in a New York restaurant on a hot August day in the sixties. I had met friends for lunch, escaping for an hour from my job as a secretary at Vogue magazine. About all any of us could afford on our $88-a-week jobs was soup and some iced tea. Lucky for us that the soup-of-the-day was ice-cold gazpacho.

Gazing at the bowl that was thick and fragrant with summer vegetables, I flashed back to the leftover lettuce concoction that my mother had thought was so exotic. I plunged my soup spoon into that blended ambrosia before me, and became a believer.

The tomato bonanza in my garden this summer has called for heroic measures to use tomatoes in as many different ways as I can, so I’ve made gallons of gazpacho that I’ve served to friends and have myself consumed for lunch and dinner in a single day.

There may be as many recipes for gazpacho as there are for turkey stuffing, but this one is easy and if your garden is overflowing, you can pull most of the ingredients right out of your back yard.

 Ice cold Gazpacho served on the patio, herbs from the garden for a centerpiece.

Gazpacho

½ Sweet onion, cut in 6 pieces

2 Cloves garlic

4 Large ripe tomatoes, cored and quartered

2 Cucumbers, peeled and cut in chunks. Set aside ½ cup.

1 Red pepper, diced. Set aside ½ cup.

1 Small green pepper, diced. Set aside ½ cup.

1 Jalapeno pepper, stemmed and seeded

¼ Cup balsamic vinegar

2 Cups tomato or V-8 juice

2 Teaspoons tomato paste

2 Sprigs each parsley and basil

½ Teaspoon salt

6 lime wedges for garnish

1-2 Avocados, diced for garnish

If you can’t find a sweet Vidalia onion, use a red onion instead. Cut the onion in 6 pieces and soak in ice water for 15 minutes before blending.

Blend the garlic, tomatoes and onion. Add the cucumber, peppers, jalapeno, and vinegar. (Make sure to set aside ¾ cup each of the cucumber and red and green peppers.) Add 1 cup of the tomato juice, tomato paste, parsley, basil and salt. You may have to do this in batches. Combine the blended vegetables in a large bowl. Add remaining tomato juice and season with salt and pepper. Stir in the reserved diced peppers and cucumber. Chill at least 2 hours before serving. Serve each bowl with a wedge of lime and a spoonful of diced avocado. Serves 6.

I asked the guys at Ojai Beverage Company to recommend both a red and a white wine to go with gazpacho, and they suggested a crisp Sauvignon Blanc from Paso Robles, and a Sicilian red from Rapitala. Both worked perfectly.

Quinoa Meets a Tomato

In my current quest to find ways to use up the profusion of tomatoes taking over the garden, I tore through last week’s L.A. Times’ Food Section looking for recipes that would come to my rescue.

Food columnist Russ Parsons, an amiable sort whom I met years ago at a food event in Ojai sponsored by Saveur magazine, did just that. Russ had written a feature on using grains in summer salads and his recipe for a salad of quinoa, grilled corn and tomatoes looked just about right for making a dent in the pile of tomatoes on my kitchen counter. Besides, I’d never grilled corn before, so it was time to learn.

Quinoa Salad

1 Cup quinoa

1¾ Cups water

Salt to taste

2 Cups grilled corn cut from the cob, 2 ears

2 Cups chopped tomatoes, or cherry tomatoes cut in half

1 Serrano chile, seeded and minced

½ Cup chopped green onion

3 Tablespoons lime juice

2 Tablespoons olive oil

1 Clove garlic, minced

1¾ Teaspoons ground cumin

1½ Cups chopped cilantro

Place the quinoa in a strainer and rinse under running water until the water runs clear, 1-2 minutes. Turn the quinoa into a medium saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly. The quinoa will dry, and then begin to stick a bit. Keep stirring and eventually it will begin to toast, smell nutty and turn a light golden color, about 5 minutes total. Add the water and ¼ teaspoon salt, bring to a slow simmer and cook until the quinoa is dry, about 30 minutes. You can cook the quinoa a day in advance and keep refrigerated tightly covered; bring to cool room temperature before finishing the dish and serving.

When ready to serve, transfer the quinoa to a mixing bowl and gently stir in the corn, tomatoes, chile, green onions and 1 teaspoon salt.

Combine the lime juice, oil, garlic and cumin in a blender and puree to a smooth dressing. Pour the dressing over the quinoa mixture and stir gently to combine. Add more salt or more lime juice if needed. Fold in the cilantro. Serves 6-8.

This salad is no dainty “lady’s luncheon” salad. I’ve made an entire meal out of it, and it would be hearty enough to serve as a side dish with barbecued tri-tip or pulled pork. Thanks to the serrano chile and green onions, it has a good kick to it. You might want to include cold beer in your menu.

The Revenge of the Killer Tomatoes

Okay, now what?

Those four tiny tomato seedlings I planted in the spring have joined forces to overwhelm the garden. They’ve gotten so heavy and unruly, they’ve knocked over their wire tomato cages, have cascaded over their raised bed and are overtaking everything in their path.

The plants are so intertwined I can no longer tell where one begins and the other ends, except for the size and shape of the tomatoes. I reach for a Heritage, and out comes a cluster of cherry tomatoes; their stems are so snarled up it’s impossible to pick one at a time. So I picked a basketful of everything I could reach and got ready for a tomato binge.

I started with a basic tomato dish that happens to be my favorite summer appetizer: the classic Calabrese salad. There are a million variations on this salad that originated in Calabria in southern Italy, but tomatoes, basil, olive oil and red wine vinegar are absolute musts; mozzarella cheese is optional (according to some Italian purists), but I would never leave it out.

Calabrese Salad

Large tomatoes

Mozzarella cheese

Fresh basil

Balsamic vinaigrette.

Salt and pepper to taste

I didn’t list quantities because it depends on the size of the tomatoes and how large a salad you want to make. For an entrée size dish, slice 1-2 large tomatoes into ¼-inch slices, arrange them in an overlapping circle on a large dish and season with salt and freshly ground pepper. Cut mozzarella into thin slices and tuck them in between the tomato slices. Garnish with just-picked basil leaves. Drizzle with a balsamic vinaigrette, or drizzle with olive oil followed by a splash of red wine vinegar.

This, along with a demi-baguette and a glass of Chianti, is all I could ever hope for on a hot summer evening.

There are another dozen or so tomatoes still waiting for me in the kitchen, so if anyone has a recipe that uses LOTS of tomatoes (but not ketchup; I don’t like peeling and seeding tomatoes), please let me know.

Santa Cruz Tasting Notes, Part Deux

Back in Banana Slug-ville to continue my exploration of what’s to eat. Oh yes, and to visit my grandkids, too.

First stop, the newest member of Santa Cruz’s culinary shops, Nut Kreations. My grandson was anxious to point out all the roasted and raw nuts, nut oils, nut milks, nut butters, and nut coffee blends that this pleasant shop offers. We inspect their nut bar with 120 varieties and flavors and our eyes start to glaze over with all the choices. The solution: Javier custom blends his own granola and off we go.

Across the street is my favorite downtown eatery, Asana, where I once again order their “Lavender Love,” a diet-busting milkshake that I have described before in this blog. This time, someone in the kitchen added an extra spoonful of lavender buds and I was surprised it didn’t look purple in the glass. It’s a good thing I love all things lavender.

 Lavender Love, the world's most exotic milkshake.

My son splurges on their Lemon-Cashew Mousse, made with cashew milk, almond liqueur and whipped cream, topped with a puree of peaches and mango. I think Nut Kreations could prosper by adding a selection of nut-based puddings to their offerings but having just opened in May, they have enough to worry about now.

 Cashew Mousse with Mango-Peach Puree, garnished with Lemon Zest and edible flower petals.

Next stop: lunch at Samba Rock Acai Café, a Brazilian joint that specializes in huge bowls of ice cold acai mixed with granola and topped with fresh fruit. Locals park their bikes inside the restaurant where the samba beat is just a prelude to the energy boost you get from the fresh organic ingredients.

So it turns out that someone has already put together a Santa Cruz food tour, a 3½-hour stroll to five local drinking and dining spots with a lot of local history thrown in. That’s what I’ll do next time I visit.

In the meantime, here’s a recipe for cashew mousse from an old issue of Gourmet magazine:

Cashew Mousse

1 Cup salted roasted cashews (4½ ounces)

½ Cup sugar

1 Cup plus 1 tablespoon cold water

½ Teaspoon unflavored gelatin

1 Teaspoon almond-flavored liqueur

2/3 Cup chilled heavy cream

Blend cashews, sugar, and 1 cup of water in a blender until very smooth, about 2 minutes. Pour mixture into a fine-mesh sieve set over a large glass measuring cup and let drain (gently stir if necessary but do not press on solids) until 1½ cups cashew milk accumulates in cup (discard solids).

Sprinkle gelatin over remaining tablespoon water (cold) in a 1- to 1 ½ -quart saucepan and let stand 1 minute to soften. Heat over low heat until gelatin is melted, then add cashew milk and liqueur and heat, stirring, until mixture is thickened (do not simmer), about 6 minutes. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally.

Whisk cream until it just holds stiff peaks, then fold cream into cooled cashew milk mixture gently but thoroughly and divide among serving bowls. Chill, covered, until set, at least 3 hours. Serves 4.

Your vegan/vegetarian friends will think you are so clever.

Pea Shooters

My broken toe has pretty much limited my garden activities to sitting on the patio and gazing out at all the herbs that need trimming, or picking and using in the kitchen. How frustrating to see all that oregano, tarragon, mint, chives and parsley flowering and going to seed due to neglect.

Meanwhile, my fellow gardeners (the ones with two good legs) are having a hey-day making hearty salads, salsas, pesto, vegetable soups and garnishing everything from cold drinks to steaming hot pasta with the bounty from their gardens.

During a recent heat wave, newspaper food sections were staying away from writing about hot soups and casseroles, featuring instead cold soups for dinner that had the double benefit of using fresh vegetables and herbs from the garden. I found a recipe in the New York Times that seemed like something even a gimp could manage (with a few adjustments), so after a little shopping and a minimum of herb-gathering in the garden, I renamed the recipe and started in.

Pea Shooters

3 Tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 Leeks, white and light green parts only, cleaned and sliced

Salt to taste

5 Cups frozen or fresh peas (I used 2 12-ounce bags of frozen peas)

3 Cups, tightly packed, coarsely chopped Bibb lettuce (about 1 head)

¼ Cup coarsely chopped tarragon leaves

¼ Cup coarsely chopped flat-leaf parsley leaves

¼ Cup coarsely chopped fresh mint leaves

¼ Cup chopped chives

Small whole herb leaves for garnish

Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium heat in a large, heavy soup pot. (Set aside the remaining 2 tablespoons for use later). Add the leeks and a pinch of salt. Cook, stirring until tender, about 5 minutes. Add the peas, lettuce and stock and bring to a boil. Add salt to taste, reduce the heat, cover and simmer for 5 minutes. Remove from the heat. Drain through a strainer set over a bowl, and allow the vegetables and the broth to cool separately for 15 minutes. Taste the broth and season to taste.

Working in batches, puree the vegetables and herbs in a blender with the broth and remaining olive oil for 2 minutes per batch until smooth and frothy. Pour into a large bowl and stir to combine. Taste and adjust seasonings. Chill for several hours. 

Serve in soup bowls if this is to be the main course, but I like the idea of serving it in individual Irish coffee glasses, espresso cups or shot glasses as an appetizer or aperitif.  Either way, garnish each serving with leaves of tarragon or mint.

Makes 2 quarts, enough for six soup bowls, or 12-15 aperitifs.

The Perfect G&T: So Easy to Make and So Easy to Screw Up

It was not my intent to let so much time elapse between posts, but two things happened that played havoc with my schedule: I went to Boston, and while I was there I broke a toe.

Until the last event occurred, it was a wonderful visit with my family who had gathered to celebrate my son’s new house. We got in plenty of sightseeing in that iconic town, ate well, and laughed a lot. And I was delighted at the end of each day when my son The Professor served up ice cold Gin and Tonics, the quintessential summer cocktail.

Gin and Tonics were the ritual late afternoon summer drink of my parents and when I was old enough, I too learned to enjoy the refreshing zing of a G&T. But somewhere along the way, I misplaced my love for that drink and got totally absorbed in the wine thing. And while a chilled Sauvignon Blanc is indeed splendid on a hot summer afternoon, nothing but nothing hits the spot like a Gin and Tonic.

The Professor was serving Hendricks gin with Schweppes tonic, garnished with a wedge of lime. Hendricks is a lovely gin made in Scotland and is notable for its floral nose. Hendricks has toned down the typical juniper taste of most gins and what you taste instead is the infusion of rose petals and cucumber. The Wall Street Journal declared Hendricks the “Best Gin in the World” in 2003, and in the last few years Hendricks has become an urban legend of sorts. But it’s a little pricey: My favorite local liquor store, Ojai Beverage Company, sells a 750 ml bottle for $35. Hendricks is really hot right now even though it is apparently be too floral for some. (One surly mixologist on Chowhound.com declared, “Hendricks tastes like perfume from CVS!”)

Still, Ojai Beverage Company can barely keep Hendrick’s in stock and on my last visit they were out, so they steered me toward a limited edition London dry gin that they think is superb and is priced remarkably well: Broker’s. Never heard of it, says I. But Broker’s has an impressive pedigree, having thoroughly trounced Hendrick’s in the 2010 Ultimate Spirits Challenge in New York. And, get this, it was only $22 for a 750 ml bottle!

Broker’s has a stronger juniper taste than Hendrick’s but it’s softened with citrus and cassia, making it very smooth. One spirits expert said: “A classic old-style gin with no apologies. A retro type of gin of the kind before the sissified lighter gins started being blended.”

Some advice from the experts: since tonic water is so pronounced in a G&T, use the best you can find. And use single-serving bottles, not the giant-sized bottles that go flat quickly. Don’t use so much tonic that you can’t taste the gin. Keep your favorite gin in the freezer and your favorite tonic water in the refrigerator. Room temperature gin and tonic water poured over ice cubes just doesn't cut it.

Back at home, I started making G&Ts with Broker’s and Fever-Tree Indian tonic water, garnished with mint from the garden. In the evenings, I just plop down in the welcome shade of the back patio, elevate the foot with the broken toe on an ottoman, and sip an ice cold Gin and Tonic.

My Perfect G&T

Ice cubes (Try using tonic water ice cubes: Fill an empty ice cube tray with tonic water and freeze.)

2 Ounces Broker’s gin, chilled

1 6.8-ounce bottle of Fever-Tree tonic water, chilled

Fill a tall, narrow, chilled glass with ice cubes. Pour the gin over the ice, then fill the glass almost to the top with tonic water. Garnish with a wedge of lime or a sprig of fresh mint (wash with fresh water first). If you’re using Hendrick’s gin, garnish with a long wedge of cucumber to complement the flavor of the gin.

Blueberries for the Fourth

Let’s be honest: There is nothing hokier than the Fourth of July. And nothing tastier than the food we consume that day. In every town and hamlet in the country, the day proceeds in a certain order: parade, picnic, pyrotechnics.

Like a moth to the flame, I keep showing up at Ojai’s Independence Day Parade even though the players stay pretty much the same from the year to year. The lineup includes plenty of horses, the high school marching band, Chumash Indian dancers in full regalia and the ragtag Keep The Sespe Wild gang, our local advocates for preserving the river than flows through the national forest surrounding the Ojai Valley. I think my friend Joan nailed it years ago when she remarked, “whatever you’re proud of, just put a leash on it and drag it down the street.” It's about as Americana as it gets.

I thought Ojai’s was the smallest small-town parade of all, until I visited Aptos with my son and grandchildren last year. Not to be outdone by its bigger and kookier neighbor to the east -- Santa Cruz -- Aptos boasts “The World’s Shortest Parade,” a two-block romp down the main drag by every youth sports team, four-legged animal, community non-profit volunteer, pickup truck and VW bug for miles around. This year is the 50^th anniversary of the World’s Shortest Parade, which should be something to behold, although I can’t imagine how any more visitors could crowd in along that two-block stretch.

Parades are fun, but nothing describes the Fourth better than the food we eat on that holiday. Fourth of July picnics are iconic: grilled burgers and hot dogs, corn on the cob, and the red-white-and-blue trifecta of watermelon, ice cream and blueberries.

In Maine (the largest producer of wild blueberries in the world), where I lived for three summers, the wild blueberries are just getting ready for picking in early July, and the harvest culminates in a flurry of blueberry festivals in late August. Maine blueberries are the native lowbush variety that grows naturally in fields and barrens throughout the state. The berries are much smaller than the cultivated varieties found in the most supermarkets, but are thought to have more nutritional value and more flavor impact.

Once on a very hot day in late July, I joined a group of Mainers on a hike to a blueberry barren outside of Camden. Armed with blueberry rakes that look like dustpans with tines, we poked and jabbed at the bushes and tried to get enough to take back to Cellardoor Winery where we were going to participate in a cooking class using blueberries. “No wonder blueberries are expensive,” I whined to our instructor. “This is really hard work!”

If you are lucky enough to have a surfeit of blueberries in your kitchen, make a batch of this simple and versatile blueberry sauce. You can use it on pancakes, waffles, French toast, cheesecake, blintzes, ice cream, bread pudding or pound cake.

Blueberry Sauce

3/4 Cup sugar

1 Tablespoon cornstarch

1/8 Teaspoon ground cinnamon

2/3 Cup water

3 Cups blueberries, fresh or frozen (if necessary), washed and picked over

Pinch of salt

1/8 Teaspoon pure vanilla extract (optional)

Zest of 1 lemon

Place the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon and water in a medium saucepan and stir until smooth. Stir in the berries and place the pan over medium heat. Cook until the liquid thickens and becomes clear. Taste to see if more sugar is needed. Stir in the vanilla and lemon zest. Cool, then cover and refrigerate. Makes 3 cups.

Pudwill Berry Farm in Nipomo brings all kinds of berries to the Ojai Farmers' Market every week. 

They grow 20 acres of berries year-round in hoop houses.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

Iced Tea and the "Linda Lee"

When my sister and I were teenagers, and my kid brother was barely old enough to help, my dad would drag all of us to the boat yard on Long Island Sound where he kept a 28’ sloop that always needed work. We’d spend an entire day in the hot sun scraping the wooden hull, polishing brass, and cleaning every square inch of the “Linda Lee” so we could spend the summer weekends sailing.

Our mother made gallons of the most thirst-quenching drink I’d ever tasted: a blend of half iced tea and half orange juice. We’d never heard of an Arnold Palmer, that half-iced tea-and-half-lemonade drink marketed these days by Minute Maid and Trader Joe’s, and we never gave Mom’s unique concoction a name. We also never saw how she blended the ingredients, but it’s a good bet that Mom used powdered tea mix and frozen orange juice concentrate, things I’d avoid today. But I remember the smell and taste of that refreshing drink even now, so many years later, whenever I am working outside on a hot summer day.

Nowadays, the boat is gone, my father and my mother are both gone, and my siblings never mention it any more, but much of what it means to me to be a family spending the summer together is blended into a simple mixture of iced tea and orange juice.

Today’s Iced Tea

Always start with freshly brewed tea. Basic iced tea begins with your choice of black tea. Pekoe is good and robust, especially when adding juice to the blend. I recently used whole-leaf black tea flavored with ginger for a pleasantly zippy flavor.

6-8 tea bags

4 Cups hot water

4 Cups (1 quart) cold filtered water

½ cup sugar or ¼ cup honey

Brings 4 cups of water to a boil. Tie the tea bags together and drop in the water to steep for 5-8 minutes. Any longer and it will get too strong and tannic tasting. After steeping, take out the tea bags and discard. While the tea is still hot, sweeten with granulated sugar or a sugar substitute like Stevia, Agave, or Truvia. Use a light hand with any sweetener if you plan to add juice, which will automatically sweeten the tea. Place the hot tea in a glass pitcher and add the remaining cold water. When the brew has cooled down, cover the container to keep other flavors from the fridge from affecting the tea and place in the refrigerator. Makes 2 quarts.

To this basic tea, add fresh squeezed orange juice to taste. If you live in New England, you may want to defer to a regional favorite and add cranberry juice instead of orange juice. Southerners may want to use lots of mint; others might try fresh raspberries.

Some other tips I’ve learned about iced tea:

• When serving, make sure the ice cubes you add are fresh, not cloudy or “old” looking, as they will affect the bright flavor of the tea.
• Always use a glass container; plastic and metal imparts unwanted flavors to the tea.
• Don’t try to keep any batch of iced tea longer than 2-3 days, as the flavor goes off after a while.

You Say Basil, I Say Basil

Herbs were a scarcity in my childhood home. Fresh herbs were virtually unknown, neither grown in the backyard garden nor cultivated in little pots in the kitchen window. The only fresh herb I remember any of us picking was the wild mint that grew rampantly next to the hose bib, and that was reserved for my parents’ gin and tonics during the summer. Spices were limited to paprika to add color to potato salad, curry powder for my mother’s curried shrimp, nutmeg for eggnog during the holidays, and whole cloves and dry mustard for glazing the Sunday ham.

It was this paucity of experience that led to my confusion about Ocimum basilicum. I assumed the green, leafy herb I first discovered on pizza must be pronounced ‘BAZ-uhl,’ as in Basil Rathbone the actor, but later learned that ‘BAYZ-uhl’ was more common.

Much later in life, when I had my own backyard, I learned that basil is one of the easiest and most prolific of plants any gardener could hope for. And there are many varieties and hybrids that not only become lovely landscape plants, but give the cook endless reasons to use basil in hundreds of dishes. The French nailed it when they dubbed basil “l’herbe royale.” For me, basil is the quintessential scent of summer.

This year I planted Sweet Basil and a cultivar called African Blue, and after a few weeks of good heat, they were approaching three feet in height. Last week, my friend Jorge and I whacked them back and we each took an armload of fresh basil, he planning on tomato-basil sauce for pasta, I ready to make pesto.

Often grown for ornamental purposes, African Blue Basil is also great in a multitude of recipes. If left long enough in water, it will grow roots and could be transplanted into pots for growing indoors in the winter.

Basil Pesto

1/3 Cup pine nuts or walnuts

3 medium garlic cloves

2 Cups fresh basil leaves, packed

½ Cup extra virgin olive oil

½ Cup fresh grated Parmesan-Reggiano or Romano cheese

Salt and fresh pepper to taste

Everything goes into the food processor, in this order. If using walnuts, pulse them first with the garlic, then add the basil. Slowly add the olive oil in a constant stream while processor is on. Stop to scrape down the sides with a rubber spatula. Add the grated cheese and pulse again to blend. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Yield: 1 cup. Serve with pasta, over baked potatoes, or spread over toasted baguette slices.

Basil is not limited to Italian or Asian food, nor should it be limited to savory dishes. A few years ago, my son and I embarked on a culinary adventure we will never forget. We indulged in a very elegant dinner at Chef Michael Schlow's Radius in Boston. Oddly enough, neither of us can recall what we ate for our entrees, but we both vividly remember the dessert we shared: basil ice cream. It was ecstasy, and we are still talking about it today. I’m not ambitious enough to make ice cream, but here is something I’m going to try next time I pick basil:

Balsamic and Basil Marinated Berries

4 Cups fresh berries (strawberries or blackberries)

¼ Cup fresh basil leaves, chopped. Save a few for garnish.

2 Tablespoons honey

2 Teaspoons balsamic vinegar

Wash berries and place in a large bowl. Set aside. In a small bowl, macerate the basil and honey together with a pestle. Add vinegar and whisk to combine. Pour basil mixture over the berries, toss to coat, and let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes until softened. Serve over ice cream or pudding. Garnish each serving with a tiny basil leaf.

Ojai Weekend: A Perfect Pairing of Food, Wine & Music

In his farewell comments from the stage Sunday evening, the Artistic Director of the Australian Chamber Orchestra said it best: “We’ve had an amazing six months this weekend in Ojai.”

The packed amphitheatre roared its approval for the charismatic violist and his extraordinary musicians, but the bonhomie was meant to be shared with all the musical geniuses who had played or sung during a jam-packed schedule at the 65th Ojai Music Festival in Ojai’s newly refurbished outdoor bowl.   

As if six concerts in three days weren’t enough to dazzle the senses, the weekend also included a culinary experience in between Saturday’s musical events. I joined about 40 others on a Farm-to-Table Tour co-hosted by The Farmer & The Cook restaurant and The Ojai Vineyard. Farmer Steve Sprinkel showed us around Rio Gozo Farm, where he farms 12 acres of organic vegetables. Our group comprised several home gardeners, a few good cooks, a landscape architect or two, and one lady who braved the furrows in high-heeled open-toed sandals. Steve gave us plenty of information on organic techniques, seasonality, natural pest control and distribution, and soon enough we were eager to start tasting some of the bounty before us.

Off we went to the cafe/store Steve and his wife Olivia Chase have in Meiners Oaks, The Farmer & The Cook. Guess which one is which. As a patron of this favorite local spot, I was expecting an outdoor buffet of salads and cooked vegetables. What I didn’t expect was a sit-down five-course, organic feast accompanied by superb local wines served by the winemaker himself, Adam Tolmach.

We began with a sparkling cucumber KeVita Water garnished with a pickled carrot stick and garlic scape. Refreshing and delightful. At the table in their new dining room, Adam poured his Ojai Vineyard 2009 Sauvignon Blanc to accompany the first course which was flatbread topped with cherry chile aioli, thinly sliced potato, roasted cippolini onions and a lightly sautéed and seasoned squash blossom. The salad course came in a colorful bowl of radicchio, figs, salted walnut halves and orange slices dressed with honey and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar.

The next two courses were paired with an Ojai Vineyard syrah that Adam described as “perhaps our best syrah to date,” his 2006 Syrah Presidio, an absolutely superb wine that is made from biodynamic grapes grown in Santa Barbara County. It was complex and robust and paired perfectly with Olivia’s rye and rosemary biscuits topped with horseradish cream, and the main course, grilled Jimenez Farms leg of lamb.

I could have ended the evening right there with that magnificent syrah’s finish lingering on my tongue, but out came dessert: little cupcakes made with local tangerines and pistachios, soaked in a jasmine and orange blossom syrup and garnished with labneh, a tart, strained yogurt. Dessert was paired with a 2008 Viognier ice wine that Adam makes with Ojai’s Roll Ranch viognier grapes that are put in a freezer, returned to the winery for pressing and barrel fermented. The result: fruity and flowery and served ice cold with the petite cakes.

I was reluctant to tear myself away, but I had just enough time to make it to the next concert, where I sat, sated and dreamy, full of excellent food, superb wine and magnificent music. Now that’s what I call a weekend to remember. I’ve already bought my concert tickets for next year, and if they do another farm-to-table tour, you can bet that I’ll be there with my bib on.

Rediscovering the Joy of Rhubarb

When I spotted them at the Ojai Farmers’ Market, all but hiding in the corner of a table covered with fresh vegetables, I grabbed them: a small pile of rhubarb stalks ignored by the throng of shoppers. I assume they had been overlooked because they were mostly pale green, not the deep rosy red of rhubarb that has been grown in a hothouse, which most customers prefer. The truth is, color does not matter when it comes to cooking rhubarb.

Another truth: I have not cooked with rhubarb for years. When I lived in Maine, I had an ancient rhubarb plant in my garden that yielded tough and stringy stalks that I couldn’t convince myself were suitable for the cooking pot. Somehow, it survived winter after winter of brutal cold to spring back to life every May and spread wider than ever, taking up valuable garden space. I finally pulled the entire thing out with a little help from my friend with the pick ax. Throughout New England, rhubarb is enormously popular; rhubarb-strawberry pie competes with blueberry pie and Boston cream pie for top billing on dessert menus. So rhubarb pies became my default for indulging my love for this tart fruit.

Back in my Ojai kitchen, I decided to replicate the simple way my mother used to make stewed rhubarb. Several times every spring she used to boil up a pot of rhubarb, adding nothing but a little water and tons of sugar. This was our favorite early season dessert and I can see in my mind’s eye the red chunks of rhubarb piled into individual bright yellow Fiesta Ware cereal bowls (this was the fifties, remember). We kids liked to pour a little milk over the fruit and watch with fascination as the milk started to ooze through the threads of rhubarb.

If my grandmother had lived with us, I’m sure she would have found a variety of ways to use rhubarb other than eaten out of a bowl. Stewed rhubarb is delicious baked into cakes and muffins, breads and tarts, cheesecake and coffee cake, fools and puddings, jams and marmalade. If you leave out most of the water and let the rhubarb cook slowly in its own juices, the result is a thicker sauce that is marvelous with pork tenderloin and other meats as well as fish.

Here’s my take on humble stewed rhubarb, kicked up a notch for a more complex flavor.

 Stewed Rhubarb, Only Better

12 medium small rhubarb stalks, chopped (about 2 cups). Remove any leaves; they’re toxic.

1 Cup granulated sugar. Use more or less according to taste.

2 Cups fresh strawberries, chopped

½ Teaspoon vanilla

¼ Teaspoon each ground cinnamon and nutmeg

1 Tablespoon cornstarch (optional)

The rhubarb I bought at the farmers’ market was field cultivated, not grown in a hothouse, so the size of the stalks varied a lot. Use as many stalks as it takes to get about 2 cups, chopped into 1-inch pieces. Place the chopped rhubarb in a heavy pot and barely cover with water. Stir in the sugar. Bring to a boil then turn the heat down and simmer 6-7 minutes before you add the chopped strawberries. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until all the fruit is soft but not mushy, about 10-12 minutes total. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla and the spices. If you want to thicken the mixture, blend 1 tablespoon of cornstarch in a little water until smooth and stir into the hot rhubarb mixture. Serve warm or at room temperature, but store in the refrigerator. Wonderful over vanilla ice cream, or served with a generous dollop of either plain yogurt or creme fraiche.

Yield: 3½ cups

Making My Peace with Pork Chops

My mother was brilliant at many things: arranging music, directing women’s choral groups and, because she had perfect pitch, she could play anything on the piano by ear. But her genius stopped at the swinging door to her kitchen. My mother was a lousy cook.

Over the years she learned to cook a few things reasonably well. She could make a good shrimp curry that she saved for adults-only dinner parties, but the rest of her repertoire fell short. My siblings and I grew up on Jell-O, tapioca puddings, frozen vegetables and overcooked meat. Because she was raised in Missouri where the Southern influence is palpable, all vegetables were boiled limp and all meats were well done.

I never had a cooking lesson from my mother, and I was never expected to try my hand at making even one single dish, much less an entire meal. And this was how I entered my married life.

My new husband (who knew less about cooking than I did but had grown up with a mother who was a marvelous cook) was eager for me to learn my way around the kitchen as soon as possible. And so it was that just a few weeks into our marriage, he uttered the words dreaded by every new bride: “I’ve invited the new guy over for dinner.”

I looked around our tiny rented beach cottage, the lack of appliances and kitchen tools, and the empty pantry, and panicked. What to do? I conjured up all my courage, flipped through my shiny, new Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook (1965 version) and decided on pork chops. How difficult could pan-fried pork chops be? I’d seen my mother do them many times.

I no longer remember what side dishes I put together for that Meal of Culinary Initiation, but I distinctly recall the colorless, thin pork chops I bought at the Navy commissary (that I didn’t know enough to season) sizzling in an iron skillet. When I assembled our plates, I will never forget the next words out of our guest’s mouth: “I’m Jewish and I don’t eat pork.”

Trying to salvage my own dignity and my mortified husband’s reputation, I loaded up our guest’s plate with side dishes, salad and rolls, while Hubby and I, forcing smiles, sawed away on a pile of overdone pork chops. If my mother could see me now, I thought to myself, she wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Rock-hard pork chops were her specialty, after all.

It took years for me to recover from that, and I avoided cooking pork chops for a long time. Eventually I learned a few things about pork:

Ø    It’s okay to undercook it and slightly-pink-in-the-middle pork is safe. In fact, most professional chefs cook pork only to 150 degrees, not 185 like my first cookbook had recommended.

Ø    Pork is inherently short on flavor, so dry rubs, marinades and glazes help immensely. Dry rubs can be applied hours before cooking, or even at the last minute. Pork responds beautifully to sauces and glazes once it has been seared.

And this last point is why I like to use this Ginger Plum Sauce on any cut of pork. It’s sweet and spicy, kicks up the flavor and moistens every bite. I make a ton of this at the end of the summer when my Satsuma plum tree is loaded with juicy, dark purple plums.

Ginger Plum Sauce

1 Pound firm purple plums

1 medium onion, chopped

2 Tablespoons butter, melted

½ Cup firmly packed brown sugar

¼ Cup tomato-based chili sauce

2 Tablespoons soy sauce

1 Teaspoon ground ginger

2 Teaspoons lemon juice

Wash and pit the plums. Whirl in the blender until almost pureed, leaving some chunks for texture. Cook the onion in the butter. Stir in the brown sugar, chili sauce, soy sauce, ground ginger, and the lemon juice. Stir in the plum puree. Simmer uncovered about 30 minutes until slightly thickened, stirring occasionally. Makes about 1-½ quarts, enough for several meals (it’s great on poultry, too) and some to freeze.

A juicy, boneless pork chop, dry-rubbed with ground sage and salt and pepper, grilled 

and served with Ginger Plum Sauce.

Lettuce Make A Salad

The spring of 2011 was not the year to start garden vegetables early. I planted lettuce about six weeks ago and the poor things have endured spells of temperatures in the mid-90s followed by torrential rain and unseasonably cold, windy nights. Still, they have soldiered on, and this week I have started picking perfect heads of Green Oak Leaf, Butter Crunch and Red Loose-leaf.

In their raised beds, young heads of lettuce form a checkerboard of vibrant colors and are almost too beautiful to assault with a kitchen knife. So I’ve developed a ritual whereby I admire them with loving gazes and verbal flattery before I whack them off at the stem and take them into the kitchen. Even though they were grown organically and are chemical-free, a thorough rinsing and a cold water bath flushes out any little bugs or specks of soil that hide near the stem. After some chilling in the fridge, they are ready for the salad bowl.

My friend Katrina, a terrific cook who now lives in England, taught me how to make vinaigrette, and it is so tasty and easy to prepare I will never, ever use a store-bought dressing again. This recipe can be altered in a number of ways by changing the vinegar or the oil and adding fresh herbs, but I keep coming back to the basics.

Katrina’s Vinaigrette

¼ Cup good quality balsamic vinegar

¼ Cup water

½ Cup extra virgin olive oil. Some olive oils are a little heavy for my tastes, so I use a “light” olive oil, or half EVOO and half canola oil. You can experiment with this.

¼ Teaspoon Colman’s dry mustard, or ½ Teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 Large clove of garlic, mashed through a garlic press

Salt and pepper to taste

Put all ingredients in a clean 1-pint screw-top jar and shake to emulsify. For a thicker dressing, combine the vinegar, water, garlic and mustard in a blender, and with the motor running, slowly drizzle in the oil through the opening in the lid. Then add the salt and pepper. Refrigerate any unused dressing in the covered jar.

This recipe makes one cup of dressing, enough to dress a salad for at least six people. I also use this vinaigrette on steamed or roasted asparagus, and on that favorite of all summer salads: sliced tomatoes and Mozzarella cheese generously garnished with a chiffonade of basil.

Her Majesty, the Matilija Poppy

Every year in May, without fail, the Matilija poppies in my front yard bloom, yielding huge white flowers atop 5-foot-long stalks. They’re not supposed to grow there; It’s too shady and damp for Romneya coulteri that prefer the dry canyons and sandy arroyos of southern California. But there they are anyway, defiantly thriving to the point of becoming invasive.

The flowers can get as large as a salad plate and are crinkly like papier-mache, a dramatic showing for about 3 weeks, then, like all native plants, they die back and look really ugly – “deadest stickus” as one nurseryman told me.

This part of California is the ancestral home of the Chumash people and there are several legends about the Matiilija poppy, probably all of them bogus. The Ventureno band of the Chumash who lived in and near Ojai, my hometown, explain that Mat’ilha was the name of a Chumash village and the poppy was probably named after the place. Forget the sad tales of the unrequited love of two Chumash lovers who died in each other’s arms and the virginal white poppy that grew to envelope their bodies. Legends created by non-Indians, they say.

Bold and regal, dazzling and defiant, the Matilija poppy has been called “the queen of all wild flowers” by more than a few plant enthusiasts. I’ll give it that much, but I wish the queen residing in my small front yard would behave herself and remember that she does not have the royal right to claim everything in her path as her kingdom. 

Designer Water, the Ojai Way

There wasn't a shrub or a blade of grass anywhere on the half-acre I bought in 1995, so the idea that this barren patch was included on the annual Ojai Garden Tour this year is supremely ironic. But there I was yesterday, greeting more than 200 visitors who traipsed through my garden admiring the landscape. "Oh," I could have said, feigning modesty, "it was nothing." Right. Nothing but years of hard labor, a truckload of boulders, river rock and gravel, dozens of trees, miles of irrigation lines, 30 cubic yards of mulch and an egregious amount of fertilizer.

But I never question if it was all worth it. It was and is and will always be worth all the expense and time. This garden is my sanctuary and a quiet respite for contemplation. There's enough space for entertaining, and the citrus and fruit trees, herbs and veggie beds are a source of edible treats year-round.

In the shade of the pergola, I set up a decorative urn of cool water flavored with sliced oranges, lemons and cucumber. I discovered this infusion years ago at Spa Ojai where guests love this simple but refreshing thirst-quencher. I added about a dozen slices each of Meyer Lemon and Blood Orange from the garden, plus an equal amount of peeled and sliced cucumber to two gallons of filtered tap water. I keep a small jug of this lovely water in the refrigerator all summer, and it's a tonic on a hot day when I'm working in the garden.