The figs are coming in–all at once.  The rain is causing them to split on the tree, so I’m having to pick them a couple of times a day to stay ahead of the birds and squirrels (because I REFUSE to share fresh figs with vermin–REFUSE).  As a result, there are figs piled up in the kitchen–on the counter, in the (functional–hallelujah!) fridge, and in various jars and pots.

I’m eating them on sandwiches (with stinky, salty cheeses), in crumbles, as jam, broiled with brown sugar, and just straight up, out of hand

Yesterday, because I was running out of ideas and had a couple of pounds needing to be used (and also because it was raining), I decided to try something a little dessert-ier.  I dug out an old recipe I’ve had for years, and made an executive decision to substitute figs for the tiny Italian plums it originally called for.  I mean, why not?  Worst case scenario, the figs (which are a bit watery at this point) would just be a leaky mess, and I’d toss the whole thing.  That wouldn’t be the end of the world.

It wasn’t a disaster, though.  It was delightful.  The figs were a little heavy, perhaps, and sunk more deeply into the batter than I expected, but otherwise it was perfect.

Caveat:  no one else in my house likes this.  I think that’s because they dont’t like figs (Lee) or anything that doesn’t contain chocolate (the children).  It can’t be because the cake isn’t good, though, because it’s lovely.  It’s like a moist, mild banana bread, studded with sweet, juicy figs and their crunchy little seeds.

And apparently I’ll be eating the whole thing myself.

This is a recipe that Marian Burros originally published years ago in The New York Times; it has since been reprinted in books and all over the internet.

New Age Plum (or Fig!) Torte

1/2 stick butter, at room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 bananas, peeled and cut in large chunks
1/2 cup egg substitute
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 t. baking powder
1/2 lemon
six figs, or enough to make a pretty pattern on top, trimmed and halved, top to bottom
cinnamon sugar

Preheat oven to 350.

Cream together butter, sugar, and banana till well-blended.  Beat in egg substitute, then add flour and baking powder and mix until combined.

Pour batter into  an ungreased springform pan* (mine is 8 inches).  Arrange the fig halves, skin side down, on top of the torte.  Squeeze the lemon half over the top, then sprinkle generously with cinnamon sugar.

Bake for 45-60 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.  Let cool for ten minutes or so.  Run a thin blade around the edge to loosen, then remove the ring of the springform pan.  Serve lukewarm.

*I haven’t tried this without a springform pan, but if you don’t have one, try an 8 or 9 inch cake pan, and grease it–maybe even line it with parchment.  Let me know how it works out if you try it.

It’s a dreary, cool day here–we don’t often get weather like this till well into the fall.  I’m trying not to let it bother me.

I had half a dozen figs ripening on the counter (I’ve been picking a few a day, trying to stay ahead of the birds and squirrels).  So to cheer myself up at lunchtime, I chopped them up (the figs, not the birds and squirrels) and dumped them into a loaf pan.

I had some of Nigella Lawson’s crumble topping in the fridge, so I sprinkled that on top and baked it for half an hour.

Five minutes of effort* = crumble for lunch.  Perfect.

This topping is super-easy, and it keeps in the fridge for ages.  You can make up a batch (even doubling or tripling the amounts) to keep on hand.  That way you can have any size crumble you want, on a moment’s notice, whenever you have a bit (or a lot) of fruit that wants some gentle heat and a buttery topping.

Also, it makes it easy to hoard entire crumbles for yourself, indulging at lunchtime when no one is around to sneak bites.

*The five minutes of effort does not include the seventeen new mosquito bites I get every time I set foot outside.  Pick at your own risk.

Crumble Topping (from How To Eat, by Nigella Lawson)

1 cup all-purpose flour (for those of you who are smart enough to have a kitchen scale, this should weigh 4.25 oz.)
1 t. baking powder
pinch salt
6 T. unsalted butter, cold, cubed
3 T. light muscovado sugar or light brown sugar
3 T. vanilla sugar or plain granulated sugar

Put the flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl.  Rub in the butter cubes.  Stop when it resembles oatmeal.  Stir in the sugars.

Chill the mixture in the freezer for 10 minutes if you’re using it right away; otherwise store it in the refrigerator.  When you want to make a crumble, prepare your fruit (some, like apples, may need some sweetener or thickener, but figs don’t need anything at all–yet another reason to adore them), put it in a baking dish, and sprinkle topping thickly on top.  Bake at 375 for half an hour or so, till it’s golden.

I stumbled across these peppers at one of the local farmer’s markets.  The sign said Padron Peppers, which sounded familiar.  I didn’t buy them right away; I went home and looked them up.  They’re a Spanish pepper, not often available in this country.

That was all I needed to know–I wanted them.  I started plotting to go back to the market the next weekend.  In the interim, I kept digging around, thinking about what I might do with them once I got my greedy little hands on them.

In Spain, they’re traditionally served as a tapa, or a bar snack–that’s why the name sounded familiar (the Spanish are masters of the bar snack–I love tapas beyond all reason).  Preparation is super-easy–blister them in a little olive oil, and season with salt and pepper.  My favorite description was this article by Calvin Trillin; by the time I finished reading it, I not only wanted those padrons, I needed them.  When Lee woke me up at 7 o’clock Saturday morning (seven!  an obscene hour on a weekend morning) I popped out of bed, ready to race off to the market.

I worried, though, on the way there, that this would turn out to be another Lemon Cucumber Incident.*  I made a beeline to the pepper booth, and there they were–all piled up, a mound of beautiful, shining peppers, a deep, vegetal green.  The largest ones in the pile were only a couple of inches long; most were about the size of a shelled cashew, or a little bigger.  I dumped hands-ful in a paper bag, and scurried home with my plunder.

So how were they?

I followed those loose instructions, and gave them a quick sizzle in hot olive oil.  Lee, never able to wait till dinner’s on the table, plucked one out of the pan and popped it in his mouth.  I watched, waiting for the verdict, while he chewed and contemplated.  ”It tastes . . . green.  In the same way green beans are green.”

Hunh.  Maybe this really was another Lemon Cucumber, after all.  So I ate one.  It was, indeed, very green.  I tried another, just to be sure, and then another.  About halfway through the bowl, I remarked that I could see the appeal of working through a mound of peppers, washing them down with beer.  Lee mumbled agreement, and dumped the rest of the bowlful onto his plate.

For some people, apparently, the appeal is the unpredictable occurrence of the occasional incendiary specimen.  Everything I read said that while padrons are generally completely heat-less, about one in five might be blazing hot.  Out of all the peppers I ate that night, I only came across one with any heat at all, but that one?  Nearly blew my head off.

Padron peppers.  I’m convinced.

*The Lemon Cucumber Incident happened ten or twelve years ago.  In my winter perusing of the seed catalogs, I came across a novelty item called a lemon cucumber (they’re a bit more common now). I read the description, and bit–hook, line and sinker.  It sounded like the best thing ever, and I don’t even like cucumbers.  Crisp, delicate, tangy, sweet–like a lemon!  In your backyard!  I couldn’t wait to grow my own.  We planted and watered and nurtured and watched, hovering over the vine, waiting for our miracle cucurbits.  The first one grew and ripened and finally came ready.   We plucked it from the vine; I handed it to Lee for the first bite.  ”It tastes like . . . a cucumber.”

My disappointment was profound.  I am still bitter.  And I still don’t like cucumbers.

You remember Hoppin’ John, right?  Well, meet Hoppin’ John’s unfortunately-named cousin–Limping Susan.  I had never heard the name Limping Susan till a local restaurant owner wrote about it in his weekly newsletter–but the dish was totally familiar.  Rice, tomatoes, okra–some of my favorite things, all jumbled together.  I don’t know who  gave it such a silly moniker, but I wonder if maybe they were trying to avoid the okra stigma.

Ben Barker, owner of Magnolia Grill (another local restaurant, and a leader in the upscale Southern food trend), writes about this recipe in his book, Not Afraid of Flavor:

“When we served this as part of a smoked pork tenderloin plate, the menu description ‘stewed okra’ seemed to deter a sizable percentage of customers.  But once we changed the name to ‘tomato gumbo,’ the dish became amazingly popular.”

Ben apparently has better luck than I do–Lee wasn’t buying any of it at our house.  I bought some okra, with every intention of making the “gumbo.”  But when he asked what was for dinner, I made the mistake of telling him.  Okra.  He convinced me to go out.  Every night, until I had to throw the okra away.

I finally got smart and made it last week, while he was out of town.  That way, I figured, I could have the whole pot to myself (and yes, he TOTALLY missed out–it was delicious).

Ben Barker’s Stewed Okra (a.k.a. Tomato Gumbo)

1 T olive oil
1 T rendered bacon fat (yeah, I just left that out, since I don’t usually have bacon fat hanging around)
1 medium onion, peeled and diced fine
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
1/4 t crushed red pepper flakes
1 bay leaf
1 1/2 cups tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and coarsely chopped
1 pound okra, sliced into 1/2 inch rounds
salt and black pepper to taste
1 cup cooked long-grain white rice

Heat the oil (and bacon fat) in a medium-sized skillet over medium heat.  Add the onion, lower the heat, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion softens but doesn’t color.

Add the garlic, red pepper flakes, and bay leaf, and cook for 1 minute.

Add the tomatoes (and any extra juice).  Bring to a simmer.

Add the okra and simmer until the okra is tender (approximately 8 to 10 minutes).  Season with salt and pepper.  Stir in the cooked rice and serve.

Tomato jam is the best condiment ever.  It can go sweet or savory, or in this case, both.  And it will turn an ordinary Tuesday sandwich into a cause for celebration.

I got this recipe from Food 52′s Jennifer Perillo, here.  And with no peeling, no complicated techniques, and basically one step, it’s super-easy.

Sweet & Savory Tomato Jam
(this will fill 3 1/2 pint jars)

3.5 pounds tomatoes, coarsely chopped (I used Roma tomatoes, always my 1st choice for cooking)
1 small onion, chopped
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 t. salt
1/2 t. ground coriander
1/4 t. ground cumin
1/4 cup cider vinegar
juice of 1 lemon

Put all ingredients in a 2-qt pot.  Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to a simmer.  Cook until thickened and jam-like consistency, about 3 hours.  Let cool, then spoon into jars and refrigerate.  (Jennifer says it can be processed in a hot-water bath for shelf storage; I didn’t bother, since it made such a small amount.)

It’s too hot to cook.  Luckily, it’s also tomato season, or as Sheri Castle says, “The High Holy Days of Tomato Sandwich Season.”

Now, I totally understand the sacred perfection of the BLT, and I’d never knock it.  But if you’re feeling the need to branch out a little, or if you can’t bear the thought of frying up a pan of bacon in this weather, may I suggest an alternative?

The tomato pictured above is an old southern variety called the German Johnson.  It’s a good deal sweeter than you’re average slicer; if you can’t find German Johnsons (yeah, yeah–I hear you snickering), use whatever low-acid tomato grows well in your area.  Just make sure that whatever tomato you use, it’s field-grown, dead-ripe, and dripping with juice.

Tomato Roll-Up

1 whole wheat tortilla
a spoonful of spreadable chevre (preferably from a tub, rather than a log)
a spoonful of tapenade
1/2 of a tomato, sliced fairly thinly

Warm the tortilla slightly in the microwave (15 seconds).  Spread with chevre, then tapenade.   Line up the tomato slices in one layer, then roll the whole thing up.  Eat over a plate–it’s messy.

This is an inspired improvisation.  One night a couple of weeks ago, I was trying to use up all the produce before my mother-in-law got into town (we’re staying in her house, and I didn’t want her to get here and find her fridge stuffed full of our veggies).  I had two ears of corn, and a pile of summer squash (also some chard and tomatoes, but they turned out much less interesting).

I cooked the squash my favorite way, because I wanted something easy and mindless, but I still had those two ears of corn, so I cut the kernels off the cob and folded them in.

It was brilliant.  My new favorite summer dish.  I could happily eat nothing but a big bowl of this and call it lunch (and I have–I’ve made it three times in the last two weeks).

This is a riff on a method I’ve posted before, but I’m going to repeat the whole thing, just to emphasize that you really need to try this now, with the freshest, sweetest summer corn you can get your hands on.  Starchy stuff that’s been off the stalk for more than a few hours just won’t do.

Sauteed yellow squash and corn
Assume about one and a half squashes per person (or two, if you love them as much as we do)

2 teaspoons olive oil (I used about 1 tsp, but it depends on your pan)
2 cloves garlic, sliced
Yellow squash, washed, trimmed, and sliced into thin rounds
2 ears of corn, cut off the cob

Slice the squash into thin rounds and put in a colander.  Toss with a teaspoon or so of salt, and let drain for 20-30 minutes.  Give it a quick rinse, then press down with your hands to squeeze out most of the liquid.

Heat a large skillet over low-ish medium heat.  When it’s warm, add olive oil, swish around, then add garlic.  Cook, stirring often, till garlic just begins to color.  Add squash.  Cook until squash has wilted and shrunk (but don’t cook it to mush).  A little browning is actually quite nice.  Add the corn, give it a stir, and cook for about three more minutes.  Grind on some pepper, turn off heat, and taste for seasoning.  If you can afford the fat and calories, a pat of butter takes this from delicious to sublime (in my humble opinion).

 

I love to make pickles.  I’ve pickled all kinds of things:  cucumbers (duh), beets, peaches, watermelon rind, cherries.  I still haven’t tried asparagus, but it’s on my radar screen.

Ironically, I hated pickles for years.  Couldn’t stand ‘em.  I think it was some kind of long-term associative trauma:  I spent one youthful (and really, really awful) summer working in a pickle factory–again, another story for another day.

But they’re growing on me as I get older (I read something once about our tastebuds needing stronger and stronger flavors as we age–maybe that’s part of it), especially the sort of artisanal, interesting varieties that are starting to pop up in restaurants.

The good news is:  they’re super-easy to make, and some kinds are total instant gratification.

This formula came from a restaurant Lee and I loved in Charleston.  It was a hole-in-the-wall soul-food kind of place, called Jestine’s Kitchen.  The food was excellent, but it was the dish of pickles that really stole the show.  I was looking around, thinking about asking the waitress whether they were made in-house, when I happened to see a framed newspaper article on the wall by our table.  In the article, the owner of the place described how to make the pickles.  I snapped a picture of the article with my iPhone, so now I have the formula.

Jestine’s Awesome Sweet Pickles

Ingredients:

–a bunch of small pickling cucumbers (I suspect 8 or 10 would fill a quart jar)
–one sweet onion (I used a cippolini)
–a couple handfuls of sugar (probably 3/4 cup or so)
–a few peppercorns (but I didn’t have any here in the mountains, so I left them out)
–white vinegar

Peel and slice the cucumbers, and put in a jar, along with the onion, cut up, and the peppercorns.  Add sugar; I like my pickles on the very sweet side, so I was generous.

Fill the jar with a mixture of half water, half white vinegar.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.

The next day, taste to make sure they’re sweet enough before serving.  These are what are known as “quick” pickles; you want to eat them within a couple of days, or they’ll start to get mushy.

Here’s a sad/good story.

Sunday afternoon, when I went out for my second attempt to squeeze in a run between thunderstorms, I got trapped in the car, and didn’t feel like making the mad dash for the door in all that lightning.  So I did what any curious wannabe-baker would do:  I followed the blackberry sign at the end of the road.  I love any kind of berries, and I was hoping the sign would lead me to something wonderful.

From the road it looked promising–a gentle slope, planted with tidy rows of arching berry canes.  Even from the car I could see that the fruit was ready to be picked.

A couple of days later, feeling a little antsy, I slipped out while Lee was on a protracted phone call, intending to go buy enough berries to make a few test jars of blackberry jam.

The signs were all gone.

Undeterred, I retraced my steps and found that beautiful berry field.  Still no signs.  Again undeterred, I drove in, up a long, steep driveway, to a tidy little house on top of the hill.  At that point, I was feeling a bit more deterred, mainly by the large dog barking at me from the garage.  So I just sat in my car until someone came to see what I wanted.

The woman said that yes, they still had berries, but there had been hail damage, and they’d had to file a claim with the FDA.  So I’d have to pick my own, if I wanted any, but they’d be real cheap–as in, free.  She gave me a few containers, showed me where to park, and said I was welcome to all I wanted.

I was stunned.  So stunned, in fact, that I picked four quarts, took them home, and went back with a much bigger container to pick more.  We now have a LOT of huge, juicy, dead-ripe blackberries.

The husband finally came out and explained the situation:  they are contract growers for a company that sells to grocery stores.  The company will only accept a blemish-free crop, so even though a lot of the berries were still beautiful and perfectly edible, some of them were damaged, so the entire contract was forfeit.  They had no choice but to file a crop-loss claim, and once they do that, they are prohibited from selling any portion of what’s left.  So all those beautiful berries are just going to waste, unless friends and family (and curious neighbors like me) go pick them and put them to use.

It’s terribly sad for those nice folks, and for all those wasted berries, but  pretty amazing for us.

I made my stand-by cobbler; an old recipe of my mother’s that I’ve committed to memory.  It goes with any kind of fruit, calls for just a few pantry staples, and comes together in five minutes flat–the perfect travel recipe.

Lazy Mama Pie

Ingredients:

–A bunch of fruit, prepared for baking (for berries, this means rinsed and drained–enough to cover the bottom of a pie plate and pile up in the center; maybe a quart and a half, or so)
–1 cup of flour (I prefer all-purpose, but this time I only had white-wheat, so that’s what I used)
–1 1/4 t. baking powder
–1/2 t. salt
–1 cup sugar
–1 cup milk
–1 oz. canola oil

Preheat oven to 375.  Spray a deep pie dish (or an 8-inch-square baking dish, or whatever similar-sized container you have on hand) with pan spray.  Dump in the berries.  Sprinkle with a tablespoon or two of sugar, depending on how sweet the berries are.

Whisk together the dry ingredients.  Stir in the milk and oil.  Pour this mixture over the berries.  Don’t bother stirring, just push the berries down a little so most of them are mostly submerged.

Bake till it’s quite brown, probably close to an hour; the cobbler photographed above was actually a little underdone on the inside (we don’t mind runny cobbler, but you might).

Let it cool a little, then sit and watch the thunderstorms roll in over the mountains while you enjoy a  bowl of the freshest cobbler possible.

 

This is what I use to make pie crust.  The stuff in the tub is lard.  Yes–I said lard.  Note that the flour is straight out of the freezer.

You want 13 ounces of flour, 1 stick of butter, 4 ounces of lard, 3/4 T. of sugar, and 3/4 t. of salt.  Those are the proportions Karen Barker (pie guru and pastry chef at Magnolia Grill in Durham, NC) uses in Sweet Stuff.

Put the flour, sugar, and salt in your food processor and pulse to combine.  Then add the butter and lard, and process until it’s the texture of coarse cornmeal.  I find (especially in summer) that sometimes it skips the cornmeal stage and goes right to big moist clumps.  It’s never been a problem.

Dump it all into a big mixing bowl, and add a few tablespoons (1/4-1/2 cup) of ICE water.  Using a fork, quickly stir as you add the water, and stop adding when the mixture begins to clump together.

When it sticks together (mostly) in a rough mass, divide the dough in half and dump each half onto a piece of plastic wrap. NOTE:  because I’m anal, I weigh each half, so that they’re about equal.

Form each mass of dough into a rough disk, and wrap tightly.

Now–this part is important:  PUT IT IN THE FREEZER.  You could put it in the fridge, but what I like to do is make a whole bunch of crusts at once (why get flour all over the kitchen four times, when you can just make one giant mess, then be done) and store them in the freezer.  Then when I want to make a pie, I pull a crust out a couple of hours ahead of time, then thaw it (either in the fridge or on the counter, or alternating) till it’s pliable enough to roll out.

When you’re ready to roll out the crust, lightly flour your counter and the top of the dough.  Roll from the middle out.

It might crack a little.  Don’t stress; just gently mash the cracked part back together.

When it’s all rolled out (I hold the pie plate over it, to guesstimate), carefully fold it in half (a bench knife is really helpful here),

then again into quarters.

Center the folded crust over the pie plate (use those geometry skills from 9th grade) and gently unfold it.  I try to trim the excess so that there’s an even 1/2 inch (give or take) all the way around; this means taking from some spots and patching onto other spots.  Then I fold the excess under to make a tidy crust.  You can press the edge with a fork, or do that cool fluting with your thumb and forefinger, or you can just leave it straight and have a nice clean edge.

And voila!  Pie crust. You have a choice now:  you can put it in the fridge or freezer for 15 or 20 minutes while you get the filling ready, or you can freeze it and use it later.