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    PI DAY CONTEST

    Pies for Pi Day Winners

    An Easter ritual from Puglia makes spring sweeter and a beginner’s bourbon pecan pie

    By

    The 2022 Indie Pie Contest, in recognition of Pi Day, 3/14, produced two winners, who were interviewed by Taste Editor Teresa Parker. —Ed.

    Golden Goose Award Winner: Carolina Marseglia

    Making ricotta cheese was an everyday ritual in the Puglian towns where Carolina Marseglia’s parents grew up. On visits there, Marseglia watched people make their own ricotta from local milk. Leftovers would not do — ricotta was to be eaten the day it was made.

    There was a time during her childhood in Bristol, Conn. when Marseglia was embarrassed by ricotta-making and all the other oldways her parents brought with them to America. “They grew everything and made everything from scratch,” she says. Now she appreciates their devotion, but when she was young, she recalls, “I just wanted to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches like everyone else.”

    Carolina Marseglia and her creamy, custardy, citrusy ricotta pie. (Photo by Beth O’Rourke)

    On the Saturday before Easter, she would help her mother make a ricotta pie. “Then you had to wait,” she says. “Growing up Catholic, you always had to wait for everything.”

    Ricotta pie has to settle, she says, the way a cheesecake does — it’s better the next day. On Easter Sunday after church, a slice of citrus-scented, creamy, custardy pie was the reward for patience. A percolator on the stove filled the air with the smell of good coffee.

    Then her father would get out his homemade anisette, Galliano, and other liqueurs, to be sipped from cordial glasses.

    Marseglia lives in North Truro now, but she still makes her pie only around the Easter season. She learned her mother’s method for a very simple version. “But I like to study cookbooks,” she says. Her updates started with a recipe she found in The Cooking of Italy, from the old Time Life Foods of the World series published in 1968. There’s nothing else like that rich, sweet pasta frolla crust, she says. “It’s just delicious.”

    The filling has continued to evolve. Instead of candied citron, she uses fresh zests. She also slips in some chocolate-dipped orange rinds.

    This prize-winning pie was made truly special by a gift from a local farmer. Marseglia volunteers at the Truro Swap Shop on Saturday mornings. A couple of weeks ago, fellow volunteer Nancy Fenichel came in and announced, “I have a treat for you.” It was a basket of goose eggs. “It seemed to be almost all yolk, and I think is the equivalent of at least two hens’ eggs,” says Marseglia.

    A goose egg is not required to make this pie a winner.

    Carolina Marseglia’s Ricotta Pie

    Makes one 9-inch pie

    Ricotta pie is an Easter tradition in Italy. (Photo by Beth O’Rourke)

    For the pasta frolla crust:
    2 cups flour
    ¼ cup sugar
    ½ tsp. salt
    12 Tbsp. butter
    4 egg yolks
    3 Tbsp. dry Marsala
    1 tsp. grated lemon rind

    For the filling:
    5 cups (2½ lbs.) ricotta cheese
    ½ cup sugar
    1 Tbsp. flour
    ½ tsp. salt
    1 tsp. vanilla extract
    1 tsp. grated orange rind
    4 egg yolks
    1 Tbsp. golden raisins
    1 Tbsp. candied orange peel

    For the top:
    2 Tbsp. slivered blanched almonds or pine nuts
    1 egg white + 1 Tbsp. water

    Heat the oven to 350o F. Lightly butter a 9-inch springform pan.

    For the crust, in a mixing bowl, combine the flour, sugar, and salt. Cut in the butter, and stir in the yolks, the marsala, and the lemon rind. Gently roll out the pastry and line the springform pan with it. There will be enough dough to make cutouts or lattices to weave on top.

    Combine the filling ingredients and mix well. Spoon it into the pastry crust. Sprinkle the top with almonds or pine nuts and add lattice or cutouts of the excess pasta frolla, brushing it with the egg and water mixture. Bake for 1 to 1¼ hours until golden and filling is just set.

    First Pie Ever Award: Michaela Chesin

    A reporter for this newspaper, Michaela Chesin arrived at the March 9 editorial meeting smelling of bourbon. Her colleagues worried as she set a foil-covered oval baking dish in front of them.

    Who needs a pie pan? Pecan pie made in an oval baking dish tastes just fine. (Photo by Teresa Parker)

    “This is my first pie,” said Chesin, whose bourbon pecan pie won in the First Pie Ever division. Pitches and assignments were made. But soon enough, the pie, with its boozy aroma, distracted the team’s efforts.

    “Is it time to judge the pie?” someone asked. And in a few minutes, it was gone. For a while, deadlines were forgotten and a contented mood ruled the room.

    “Well, that was more fun than I thought,” Chesin said, victorious. She had almost given up before she started because the furnished rental she lives in did not come with a pie pan. But she improvised. “It turns out an oval works just fine,” she said.

    Next, Chesin said, she got stressed out about the prospect of making her own crust. For help, she turned to Betty Crocker. “There’s no shame in a store-bought crust,” said Indie food writer and pie judge Katherine Alford. If you’re going to cheat, Alford added, a mix is the way to go.

    Memories of her brother Jordan’s rich and gooey pecan pies inspired Chesin’s direction for her first pie ever. Studying recipes online, she zeroed in on a New York Times recipe by Julia Reed. She made a few adjustments, though. “The Times called for two tablespoons of bourbon, but I bought a nip,” Chesin said, “and — what the heck.”

    She liked one reader’s suggestion, which gave the finished pie its fetching aroma. “I like to soak pecans in bourbon while I am preparing the pie … and layer them on top,” someone named Mark had written. “Don’t forget to finish off the bourbon to eliminate waste.”

    Michaela Chesin with her first pie ever — a winner for improvisation and flavor.

    A Beginner’s Bourbon Pecan Pie

    For the crust:
    Betty Crocker Pie Crust Mix. (“Maybe next time I’ll try the real deal,” said Chesin.)

    For the filling:
    3 eggs
    1 cup sugar
    ½ cup light corn syrup
    ½ cup dark corn syrup
    1/3 cup unsalted butter
    One “nip” bottle of bourbon
    1¼ tsp. vanilla extract
    ¼ tsp. salt
    1¼ cups pecans

    Optional: an additional ¼ cup of pecans, soaked in a few more tablespoons of bourbon, as a garnish.

    Preheat oven to 375o F. Melt the butter. Beat the eggs and add the sugar, corn syrups, melted butter, bourbon, vanilla, and salt. Mix well.

    Roll out the pie crust and settle it into a 9-inch pie shell, or a baking dish somewhere near that size. Prick the sides and bottom of the pie shell with a fork at half-inch intervals, then spread the pecans on the bottom.

    Pour the filling mixture over the pecans and bake 35 to 45 minutes, until the filling is just set around the edges but still slightly loose in the center. The pie will continue to set as it cools.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Colcannon Made With Kale

    A buttery mash of potatoes and greens for St. Patrick’s Day

    By

    When my sister-in-law and brother invited Christopher and me to join them on a hiking trip across Ireland’s Dingle Peninsula, you might be surprised to know, I didn’t say yes right away. I was dubious because hiking with Kristina and Brit would also mean hiking with our nephew Max. And although he already had a passport, Max wasn’t even a year old. When I’d laid eyes on him for the first time a few months earlier, Max was about the size of a basketball, smelled like goat cheese, and expressed his needs vigorously.

    But we’re always up for an adventure.

    A few days into our journey, we had one of those days that can inspire whining. We had missed our turn onto a designated sheep path earlier in the day, now darkness was falling, and we weren’t sure we were in the right place. We were all tired, cold, hungry, and cranky. All except Max, who’d been riding contentedly all week in his super high-tech baby backpack.

    Although it’s most often made with cabbage, colcannon made with kale turns out beautifully bright and fresh tasting. (Photo by Edouard Fontenot)

    We headed into the pub marked on our map, and, settling ourselves next to a smoky but romantic peat fire, we ordered our first pints of the evening. This being Ireland, the bartender looked familiar. His name was Oisin (pronounced “O-seen”). And his brother lived in Boston.

    On this trip, Christopher and I came to realize that so great is Ireland’s contribution to the New England gene pool that everyone there looks vaguely familiar.

    “We’ve boiled bacon and cabbage, or sausages with colcannon tonight,” said Oisin. We knew to order the daily specials. Those times we didn’t, we regretted it, as we saw golden cottage pies or grilled north Atlantic fish served at neighboring tables. None of us knew what colcannon was, but we ordered it anyway. “Oh, that’s the good choice.” Oisin winked.

    Halfway through our second Guinness, he set before us gorgeous plates of pork sausages braised in beer and herbs, served alongside an electric-green dollop of buttery mashed potatoes and, in this case, finely chopped kale with some spring onions tossed in for good measure. Colcannon created a perfect bed for the juicy sausages. After eating our fill, we found it hard to abandon our place before the fire. Jameson all around!

    Colcannon gets its name from the Irish Gaelic for white-headed cabbage and, I’ve since learned, the dish is most often made with cabbage rather than kale. If there are leftovers, they can be shaped into three-inch cakes, dredged in flour, fried in a skillet until they’re brown on both sides, and served alongside eggs.

    Colcannon is working people’s food — cheap and easy to pull together. But for us it’s a reminder of a cozy kind of luxury. We had it a couple of other times during our trip but never enjoyed it quite as much as that first time, warming ourselves by Oisin’s peat fire, with Max sleeping contentedly in his contraption.

    Just before serving, make a hollow in the top of the colcannon and let a knob of melting butter be the garnish. (Photo by Olga Lepeshkina)

    Colcannon With Kale

    Serves 6

    2 lbs. floury potatoes such as russets, peeled and cut into large chunks
    1½ lbs. kale (or cabbage or another sturdy green)
    2 spring onions or 4 scallions, sliced fine
    4 Tbsp. unsalted butter, plus additional for serving
    1 cup half-and-half or milk
    Salt and pepper to taste

    In a pot of slowly simmering salted water, boil the potatoes until just tender.

    While the potatoes are cooking, bring 3 or 4 inches of salted water to a low boil in a large pot.  Add the kale (or other greens) using a long wooden spoon to turn it in the water until wilted. Allow the kale to cook for 3 or 4 minutes, then drain.

    Once it is cool enough to handle, wrap the kale in a dishcloth and twist to remove as much liquid as possible. Chop the kale fine.

    Bring the cream or milk to a low simmer along with the butter and the spring onions. When the butter is melted, remove from heat and allow to steep about 5 minutes.

    When the potatoes are tender, drain them well and return to the pot. Turn the heat to low and allow the potatoes to dry out for a few minutes. Mash the potatoes until smooth. Fold in the kale and then add the milk and butter mixture.

    Mix well, add salt and pepper to taste, and, just before serving, make a well in the colcannon for a small knob of butter to melt on top.

    THE ESSENTIALS

    Hugo Rizzoli’s Classic Marinara

    An artist rediscovers his grandmother’s elemental tomato sauce

    By

    It all started with the savory scent of slowly cooking garlic drifting up the street from Ciro and Sal’s restaurant. Working that summer of 1978 as a painter’s assistant in Provincetown, Hugo was almost always hungry. And it was almost always around 3:30 when the chefs and line cooks showed up to prep for dinner that the aroma began its daily crescendo. But who could afford to eat out?

    Hugo started cooking in earnest. In the kitchen of the rented house he shared with a band of other hopeful artists and writers who worked as day laborers, he drew on what he remembered from home.

    “I cooked what I knew,” my husband recalls. “And it always started with marinara, whether it was going to be pasta, chicken, or more pasta.”

    He worked from recollected flavor, and from the impressive sight of his grandmother, known as Z’Italia, at the stove. An immense angel in a white apron, she presided over the best food he knew. He was her ready helper and kitchen companion — as Z’Italia rarely left her domain.

    Hugo’s Neapolitan grandmother, Z’Italia, visiting the Jersey Shore around 1960. (Photo courtesy Hugo Rizzoli)

    Naturally, Hugo’s cooking was a hit with his Provincetown roommates, as it was decades later with our family. Our kids grew up with the aroma of garlic and tomatoes luring them from homework to kitchen. No one could make marinara like Hugo.

    Yet, to be honest, we all took it for granted — until a few years ago. Grown and on their own, Lucy, Amanda, and Ethan missed it. And when they launched a book project aimed at helping people cook better and spend less, they realized Hugo’s marinara was an essential recipe.

    Hugo’s directions went like this: “First, don’t burn the garlic! Also, use the best tomatoes you can get.” Then, he said, “It’s all in the hand.”

    The “best tomatoes” means the reddest, and, at this time of year, canned. But that last inscrutable directive, I learned by observation, is a matter of style. Hugo believes in slowly cooking the garlic in the oil and slowly stirring and combining ingredients. Tasting as you go, I learned, is part of it.

    When the kids’ project began to take shape as a book, they signed Hugo on as a coauthor. They did it out of love, I’m sure, but also for his marinara. Hugo, they have come to appreciate, is a source of many culinary secrets.

    True marinara is not spaghetti sauce or ragu or American marinara. This “quick sauce,” as Neapolitans call it, can be made while you cook the pasta. It centers on garlic, olive oil, tomato, and a pinch of herbs. The flavor is gentle and bright, not at all like a long-cooked, meat-infused sauce. Authentic regional variations include carrot, onion, capers, parsley, celery, olives, chile peppers, and anchovies.

    In other words, this sauce is elemental.

    Spurred by running a perpetual kitchen in the depths of our recent plague, I took Hugo’s marinara and ran with it. I see it now as a template for fish or shellfish, ravioli, eggplant or chicken parmigiana, lasagna, pizza, and bread soup, and, of course, as a sauce for spaghetti. It also makes an excellent flavor base for minestrone, ratatouille, and squid stew. Add cream to marinara for a romantic pink sauce to celebrate the first day of spring, a birthday, or Mother’s Day.

    Classic marinara with spaghetti. (Photo by Lucy Holland)

    Hugo’s Classic Marinara

    Makes 7 servings

    3 Tbsp. olive oil
    2 large garlic cloves, lightly smashed
    1 28-ounce can whole tomatoes, preferably Italian and unsalted
    Salt and pepper
    Big pinch of dried basil or oregano
    Optional garnish: fresh basil

    Place oil in a large saucepan and turn heat to medium. When the oil shimmers, add the garlic cloves, turn the heat immediately to low, and stir for 2-3 minutes, until the cloves just begin to turn golden. Take care that they don’t burn!

    Slowly add the tomatoes, starting with a large kitchen spoonful of tomato and juices. Cut and crush the tomato into the oil with the spoon. Cook for a minute before adding the remaining tomatoes and juice, crushing the tomatoes gently as you go. Stir in salt and pepper to taste, and a pinch of basil or oregano.

    Bring the sauce to a slow bubble and partly cover the pan. Simmer for about 15 minutes. You can further crush the garlic cloves against the side of the pan if you wish or remove them. Give a final stir, taste for salt and pepper, and serve — at about 50 cents a serving.

    Recipe adapted from The $5 Foodie: Cook Better, Spend Less, Enjoy More by Lucy Holland, Carol Rizzoli, Ethan Eron, Amanda Eron, and Hugo Rizzoli.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Homemade Garlic Sausage, Spiked With Cognac and a Pinch of Nutmeg

    Memories of a small-town butcher shop inspire a kitchen project for a winter weekend

    By

    Light fluffy snow swirls brightly as I head out for a walk on the rail bed where I see lots of coyote tracks. When I get back to the frost-covered cottage, my face feels frozen and my fingers tingle in too-thin gloves. It’s finally the right weekend to stay in and take on the winter project that’s been on my mind since early fall: sausage.

    Sausage is a primary food group in south Louisiana where I come from. When I was a kid, most towns there had mom-and-pop grocery stores with butchers who produced incredibly high quality fresh and smoked sausages. My family patronized Johnson’s Grocery and Meat Market in Eunice, where Mr. Wallace was in charge. (Wallace was his given name; in Louisiana we kids addressed adults we knew well by their first names, but always with an honorific on the front end. Just call me Mr. Ed.) The old-fashioned store is gone now, but Mr. Wallace’s sausage was such a fixture at my grandparents’ house that I mentioned it in my grandmother’s funeral sermon.

    I’ve never had finer sausage in my life. I don’t eat a ton of sausage these days because it’s hard to find anything like it. Every year, I talk about making my own. This year, I’m determined to do it.

    I want a partner for my project, and I know my nephew Kyle, who lives in Somerville, will be the perfect confederate if I can lure him to Truro for the weekend. In his day job he’s a systems engineer working on The Next Big Thing. But in his heart of hearts what he really wants is to be a neighborhood butcher with a counter like Mr. Wallace’s. He would know all his customers and provide them with high-quality meats from humanely raised animals and waste nothing, nose to tail. I’ve never seen Kyle sparkle like when he’s contemplating how to use an odd cut of meat from his local meat share or discussing varieties of sausage. The boy loves his wurst.

    Garlic and wine sausages make a marvelous meaty ingredient in cassoulet — the slow-roasted bean stew from the south of France. Here, a cassoulet topped with breadcrumbs is ready to go in the oven. When it’s done, the top will be crusty and dark.

    When I call, it turns out that Kyle has cassoulet on his mind. Cassoulet is that sumptuously meaty bean stew from the south of France — and it requires a specific kind of garlic pork sausage. That becomes our organizing principle. On Friday we finish our research and assemble our tools and ingredients. On Saturday we embark on the sausage adventure. On Sunday family and friends will come to a Sunday supper of tarbais beans (the traditional white bean used for cassoulet) stewed with duck and our homemade sausage.

    The formula for the sausage is simple: pork, garlic, wine, and black pepper. Following Paula Wolfert in her The Cooking of Southwest France, I also include nutmeg and just a bit of cognac. While the ingredient list is short, the sausage — like all sausages — relies on specific ratios of ingredients and a few techniques for success.

    The right fat-to-meat ratio is crucial. I had read you need about 30 percent fat. With less, you get mealy, tough results. A consultation with the butcher at Friends’ Market in Orleans confirmed that pork shoulder would do the trick nicely.

    Beyond the right proportions and flavorings, a happy marriage of meat and fat requires that the sausage ingredients be kept refrigerator-cold throughout the process. This avoids what charcutiers call “the smear,” a sad turn of events in which the mixture is not extruded cleanly from the grinder, and the meat and fat do not remain distinct.

    As Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn note in Charcuterie, their book on the craft of sausage making and other salty, fatty, smoky pleasures, properly ground sausage should look like good ground beef.

    After grinding, the meat is transformed by mixing in a liquid (in this case red wine and cognac), and kneading. The kneading binds the meat by developing the protein, not unlike what happens when bread dough is kneaded, and ensures a uniform texture. A sturdy mixer with dedicated attachments for grinding and mixing is an invaluable tool in home sausage making.

    The writer’s nephew Kyle Anstey is his partner in a winter sausage-to-cassoulet weekend. (Photos by Edouard Fontenot)

    Kyle and I start early on Saturday. We know we might be a bit out over our skis on this one, particularly with guests coming on Sunday. But soon we’re trimming and seasoning the meat. We allow it to chill, and, while it does, there’s time to discuss the history of American anarchism and the finer points of powerlifting.

    The grind goes without a hitch, though we have to stop twice to clean the grinding die of accumulated sinew. The meat looks perfect and we’re pumped.

    Using the paddle of the mixer, we emulsify the meat and the wine. Now is the moment of truth: Kyle fries three small patties of sausage in a skillet. We call Christopher into the kitchen for a taste. The meat is tender and juicy, the flavors of garlic and wine lingering on the backside of the chew. We wait. Christopher declares it delicious. High five!

    Next, we rinse the natural hog casings (we ordered them online) and make the links. Stuffing requires a gentle touch, and four hands are better than two. Kyle feeds knobs of sausage into the hopper, careful not to crowd the piston. I catch the filled casing as it springs off the tube, guiding and coaxing it into a consistent size and shape. Then we twist the sausage into six-inch links and hang them in the cold basement to dry out and tighten.

    Sunday supper starts early. The sparkling wine is poured just as the south Truro sky lights up with oranges and purples as it sometimes does. The assembled company agrees that the hearty cassoulet is deeply comforting on a cold winter evening. And while we may never have our own meat counter, Kyle and I savor the satisfactions of our teamwork, of feeding family and friends, and of the chance to pay tribute to Mr. Wallace.

    Toulouse-Style Pork Sausage

    Makes about 20 sausages

    Toulouse-style sausages seasoned with salt and pepper, nutmeg, garlic, red wine, and a little cognac.

    5 lbs. boneless fatty pork shoulder
    About 3 Tbsp. kosher salt
    About 1 Tbsp. fresh ground black pepper
    About 1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
    About 3 Tbsp. minced garlic
    2 Tbsp. cognac
    1 cup minus 2 Tbsp. dry red wine, chilled
    10 feet hog casings, soaked in tepid water for 30 minutes and rinsed

    Cut the pork into half-inch dice. (When dicing, remove as much silverskin and sinew as possible to avoid clogging the grinder.) Toss the meat with salt, pepper, nutmeg, and garlic until evenly mixed. Cover and refrigerate until the mixture is thoroughly chilled, at least 2 hours.  Alternatively, place the diced shoulder in the freezer for about 30 minutes until cold and a bit stiff but not frozen.

    Grind the cold seasoned pork through the small die of the grinder into a bowl set in ice to keep it cold. Feed the pieces of shoulder into the hopper of the grinder slowly, being careful not to overcrowd the mechanism as it pulls the meat slowly forward. If the grinder begins to strain or if the meat stops looking crumbly, stop the machine and clean the die.

    Once the meat is ground, use the paddle attachment of the mixer (or, if you have a very strong arm, you can do this by hand) to mix on the lowest speed for one minute. Add the chilled wine and cognac and increase the mixing speed to medium. Mix for an additional minute or until the liquid is incorporated and the meat looks sticky.

    Fry a bite-sized portion of the sausage in a small skillet to taste for seasonings (make sure to keep the rest of the sausage on ice or in the refrigerator). Add any additional seasonings if needed and remix to incorporate.

    The sausage is now ready and may be cooked in patty form or stuffed into the casing.

    To make the links, rinse the inside of the soaked hog casings under the faucet. Remove the die and grinding mechanism from the grinder and replace with the stuffing nozzle. Slide the entire casing onto the nozzle attachment (water helps it to slide on more easily). With the mixer running, slowly drop pinches of the sausage into the hopper. It helps to have two people at this stage — one to drop in the sausage and the other to handle the filled casing.

    Once the casings are completely filled, twist into links by pinching the sausage 6 inches from the end and twisting in one direction. Pinch off another 6-inch link without twisting. Twist the third link in the opposite direction and continue this pattern for the entire length of the sausage. Or you can tie the links off with butcher’s string.

    Hang the sausages in a cool place for 4-8 hours (the colder it is, the longer you can hang them). Once they have dried a bit, refrigerate until needed. They will keep for at least a week in the refrigerator or frozen for up to two months. If you intend to freeze the sausage, wait a day before doing so. This will tighten them up and help them keep their shape.

    The recipe Edouard and Kyle adapted for the cassoulet is published with this story on the Indie’s website: www.provincetownindependent.org.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Soup for Breakfast, Abroad and at Home

    What to do when you cannot face another bowl of oatmeal

    By

    I head downstairs for breakfast, round the corner of the first-floor landing, and find myself eyeball to eyeball with a water buffalo. Clearly, I’m not in Truro anymore. The buffalo is standing stock still, surrounded by emerald green, and staring intently. I stare back, unsure of the local etiquette.

    It’s 2018 and I’m in Vietnam at a guest house that stands adjacent to a rice field. I’m waiting for my brother, Brit, to arrive in Danang. In the meantime, I’m visiting Hoi An, a small city south of there, at the mouth of the Thu Bon River.

    Hoi An reminds me a little of Provincetown. First settled in the 7th century, Hoi An is a fishing village that has had to remake itself many times over. Like Provincetown, it has a sparkly main drag — because of lanterns that line the streets each evening rather than drag queens, but still.

    Brit has been chosen by the State Dept. to be a fellow of the Young Southeast Asia Leadership Institute. The year before, he’d spent a month scootering from meeting to meeting in Myanmar. As soon as I heard he was going to Vietnam, I began my campaign for an invitation to tag along.

    I wanted to see and understand Vietnam beyond childhood memories of hushed conversations and television images of helicopters and jungles. But that’s not the primary reason I wanted to go. My adult life hasn’t presented many opportunities to spend one-on-one time with my brother. I still hold tightly to the memory of a cross-country road trip we took when we were young. It involved back-country camping, fishing, dive-bar drinking, a bear encounter, and a couple of hours clinging to the side of a cliff during a freak windstorm.

    The writer discovered soup for breakfast on a 2018 trip to Vietnam with his brother, Brit Fontenot.

    And so here I am, bidding my first good morning to Vietnam. Conceding the staring contest to the buffalo, I continue down to breakfast. In the little dining room, I meet the amiable guest house owner who serves as bellman and waiter and everything else, as far as I can tell. He asks me whether my room is comfortable. It is. He wonders where I am visiting from, and, for the briefest moment, I freeze. “The United States,” I finally say, feeling surprisingly awkward. He responds enthusiastically. Yes, he knows of Boston and its universities. No, he did not realize that a large Vietnamese community thrived in Boston or that pho is a popular dish in many parts of the U.S.

    He tells me how his family came to live in Hoi An after “the American War.” He says it so casually that for a heartbeat I’m puzzled: which American war? But, of course, it’s that war, and of course it’s called the American War here.

    I settle in at my table overlooking the rice field, trying to sort through the excitement and anxiety I feel at being here. My host brings breakfast: a steaming bowl of fragrant broth and rice noodles, piled high with chopped herbs.

    “Pho?” I ask. No, says my host, calling it by another name not previewed in my Rosetta Stone language course. The steam carries meaty aromas with flashes of citrus, onion, and anise. Poking out of the broth are fried patties, which turn out to be fish cakes. Scattered throughout the bowl are tomatoes and scallions along with the herbs. The broth is light and fresh.

    The rice field, the buffalo, the American war, and the flavors of the soup swirling though my mind, I ask my host whether I might have a little more. I gather from his reaction that this is unusual. But hey, the bowl is small.

    Over the next three weeks, I begin every day with a bowl of breakfast soup, usually with my brother, unless he has a morning meeting. Some, like this first bowl, are versions of bun cha ca, the fish cake and rice noodle soup that’s ubiquitous on Vietnam’s central coast. But there were many other varieties as well, each more intriguing and delicious than the last.

    Back in Truro, with a cold rain coming down in dreary sheets, I pull out the tin of oatmeal and it seems just about as dreary as the day. I’m longing for something bright to warm me, and the trip to Vietnam comes to mind. A steaming, fragrant bowl of breakfast soup is what I need.

    I start at the site Ang Cooks, where I’ve scored some great Vietnamese recipes. It quickly becomes clear that a batch of bun cha ca would take more time and ingredients than I have right now. Lukas Volger’s Bowl offers an easier alternative —a Japanese-style ramen with a quick dashi broth. The first time I make the soup it takes me 45 minutes, but since then I’ve created a system: I prep the broth, noodles, eggs, and veggies the night before, and come morning I can be slurping down my breakfast after only a 10-minute effort.

    The recipe relies on dashi, a broth that is the starting point for many Japanese-style soups. It’s a combination of kombu (dried seaweed) and katsuobushi (dried smoked bonito flakes), both of which can usually be found at Stop & Shop and always from various online sites. Stock up; they keep forever in the cupboard.

    In addition to the broth, the noodles, and the jammy egg, any kind of leftover blanched vegetable works in the dish — this recipe calls for spinach, but think green beans, snow peas, broccoli, or carrots. A cooked shrimp or two or a few cubes of firm tofu wouldn’t be out of place here, either. The dish can be made vegan by omitting the bonito flakes and egg.

    Soup for Breakfast

    Serves 4

    For the dashi:
    2 quarts water
    1 oz. dried kombu
    1 oz. dried bonito flakes

    An aromatic bowl of hot soup will pick you up on a dreary day. (Photos by Edouard Fontenot)

    The noodles and garnishes:
    28 oz. precooked, vacuum-sealed udon noodles or 12 ounces dried udon noodles
    1 tsp. sesame oil
    8 oz. fresh spinach, washed and trimmed
    4 large eggs
    2 scallions, trimmed and thinly sliced
    4 tsp. sesame seeds

    For the broth:
    2 Tbsp. sesame oil plus extra for drizzling
    4 garlic cloves, peeled and grated
    2-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and grated
    4 cups dashi (or vegetable stock)
    ¼ cup shoyu or other soy sauce
    1 Tbsp. mirin or sake
    2 tsp. salt
    2 tsp. granulated sugar

    Prepare the dashi up to a week ahead. Bring 2 quarts of water and the kombu to a low simmer in a medium saucepan. Remove from heat, add the bonito flakes, cover, and allow to sit for about 5 minutes. Strain out the solids (which can be used again for a second batch of milder dashi).

    Prepare the noodles and garnishes. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add the noodles and cook until just tender. Drain and rinse the noodles in cold water to stop the cooking, then rinse again. Toss the noodles with a teaspoon of sesame oil to prevent them from sticking. The noodles may be prepared up to two days ahead and stored covered in the refrigerator.

    At the market in Hoi An, ingredients for soup, including ginger, garlic, and greens.

    Rinse the pot and bring an inch of fresh water to a boil, then add the spinach. Cook for about 60 seconds, until the leaves are wilted but still bright green. Drain and rinse the spinach in cold water to stop the cooking. Squeeze out as much liquid as possible, then squeeze the spinach into a ball and slice. The spinach (or other vegetables) may be prepared up to two days ahead and refrigerated.

    Next, add a few inches of water to a small pot and bring it a boil. Carefully add the eggs, then reduce the heat to keep the water at a gentle simmer for 8 minutes for a just-set yolk. Remove the eggs and plunge them into cold water. These may be prepared up to 2 days ahead and refrigerated.

    At breakfast time, make the broth by sautéing the grated garlic and ginger in 2 tablespoons of sesame oil for about 30 seconds. Add the remaining broth ingredients and an additional 2 cups of water. Let the broth come to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer it gently for about 10 minutes.

    Assemble the soup by dividing the noodles among 4 large bowls. Peel and slice the eggs in half lengthwise and place on top of the noodles. Add the spinach or other vegetables. Ladle the hot broth over the noodles and garnish with a drizzle of sesame oil, sesame seeds, and scallions.

    FROM THE SNACKBOOK

    The Alchemy of a Steamed Sweet Potato

    A fluffy, custardy new companion for the season of comfort food

    By

    I don’t know about you, but it’s going to take me a while to remember what true wanderlust feels like. The last two years, painful and disorienting as they have been, have seen most of us lean hard into comfort and familiarity, both in our daily activities and our cooking.

    So, we enter, perhaps more eagerly than we should, the season that calls for maniacally luxurious mac and cheese and stews laden with meat and wine. For me, it means anything I can smother with gravy, even though this instinct never really aligns with the idea that the new year is a time to reset and refine, both mentally and physically.

    Last month, we set out on a road trip to visit my mother in New Mexico, trying our best to eat and drink both well and safely along the way. It was nice to be out in the world again, seeing the hills and valleys, the rivers and lakes, the dive bars and convenience stores. It was also weird in some ways. It’s been a long time since I took a drive across America, and it’s gotten intense out there.

    We did find the best turnip greens I’ve ever eaten in Little Rock, Ark.; perfectly baked fish in an Oxford, Miss. meat-and-three; and enough good bourbon to last the winter (probably). As always, near the end of a trip like this, I found myself eager to get home. I was ready to sleep in our bed, cook our own meals, and recognize the folks in the grocery store.

    While we drove (you kind of can’t imagine how long that drive is), we listened to podcasts — mostly about either food or movies. At some point, in episode 10 of her podcast “Home Cooking,” Samin Nosrat, the author of the amazing cookbook Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking, recommended that we all start steaming sweet potatoes. She admitted that she had almost always roasted sweet potatoes in slices until they go brown and crisp at the edges, but that trying this method once had made her a believer.

    Steaming is not the sexiest cooking method. We usually think of it as a punishment, like a juice cleanse or calorie-counting. But I am here to tell you that Samin is right. An alchemy occurs when you steam a sweet potato that makes it both fluffy and custardy at the same time. The flavor is ultra-concentrated, the texture is ethereal, and it’s really, really hard to screw up.

    There are only two mistakes you can make steaming sweet potatoes. The first: undercooking the potatoes — depending on the size of the potato, they should take somewhere between 30 and 50 minutes. Longer is better; it takes a lot to over-steam a potato, and you want these to be completely soft. The second: scorching your pot, which is exactly what I did the first time I made these. Keep a kettle nearby to top up the steaming water when you check on the potatoes.

    The fact that you haven’t imparted any fat in the cooking process gives you a little extra wiggle room with the acceptable decadence of your topping. The first time I made these, I creamed salted butter and white miso paste together, then added a little lime zest and juice. It was one of the saltiest things I’ve ever tasted, and I was afraid I messed up big-time by using salted butter in addition to the salty miso.

    But then, we slathered our steamed sweet potatoes with it, and the balance between the unbelievably sweet, tender flesh, the umami blast of the butter, and the acidic zip of the lime made all three of my dinner companions look solemnly at me and say, “Dude, these sweet potatoes.”

    Has anyone ever said that about your sweet potatoes? No? Well, it’s a new year, darlings. Don’t punish yourselves with a juice cleanse — steam a sweet potato and find a new comfort food.

    Has anyone ever said, “Dude, these sweet potatoes” about your sweet potatoes before? The writer has a way to make that happen for you. (Photo by Rebecca Orchant)

    Steamed Sweet Potatoes With Miso-Lime Butter

    Serves 2

    2 sweet potatoes
    1 Tbsp. white miso paste
    1 Tbsp. salted butter, softened completely
    Zest of 1 lime
    Juice of ½ lime
    Roasted sesame seeds* and cilantro for garnish

    Steam sweet potatoes in a bamboo steamer or steamer basket (or just a metal colander set into a pot it fits in) for 30 to 50 minutes, or until completely fork tender all the way through. After 30 minutes, check on them every 10 minutes or so.

    Mix the butter and miso paste together until well combined and fluffy. Add the lime zest and juice.

    To serve, carefully split the hot potatoes open, top with lime butter, sesame seeds, and cilantro.

    *I keep a container of roasted sesame seeds in my fridge at all times — I usually find them in the Asian foods aisle of my supermarket. If you can’t find them, you can just toast regular sesame seeds in a pan until they just start to brown and smell toasty. But watch them carefully — they burn really easily!

    KITCHEN TABLE

    Mexico’s Earthy, Smoky, Special Sauce

    Eduardo Rios simmers the mole his mother used to make

    By

    Eduardo Rios isn’t sure what he’ll be roasting for Christmas dinner. It might be a turkey. Or if he can find one, maybe a big fillet of cod. What he does know is that it will be settled into a mole — the smoky, sweet, spicy, special-occasion sauce of his home country.

    Rios is the chef at Spindler’s in Provincetown, where his “sabores de México” menu is a Wednesday night ritual that attracts those who feel acutely the distance between this place and a real tamale or tortilla. But even on other nights, if you are feeling especially deprived of warmth, and if Rios happens to have some on hand, you might be lucky enough to get a ladleful of mole alongside your grilled octopus.

    Rios’s mother ran a breakfast and lunch stand at the Mercado de San Juan de Dios in Guadalajara, where he grew up. “There were eight of us,” he says, “but I was the one who at seven years old wanted to get up at five o’clock in the morning to help my mother make menudo, tamales, and enchiladas.”

    The family had moved west from Mexico City to Guadalajara when he was young because his mother was from there and she wanted to be closer to her parents. Cuisines range widely across the huge and varied landscapes of Mexico, he says. But the main thing is that his city is a place “where people still enjoy sitting down to eat.”

    There are many moles across Mexico. This one is a version from Puebla, with ancho chiles and chocolate. (Photo Marcos Elihu Castillo Ramírez)

    In the capital’s distrito federal, he says, people are too busy to sit down anymore. “They’re on the move,” he says, “walking down the street eating their little bags of chapulines — crickets, you know.” Toasted grasshoppers, actually, seasoned with garlic, lime juice, chiles, and salt, say a crowd of American food authorities who seem anxious to prove their culinary adventurousness.

    The slow pace of a mole suits Rios just fine.

    “In Mexico, you might make it two or three times a year — for Christmas or for New Year’s Eve, or for an important birthday,” Rios says. But he starts a batch every Tuesday for the Wednesday night menu at Spindler’s.

    There are hundreds of versions of mole, but most involve toasting spices and nuts, charring vegetables, and long, slow simmering. A good mole surprises bite by bite, revealing layers of flavors from cloves and cinnamon to pumpkin and sesame seeds, raisins, and a good grating of dark chocolate.

    “The secret,” says Rios, “the thing that makes a truly good mole, is the caldo — the stock.”

    At 20, Rios came to the U.S., landing in Santa Fe, N.M. At least it was a chile-loving place.

    “I was passionate about food,” he says. “But I got a job washing dishes.” He liked being in restaurants and made a point of hanging around the kitchen, offering to help, until, exasperated, one boss let him start cooking.

    Cooking has taken him to Los Angeles and to Boston. And, about four years ago, he heard about a job on the Cape. He knew something about Cape Cod. “I grew up listening to stories about this extraordinary man, John F. Kennedy,” he says. “I had always planned to retrace his steps.”

    It’s also put him in kitchens learning French, Italian, and Japanese repertories.

    “I love to read about food, too,” he says. But, in the end, “I really owe so much to my mother. Thinking about her moles,” he says, and then he stops.

    “Mexican food is exquisite.”

    Mole Poblano

    Makes about one quart

    Eduardo Rios takes a break on the patio at Spindler’s. (Photo Agata Storer)

    1 sweet onion
    3 small tomatoes
    3 cloves garlic
    ¾ cup canola oil
    2 stale corn tortillas
    1 slice white bread
    ½ cup almonds
    2 Tbsp. sesame seeds
    2 dried ancho chiles
    2 dried mulato chiles
    2 dried pasilla chiles
    ¼ cup raisins
    4-5 prunes
    2-3 dried apricots
    ½ stick cinnamon
    3-4 whole cloves
    2-3 allspice berries
    2 pods star anise
    A pinch each of thyme, marjoram, and oregano
    1 bay leaf
    ½ cup finely chopped Mexican chocolate
    About 2 quarts chicken stock
    Salt and pepper to taste

    Roast the tomatoes, onion, and garlic in a hot oven until blistered, then set aside.

    In a Dutch oven, fry the white bread and tortillas in about ½ cup oil until golden and set aside. Fry the almonds and seeds and set them aside.

    In a dry skillet, lightly toast the sesame seeds and set aside with the almonds.

    Remove the stems from the peppers and shake the seeds into the dry skillet. Add the other spices and toast them gently.

    Tear up the peppers and put them in the Dutch oven. Add the charred tomatoes, onions, and garlic, the dried fruits, the toasted spices, the herbs, and the chocolate and cover with about a quart and a half of good stock — it can be chicken, beef, or pork. Simmer very gently, allowing the stock to reduce slowly over a couple of hours, adding more stock as needed to keep everything covered.

    When the peppers are totally tender and vegetables and dried fruits melded into the broth, blend the whole mixture, including now the nuts and the fried tortilla and bread. You may need to add broth to loosen the resulting paste.

    Press the mole through a strainer, pushing through all you can. A rustic version might skip this step, but for an elegant, glossy mole, you want to discard the solids.

    Heat the remaining oil in the Dutch oven and pour the strained mole back in to refry — the nuts, bread, and tortilla will thicken the sauce. Taste and season with salt and pepper.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Homemade Granola Makes a Not-Too-Sweet Gift

    Breakfast that’s good enough to eat for dessert

    By

    Several years ago, we attended a memorable dinner at the famed New York restaurant Eleven Madison Park. This was before Covid shut down the world, and before the restaurant raised eyebrows by reinventing itself as vegan. Our usual New York City haunts were modest neighborhood restaurants like the now-closed Red Cat in Chelsea. But on this particular evening we were raised into the culinary stratosphere, invited by our friend Joe Yonan, who was celebrating not only a birthday but also some hard-earned success in the world of food writing.

    At the end of a meal so long that the first few courses we’d eaten had receded from memory, we were each offered a mason jar of granola for breakfast the next day. I couldn’t help opening it. The granola was, hands down, the best I had ever tasted. I know this sounds wrong, but I looked forward to breakfast.

    Joe put me in touch with someone at the restaurant to see if they might share the recipe. They understood my need, I guess, and could not have been nicer about sending it my way.

    Now’s the time to make extra, pack it into quart jars, and add a festive ribbon.

    I’ll admit I’ve fiddled with it. I’ve tried varying the amounts of salt or oil and making other little substitutions, but only a few have become permanent changes. Yes, I really do recommend using the entire tablespoon of salt given in the original recipe, and all of the oil. This isn’t health food, but it is delicious.

    Whereas the restaurant’s recipe calls for rolled oats, I think the texture is best using both rolled and steel-cut oats. Instead of the pistachios in their version, I use pecans. Those I order every year from Sunnyland Farms in Georgia because, well, I like pecans.

    There is one quality I’m after that I still have not figured out how to achieve. On a visit this fall to Portland, Maine, our friends Charrisse and David introduced us to the granola at Big Sky Bakery. It comes in big chunks that we ate almost as if they were cookies. This, I thought, might be exactly the way granola is meant to be eaten, with tea, on a winter afternoon. Or for a not-so-sweet dessert.

    I’ve been experimenting. I’ve tried the whipped egg white method for achieving chunks but found this tends to undermine the desirable crispiness. I also followed the lead of cookbook author Laura Wright, who recommends adding ground flax seeds for clumping and crisping — an addition I’ve kept because it does give me what I would call shards, though not the cohesive chunks I yearn for.

    I’m still searching for the secret to granola chunkiness. In the meantime, I’d say this recipe is the best granola in the universe. And you need it now because it’s perfect for packing in Mason jars à la Eleven Madison Park to offer as holiday gifts.

    It’s impossible to mess this up, and it is easily doubled or tripled. Substitute other kinds of nuts or dried fruits, depending on your preferences (and the robustness of the supply chain). To achieve modest clumps (though still not my dream chunks), resist the urge to stir the granola as it cooks, and allow it to cool, undisturbed, on the baking trays. Make sure it’s fully cooled before you pack it into quart jars.

    This salty, nutty granola might be the best granola in the universe. Health food it’s not. (Photos Edouard Fontenot)

    Wiley Cottage Christmas Granola

    Makes about 3 quarts

    1¾ cups rolled oats
    1 cup steel-cut oats
    1 cup shelled pecans
    1 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
    ⅓ cup pumpkin seeds
    1 Tbsp. kosher salt
    ½ cup light brown sugar
    ⅓ cup maple syrup
    ⅓ cup extra virgin olive oil
    ¾ cup dried sour cherries

    Preheat oven to 300o F. Break the pecans into pieces.

    In a large bowl, mix together both kinds of oats, the pecans, coconut chips, pumpkin seeds, the sour cherries, and the salt.

    In a small saucepan set over low heat, warm the brown sugar, maple syrup, and olive oil until the sugar has just dissolved, then remove from heat. Fold liquids into the oat mixture, making sure to coat the dry ingredients well.

    Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat and spread granola over it. Bake until dry and lightly golden, 35 to 40 minutes, turning the tray twice during baking to cook the granola evenly.

    Remove granola from oven. Allow to cool to room temperature before breaking into shards and storing.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Jazz and Oysters Bring Two Festivals Home

    Homemade salt pork meets Wellfleet oysters for a soup from the Mosquito Supper Club

    By

    In south Louisiana, where I come from, if you can eat it or dance to it, there’s probably a festival for it. We have festivals celebrating crawfish, gumbo, catfish, soybeans, jazz, blues, rice, frogs, strawberries, zydeco, boudin, alligators, yams, po-boys, and more. I’ve been going to them for the food, the Ferris wheels, and the crowning of the Andouille Sausage Queen all my life.

    Christopher and I were set to go to New Orleans for the jazz festival right about now. But with the rise of the D variant, we sighed deeply and travel-banked our JetBlue tickets (again). At least, we thought, we’d soon be sampling Wellfleets at the OysterFest.

    When we first discovered a festival right down the road from our Truro home, and one honoring an important Louisiana food — the oyster — I knew we’d chosen the right place to settle in.

    I’ve loved watching the OysterFest evolve over the years. I am charmed by the way it mushrooms, suddenly filling the center of Wellfleet with music and art and beer and so many oysters. Even though it’s never chilly at the JazzFest in New Orleans, I look forward to the bright and chilly weather that accompanies the festival here — that’s when oysters taste best. I count on the chance to strike up conversations with a stranger while we wait, side by side, for a plate of fried oysters. I’m reminded how small the world is when the person ahead of me in the beer line knows my friend Lucy from Orleans.

    When I heard that this year’s OysterFest was canceled, I mourned the conviviality and serendipity and neighborly beer line conversation Covid has stripped from our lives.

    As usual, Christopher is practical in the face of my self-pity. He reminds me that last spring we salved our disappointment about canceling the trip to New Orleans by listening to JazzFesting-ing in Place on WWOZ, the city’s community-supported radio station, also known to folks there as “Guardian of the Groove.”

    ’OZ reached deep into its JazzFest archive and broadcast some of the best performances of the festival’s 51-year history. When Queen of Soul Irma Thomas sang her now-famous Gospel Tent tribute to Mahalia Jackson in 2011, she brought us to tears. The rebroadcast last year moved us to tears all over again.

    Christopher has a point. Cancelations be damned — we will celebrate the NOLA JazzFest and the Wellfleet OysterFest right here at Wiley Cottage.

    We print out the JazzFest-ing in Place schedule — “the cubes” as those in the know call it — and circle our favorites performers, just like we do when we’re there in person. We get out our festival chairs (you know them as beach chairs) and set up our day-drinking supplies.

    Next, I scrub 50 Wellfleet oysters so they’re ready to shuck for a pot of chef Melissa Martin’s version of her grandmother’s oyster soup. The recipe is from her cookbook, The Mosquito Supper Club, also the name of her uptown New Orleans restaurant. In this year of Truro and Wellfleet’s Ochlerotatus sollicitans infernum, her book seems like an appropriate source for the main course at our makeshift music and oyster festival.

    Martin’s recipe is designed to feed a crowd. It calls for two pounds of shucked oysters. I’m a pretty good shucker, but I’m no Chopper Young, so I halve the recipe. In order to figure out just how many oysters I actually need to shuck, I consult a Wellfleet friend and oyster shucking contest judge, Necee Regis. We decide that, for a scaled-down version, a pint of shucked oysters will be right and that about 4 dozen medium Wellfleets will give me that.

    I’ll also need about 6 cups of oyster liquor. When my four dozen oysters yield only about 2¾   cups, I use a trick from Martin’s book — I whizz four oysters in a blender with 3 cups of water to make the extra oyster-flavored liquid I need.

    Martin’s soup is nothing like a cream-based New England oyster stew. It is made, instead, with a tomato-tinged, onion-sweetened, garlic-and-cayenne-spiked broth. Still, its flavor turns on the shellfish-pork axis that will be familiar to Cape Cod oyster lovers.

    Martin gives instructions for making your own salt pork, though I’ll cop to the fact that I always get some packed with my annual sausage shipment from Best Stop in Scott, La. Her technique is easy (just make sure to prepare a few days ahead) and the extra pork will flavor a pot of beans exceptionally well.

    While I’ll have to rely on memories of those beer line conversations, I’m feeling good about our homegrown festival. In a world that seems to be tossing curveballs right and left, I’m trying to take what I have and make it special. And with Wellfleet oysters, we have the raw materials to make that easy.

    Velma Marie’s Oyster Soup

    A bowl of oyster soup from a New Orleans chef’s book brings together the best of the bayou and the bay. (Photo Edouard Fontenot)

    Serves 6

    1 Tbsp. canola oil
    4 oz. salt pork, diced
    2 lbs. yellow onions, about 4
    1 lb. ripe tomatoes, about 2
    ½ cup finely chopped garlic
    ½ tsp. freshly cracked black pepper
    1/8 tsp. cayenne pepper
    6 cups oyster liquor or fish or clam broth
    4 doz. oysters, shucked to make a pint
    Kosher salt
    4 oz. pasta shells, cooked
    ¼ cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
    ¼ cup finely diced scallion

    Shuck the oysters and drain them over a sieve, collecting their liquor in a bowl — you will want that liquor. Cook the pasta shells and set them aside. Mince the parsley and dice the scallion for the garnish.

    Warm oil over medium-high heat in a heavy-bottom pan. Dice the salt pork and cook, stirring to brown on all sides, about 10 minutes.

    Meanwhile, dice the onions, core the tomatoes, and chop the garlic. Add the onions to the salt pork in the pot and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until they are soft and translucent, about 30 minutes.

    Stir in the whole tomatoes, garlic, black pepper, and cayenne. Reduce the heat, cover, and let everything cook together, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes are completely broken down and fall apart when you press on them with a spoon, about 45 minutes.

    Add the oyster liquor and increase the heat bring the soup to a low boil, then reduce the heat again to simmer for about 45 minutes.

    Just before serving, add the oysters to the soup and let it simmer for not more than 5 minutes. Add the cooked pasta shells, then turn off the heat. Taste and add more salt or cayenne as needed.

    Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish with the parsley and green onions.

    Homemade Salt Pork

    1½ lbs. skin-on pork belly or shoulder
    1 cup kosher salt
    1 bay leaf

    Wash and dry the pork and cut into pieces that will fit into a shallow casserole dish. Working over the dish, rub the pork liberally on all sides with the salt, pressing it into the meat. Arrange the meat in the dish and cover with the remaining salt. Add the bay leaf. Wrap the casserole dish with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 2 days.

    Unwrap the dish and pour off any liquid. Use the salt in the bottom of the dish to give the pork another good rub. Rewrap and refrigerate for 2 more days. The salt pork is now ready. Whatever you’re not using immediately can be wrapped air-tight and frozen. It will will keep for up to a year.

    FROM THE SNACKBOOK

    An Umami-Rich Pasta for the Changing Season

    Don’t forget to warm up the bowl

    By

    That slight bite in the air — the one that makes you roll your shirtsleeves down, pull on a hat, and recognize the crunch of leaves as you walk — means a few very good things. First, the mosquitos will eventually die. Second, mushrooms are afoot. Third, it’s no longer a hideous proposition to boil a pot of pasta water.

    I love mushrooms, and I’m hungry for them in all seasons, but I’m especially prone to craving them in the spring and fall, when the wild ones poke their caps through pine needles, leaves, and sand, announcing the changing seasons. In spite of my enthusiasm, I’m a mostly useless mushroom forager. So far this year, my excursions have consisted of gasping at cute, certainly toxic, toadstools, batting away mosquitos, and running home to safety.

    For some people, at least, it is the season to snatch up dense boletes, meaty chicken-of-the-woods, and myriad other delights from beneath the scrub pines. If you have this gift, or if you have the gift of a reliable guide to come along on your foraging journey, you can make this recipe with almost any wild mushroom you find.

    For those slightly less intrepid, practiced, or lucky among us, this recipe feels special even with the most mundane supermarket fungi. I like to mix crimini and oyster mushrooms, but any combination you can think of will produce surprisingly flavorful results, thanks to a few key kitchen secrets that I’m about to tell you.

    First, miso butter. Once you make this for the first time, know that you will have to make a lot more of it. Buy miso that smells and tastes good to you on its own. The original version of this recipe, one of Yi Jun Lo’s on Food52, called for red miso, but when I set in to make it, I only had white, which is much mellower, so I bumped up the quantity quite a lot. The result was a lovely, creamy, umami-rich sauce with a bit of sweetness and more complexity than you’d ever expect in the mere minutes it takes to come together. This recipe is also a great reminder to keep softened butter around at all times, because you never know when you’ll want to combine it with something else.

    The other trick here is one that may permanently change your pasta serving style. You will never, ever make pasta without saving a teacup of water for the sauce, nor will you dump the pasta water before you warm your serving bowls with a few ladles full. This will prime the bowls for the meal you’re about to pile into them, and ready them to be passed into hands that need a bit of warmth after foraging for mushrooms. What a comfort for eaters who forgot to bring a sweater or are still just beginning to welcome the chill in the air.

    This pasta would be delicious with any additions — a few green peas, some grilled chicken or seafood, or simply more mushrooms than suggested. It’s hard to imagine a savory ingredient that wouldn’t thrive in this magic sauce.

    Miso Mushroom Pasta

    Miso butter is the secret to a meaty, creamy one-skillet mushroom sauce for pasta. (Photo Rebecca Orchant)

    Serves 2 for dinner, doubles easily

    7 oz. linguine or spaghetti
    8 oz. mushrooms
    2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
    1 tsp. white wine vinegar
    1 Tbsp. white miso paste
    3 Tbsp. butter, softened
    5 garlic cloves
    ½ cup heavy cream
    1 scallion, sliced fine
    Salt and pepper to taste

    Bring a large pot of salted water to a rolling boil. Cook the pasta until just under al dente (a minute less than on the package directions). Save a teacup of the pasta water and ladle a few cups into each pasta bowl to warm them up. Then, drain the pasta and reserve. Don’t worry, you’ll warm it again with a final simmer in the finished sauce.

    Chop or pull apart the mushrooms into large, bite-sized chunks. Heat a large frying pan or Dutch oven over high heat with a tablespoon of vegetable oil and sauté the mushrooms for 5 to 7 minutes until nicely browned. When they are done, add the vinegar to the pan with the mushrooms, give them a little toss, and set aside. It’s best to cook the mushrooms in 2 or 3 batches and not overcrowd the pan, to allow them to brown evenly.

    Whisk the miso paste and butter in a small bowl until it comes together to form a smooth, fluffy paste. Marvel at how good they smell mixed together.

    Add a tablespoon of oil to the pan you seared the mushrooms in, and stir-fry the minced garlic over medium heat until fragrant. Add the sautéed mushrooms. Then, add the miso-butter mixture and cream, and bring everything to a boil, stirring gently. Finally, add the cooked pasta to the sauce, as well as the cup of reserved pasta water, and stir until the pasta is well coated. Salt it to taste and cook for 1 or 2 minutes until the pasta is al dente, then remove from the heat.

    Portion the pasta into two bowls, and top with sliced scallions and fresh-cracked black pepper.

    COOK'S KITCHEN

    When a Tomato and Mayo Sandwich Takes a Trip to Tuscany

    Tomatoes, herbs, Italian cheeses, and fennel baked in a buttery crust

    By

    I am seeing red! I don’t mean because of worldly triggers — anti-vaxers, Texas, or extreme climate events. The red I’m seeing right now is the cornucopia of tomatoes on my kitchen counter.

    At tomato time, I’m like a kid at Christmas. I want to fit every expression of this sweet, tart, juicy, vibrant, plump fruit on my plate. I love them all, from the teeny yellow cherries of August to the funky heirlooms that hang on until the frost.

    Fueled with BLTs, I can loads of the plum varieties like some kind of Nona Tik Tok. Charred tomatoes get smushed into spicy salsas, and stir-fried tomatoes with eggs provide quick comfort. There are simple pastas tossed with grated tomatoes and garden basil. Chunked heirlooms with ripe peaches get drizzled with olive oil and scattered over ribbons of prosciutto. Gazpacho, pan con tomate, bruschetta, shakshuka, arroz de tomate — they’re all in my marathon. When the season wanes, at least there will still be fried green tomatoes.

    My sister, Lyn, on the other hand, asks for just one thing: my summer tomato pie. It’s her favorite from Rage Baking, the book I wrote with Kathy Gunst. It came out last year, to raise funds for EMILY’s List and support women running in the 2020 election. It brought together cooks, activists, and recipes from across the country.

    Like other Southern tomato pies, my recipe differs from quiche by using a very American mix of mayonnaise and cheese instead of a custard to hold things together. It reminds me of the delicious mayo and tomato sandwiches we ate as children. My version is sort of Tennessee meets Tuscany, with the addition of fennel and a mix of Italian cheeses.

    Your kitchen will smell like the best old school pizzeria while this pie bakes. Making it involves several steps; embrace them as a tomato celebration. And if you prebake the crust, salt the tomatoes (essential to avoid a soggy pie), and caramelize the fennel and onion ahead of time, the pie comes together easily.

    Tomato Pie

    One pie, serves 6-8

    For the crust:

    Salting the tomatoes before the pie bakes concentrates their flavors and prevents a soggy crust. (Photo Jerelle Guy/Rage Baking)

    1½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
    1½ tsp. minced fresh thyme (optional)
    2 Tbsp. granulated sugar
    ½ tsp. fine salt
    1 stick cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
    2 to 3 Tbsp. ice water
    1 Tbsp. vodka

    For the filling:

    1¾ lbs. ripe heirloom tomatoes, mixed color and sizes
    Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
    3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
    2 medium onions, thinly sliced
    1 medium bulb fennel, thinly sliced
    1 clove garlic, minced
    ½ cup mayonnaise (olive oil-based ones are great for this)
    1/3 cup shredded fresh mozzarella (about 2 oz.)
    1/3 cup shredded Parmigiano-Reggiano (about 1 oz.)
    1/3 cup shredded pecorino Romano (about 1 oz.)
    ¼ cup lightly packed basil leaves, minced, plus sprigs for topping

    Make the crust: Pulse the flour, thyme if using, sugar, and salt in a food processor to combine. Add about a quarter of the butter; process until it disappears into the flour, about 30 seconds. Add the remaining butter and pulse until the mixture looks like cornmeal with bean-size bits of butter. Combine 2 tablespoons water and the vodka and drizzle over the flour mixture. Pulse until the dough just starts coming together but stop before it gathers into a ball. To see if the dough is moist enough, grab a handful of it and squeeze; if it’s still dry and crumbly, add 1 to 3 teaspoons of the remaining water. Turn the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap and use the wrap to form and press the dough together. Press into a flat disc, wrap tightly, and refrigerate until firm, at least an hour or up to 2 days.

    Meanwhile, slice the tomatoes crosswise into 1/2-inch-thick pieces. Lay on a rack set over a paper towel-lined pan and season both sides with salt. This both seasons the tomatoes and concentrates the juices. Let the tomatoes drain while you prepare the onions and fennel.

    Heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion and fennel and season with ½ teaspoon kosher salt and some pepper. Cook, covered, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables wilt, about 15 minutes. Uncover, stir in the garlic and cook, stirring occasionally to prevent scorching, until the vegetables are reduced by more than half, about 20 minutes more. If the vegetables begin to stick, add a tablespoon or two of water. Cool.

    Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface into a 13-inch round. Ease it into a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate; crimp the edges as desired. Freeze until firm, about 15 minutes. Arrange a rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 400°F.

    Line the crust with a piece of parchment or foil and fill with about 1½ cups dried beans, rice, or pie weights. Bake until the edges are just set and golden brown, about 15 minutes. Remove the parchment and weights and return the crust to the oven so the bottom of the crust sets and gets a little color, about 7 minutes more. Remove the crust and reduce the oven temperature to 375°F.

    Whisk the mayonnaise, cheeses, and basil in a bowl, then evenly mix in the cooled onion-fennel mixture. Spread the mixture in the prepared pie shell. Layer the tomatoes on top, overlapping as needed, drizzle with the remaining tablespoon of olive oil, and season with some pepper. Bake the pie until the tomatoes are slightly brown and the pie sets, about 45 minutes. Top with basil sprigs; serve warm or at room temperature.

    Recipe from Rage Baking: The Transformative Power of Flour, Fury, and Women’s Voices by Katherine Alford and Kathy Gunst.

    FROM THE LARDER

    The Salty, Sweet Taste of a Wild Garden’s Possibilities

    Gilded with honey and transformed by heat, feta becomes a luscious spread

    By

    I tend to look at things and see not only what they are but what they might become. It drives Christopher a little crazy, since it means that the check boxes on our to-do lists are never completely ticked. But this tendency can come in handy. Perhaps it’s the reason I became a psychologist, a profession geared to thinking not only about what is but about what could be.

    I’m sure that’s what allowed us to become the stewards of Wiley Cottage. As I stood in front of the tiny three-season structure with no flashing, a quantity of mice, and a questionable bathroom, I saw the possibilities — though it took some time for them to come into view for Christopher.

    The moment we pushed our way through the giant decades-old rhododendron (now affectionately named Jabba the Hutt), I pictured a circular perennial garden in front. I imagined a kitchen garden of raised beds behind the house. And ever since my friend and garden muse, Tim Callis, introduced me to the ideas of garden designer Piet Oudolf, I’ve longed to nurture an indigenous meadow, beautiful and wild, something pollinators would appreciate.

    Slowly, over time, I began to stake out these possibilities. During the pandemic I turned my attention to the sandy slope that would be the meadow. With advice from Tim and a stack of books on wild gardens, I planted feather grass, asters, milkweed, and larkspur.

    Honey from Truro and Provincetown. The colors reflect nectars from different flowers. (Photo Edouard Fontenot)

    In my imagination, the Cottage would have beehives. Early on, the universe smiled upon me and led me to cross paths with Rebecca Mattarazi, a Provincetown resident of many talents, among them the keeping of bees. She came to see if we had a suitable place for a hive — a location that would provide warmth, protection, and access to water — and within a week she had established a colony.

    Christopher and I love the hive and its industrious residents. In the hot months, we watch their comings and goings. When Jabba the Hutt is in bloom there are so many bees tucked into the papery flowers that the whole giant shrub seems to hum and vibrate. During storms and in the cold months we worry about them and hope they’re OK in there, snuggled together to stay warm.

    Rebecca tells us they are Italian bees — molto bene. And that, as with farming, rain and sun have a lot to do with the harvest. She notes that this year’s spring and summer rains meant a better year for clethra (sweet pepperbush), a major source of high summer nectar here.

    Wiley Cottage honey has a slightly greenish tint, and its aroma is heavy with clethra. But its flavor is also affected by the other kinds of nectar the bees gather earlier in the season from the blooms of shad, then blueberry and beach plum.

    Rebecca can distinguish Wiley Cottage honey from the other hives she tends by the color, aroma, and taste — honey terroir, if you will.

    This August, she gave us four jars of honey — two from our hive and two from one in Provincetown. They immediately put me in mind of a recipe created by Seattle chef Sara Dickerman and featured in the Essential New York Times Cookbook.

    The premise: transformed by heat and gilded with honey, a hard block of feta becomes something completely different. At once sweet and salty, the molten cheese is perfect slathered on slices of crusty bread.

    Use the best feta you can get your hands on — imported sheep’s milk, ideally. But even if all you can get is the supermarket variety, the preparation is still much more delicious than it should be for something so simple.

    I make a batch and we sit on the screened porch in the welcome cool of a September evening, looking across the meadow garden. I imagine its next stages. Right now, in the distance, we can see the bees doing their work, transforming nectar into honey. In spite of everything going on in the world, I feel a hopefulness rooted in seeing not only what is but what could be — on this sandy slope and everywhere.

    Roasted feta with olive oil and honey, ready to slather on toast or crackers. (Photo Teresa Parker)

    Roasted Feta With Honey  

    1 8-oz chunk of sheep’s milk feta
    2 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
    2 Tbsp. local honey
    Freshly ground black pepper
    Crusty bread, toasted pita, or crackers
    Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

    Select a small oven-proof dish or pan (I use a 6-inch cast-iron skillet). Blot the feta dry, place it in the pan, and cover it with the olive oil. Bake until the cheese is soft and springy to the touch, but not melted, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove the cheese from the oven.

    Preheat the broiler. Slowly pour the honey over the cheese and spread it evenly with the back of a spoon or a pastry brush to paint the surface of the feta with it. Broil until the top of the cheese browns and just starts to bubble. Season to taste with black pepper.

    This dish is best served immediately from the oven and is perfect for cool early autumn evenings. It does not reheat well, so encourage your guests to gobble it all up.

    FROM THE LARDER

    Low Heat and Lots of Smoke Are Summer Magic for Meat

    Sorry, Mark Bittman, but the season cannot end without barbecue, just this once

    By

    I’ve been trying to move our household in the direction of a plant-based diet, turning out dals and stir-frys and vegetable-stuffed tacos with gusto. I even made a seitan-based chili that was surprisingly delicious. There are so many reasons to do this — personal health, animal health, planet health. And it’s for all these reasons that I’m sitting on the lawn at Edgewood Farm, listening to writers John “Doc” Willoughby and Mark Bittman discuss Bittman’s new book, Animal, Vegetable, Junk.

    Bittman is a strong advocate for plant-based eating, and tonight he’s musing on the dismal future of, well, everything: industrial agriculture, society, the planet. That he remains so resolutely cheerful as he ticks off the things almost certain to go wrong with our world is impressive. This is important stuff, well researched and insightful. But I’m not feeling apocalyptic at the moment. I blame the gorgeous crepuscular colors in the sky above Truro.

    As Willoughby makes a point, I remember the book he wrote with Chris Schlesinger, How to Cook Meat, and, from there, my mind wanders to barbecue. Suddenly, I don’t want a bean stew. I want the lip-smacking result of that low, slow, smoky alchemical method that transforms meat into a magical summertime meal. If there is to be salad, we’ll have potato to go with. I’m sorry, Mark, but this summer cannot end without barbecue.

    Barbecue is a tricky thing up here in the North. Here, there seems to be a general confusion about the difference between grilling and barbecuing. I get invited to a fair number of “barbecues,” but I rarely get any. Mostly I’m offered what I’d call mixed grill. It’s delicious — but definitely not barbecue.

    To grill is to cook over a fire, hot and fast. To barbecue is to cook indirectly over low heat, slowly, and with the added flavor of wood smoke. Smoking, a variation on barbecuing, is an even lower, slower method that allows sinewy or fatty cuts of meat to become meltingly tender and infused with smoke.

    I learned what I could of all this during summer stays with my grandparents in the tiny town of Eunice, La. My grandfather was an old-school barbecue guy. He had a huge homemade contraption — a barbecue pit — welded together out of a giant iron pipe. The thing weighed a ton, and, painted silver, it looked vaguely like it was designed for space travel. It took two men to pull it from the wash shed into the yard.

    My grandfather would start the fire at dawn, because our main meal of the day — dinner, as is common on farms — was at noon.

    The fire was allowed to burn down to white coals and then pulled to one side of the pit. The seasoned meat was put on the side of the grill opposite the smoldering fire. As the meat slowly cooked, my grandfather added charcoal and wood chips to the fire and turned the meat, basting it from time to time with a little melted fat and slowly coaxing it to tenderness underneath a deeply browned crust. Barbecuing imposes delayed gratification.

    Barbecue sauce was never used on the pit since the sugars in it would easily burn. My grandmother’s sauce was served at the table. I never got that recipe from her.

    By the time the talk in Truro comes to an end, I’ve settled on brisket. I can get it going in the morning and then attend to the 750 plugs of Pennsylvania sedge that still need planting behind the cottage.

    The next day I head to Friends’ market in Orleans for that most wonderful of luxuries, a consultation with a real-life butcher. A whole brisket is too much, he says, recommending a brisket “flat” that still has its cap of fat to help keep the meat moist during long cooking. The butcher also gives me a tip, should I ever be up against a too-lean cut: top the brisket with a pound of bacon and let that fat do its magic.

    I lay in a couple of bags of hardwood charcoal, knowing I’ll use one up. For smoke, I’ve got applewood chips and some leftover vine prunings from Truro Vineyards, all of which I’ll soak in water. Meanwhile, the brisket gets a simple dry rub, which can be done a whole day ahead.

    Once the coals in my Weber kettle grill get white hot, I pull them to one side and add some of the wood chips for smoke. The brisket goes on the grill, fat side up, on the side opposite where the fire is banked. There’s time to write while I wait for my late summer longing to be satisfied. Barbecue. I promise I’ll serve it with lots of vegetables.

    Cooked low and slow, barbecued brisket is falling-apart tender.

    Barbecued Brisket

    1 beef brisket “flat” (5 to 6 pounds), with a layer of fat ¼ to ½ inch thick
    1 Tbsp. coarse salt
    1 Tbsp. chili powder
    2 tsp. sugar
    1 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
    1 tsp. ground cumin
    6 cups wood chips, to soak for smoke

    Give the brisket a quick rinse in cold water and blot it dry with paper towels.

    Combine the salt, chili powder, sugar, pepper, and cumin in a bowl, and toss with your fingers to mix. Rub the spice mixture on the brisket on all sides. If you have time, wrap the brisket in plastic and let it cure in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight. This step isn’t crucial, but it will add to the flavor of the meat.

    An hour before cooking begins, put the wood chips in a bowl with enough water to cover. Soak one hour and then drain.

    Set up a charcoal grill and allow the coals to burn until the flames disappear and the coals are covered in a white ash. Pull the coals to one side of the grill and toss a full handful of the soaked and drained wood chips over them.

    Place the brisket, fat side up, in an aluminum foil pan (or make a pan with a double sheet of heavy-duty aluminum foil). Place the pan on the grate, away from the heat. Cover the grill.

    Keep the heat low, as you’ll cook the brisket until it’s tender enough to shred with your fingers, between 6 and 8 hours. You’ll add several lumps of coal to the fire and toss on more soaked wood chips every hour. Baste the brisket from time to time with the fat and juices that accumulate in the pan.

    Remove the brisket pan from the grill and let rest for 15 minutes. Transfer the brisket to a cutting board and slice it thin, across the grain. Transfer the sliced meat to a platter, pour the pan juices on top, and serve.

    Franklin Barbecue’s Classic Sauce

    Makes about 3 cups

    Since our family recipe is lost to time, I consulted this generation’s expert pitmaster — my niece Kery’s boyfriend, Dave — on the question of sauce. Hailing from Houston, Dave’s a walking, talking encyclopedia of all things barbecue. His sauces always knock my socks off. For the brisket, he recommends his version of Austin restaurateur Aaron Franklin’s sauce.

    A spice mixture flavors the meat and helps create a crust, but no sauce is used during the cooking — the sugars in it would easily burn. (Photos Edouard Fontenot)

    1¾ cups ketchup
    ½ cup plus 2 Tbsp. water
    ¼ cup plus 1 Tbsp. cider vinegar
    ¼ cup plus 1 Tbsp. white vinegar
    2¼ tsp. brown sugar
    2 Tbsp. plus 1½ tsp. Worcestershire sauce
    1 Tbsp. chile powder
    1 Tbsp. ground cumin
    1½ tsp. kosher salt
    1½ tsp. coarse black pepper

    Combine all of the ingredients in a saucepan and warm gently over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Don’t boil the sauce; warm it just enough for the ingredients to melt and integrate. Once evenly combined and smooth, remove sauce from the heat and let cool. Transfer to a jar or bottle. The sauce should be passed at the table rather than used on the pit itself. Store in the refrigerator for up to 1 month.

    Dave says if you want a passionate and lengthy explanation of how to smoke brisket, Franklin spends 213 pages on the topic in his Franklin Barbecue: A Meat-Smoking Manifesto.

    BLENDER

    Cold Soups for Settling Into Real Dinners

    Cucumbers or corn become the simplest of summer starters

    By

    There was nothing wrong with the Green Monsta I drank for lunch last week. It was delicious. And I’m sure it was good for me, seeing as how it contained kale, spinach, banana, matcha, almond butter, dates, and coconut water.

    But there is something dangerously Soylent-like in drinking a smoothie instead of eating a meal. I don’t mean the fearsome green stuff in the 1973 thriller. But remember Soylent, the 2013 meal-replacement product invented by technology entrepreneur and bio-hacker Rob Rhinehart to make it possible to keep coding whatever it was he was coding nonstop?

    And, really, as those of you who saw that 1952 episode of I Love Lucy already know, what’s Vitameatavegamin without the booze?

    The essence of summer corn. (Photo Angelika Heine)

    In case smoothies have edged out old-fashioned summer soups at your house, I’m here to turn back the clock with two that cannot serve as meals unto themselves.

    There aren’t enough ingredients in either recipe to make these “functional beverages.” They’re a way to settle in around the table and still look forward to a real dinner.

    The corn soup has just three ingredients: corn, water, salt. It does require you to turn on the stove. It tastes like good summer corn, but more so. I now do it a little differently than Gourmet magazine told me to 20 years ago, because I think leaving the cobs in to simmer with the kernels makes the soup even better. Sprinkle a few chives on top to make it look like you made an effort. This is just the perfect first course to precede digging into a platter of pan-seared bluefish with that cherry tomato compote of Katherine Alford’s.

    The cucumber soup gives you a way to hide the ones that got away from you by a day or so. Its ingredients: yogurt, cucumber, salt. Spoon in minced red onion and mint when you serve it and all you need is a pair of Edouard Fontenot’s grilled lamb chops for afterwards.

    You do need a good blender for these.

    Cold Cucumber and Yogurt Soup

    Serves 6

    1½ lbs. cucumbers
    3 cups whole milk yogurt
    2 tsp. kosher salt, or to taste
    Garnish: minced mint and red onion

    Cut up the cukes, skin, seeds, and all, and drop them into the blender. Add the yogurt. Blend. In fact, turn the blender up to 11, blending until the soup is super-smooth.

    Chill thoroughly, for several hours. Correct the salt. You can stir in a few ice cubes if you find you want to serve it before it’s really, really cold.

    Just before you eat, mince a slice or two of red onion and handfuls of mint leaves and spoon them on top as a little more than a garnish.

    This is not a smoothie. (Photo Teresa Parker)

    Fresh Corn Soup

    Serves 6

    10 ears of corn
    6 cups water
    1 Tbsp. kosher salt
    Garnish: minced chives

    Scrape the corn off the cobs and into a soup pot — you should have about 8 cups of corn. Drop the cobs into the pot too, once they’re scraped; they still have flavor in them.

    Add the 6 cups of water and simmer, covered, for about 15 minutes, until corn is tender. Remove the cobs, scraping them into the pot as you go.

    When the soup has cooled to room temperature, blend it and blend it some more. Then pour it through a coarse sieve, pressing on the kernels to extract every bit of juice from the solids. Discard the solids and chill the soup. (If the weather has turned cool on you, this soup is also good served hot.)

    Correct the salt and stir in a little water if the texture seems too thick. Garnish with minced chives.

    FROM THE LARDER

    A Citrusy Cool Custard for a Hot Summer Night

    It sounds adorable and looks fancy, but lemon posset is a dessert for the lazy

    By

    The thing about summer is that I want to cook in a way that leaves me turning pages in the hammock until the very last minute. There will be plenty of time for project meals this winter — the kind that make sense when dark descends upon us at 4 o’clock. Once we get there, taking on complicated dishes will seem like a good idea for filling up the long evenings and keeping us warm to boot. But let’s not think about that just yet.

    Today, I’m focused on the fact that our niece, Victoria, 17 years old and fresh from Great Books Camp, where she’s been reading and writing poetry, is en route with her parents. Victoria is all about desserts, so I need an idea. It’s hot today, sticky-steamy hot. Using the grill will keep the house cool for most of our supper preparation. But what about dessert? I don’t want to turn the oven on, so pies are out. Ice cream is never a bad idea, but that’s undeniably a project in my old-fashioned churn, and the hammock beckons.

    We could go for utter simplicity and split open a fat watermelon — one of summer’s true joys.  But I want to serve something nice for Victoria. She’s always lived far away from us, so we don’t get to see her often. This visit, postponed because of the pandemic, is special. Dessert should match.

    I find dessert a challenge in all seasons because, to be honest, I’m not a great lover of sweets. After supper, pass me a wheel of ripe Eidolon from Grey Barn Creamery in Chilmark and a dish of apple slices and I’m content.

    I page through an old cookbook — they save me every time. This one is English Provincial Cooking by Elisabeth Ayrton, which I found at Herridge Books in Wellfleet. In it, I come across a recipe for what appears to be an impossibly simple custard: cream, heated through with sugar, then both flavored and thickened with lemon.

    The flavors of citrus and summer go together in my mind, and cool, smooth custard seems just the level of fancy I was thinking of. Besides, I swoon for the name of this one: lemon posset. Posset. Who’s ever heard of posset? It sounds like something little and adorable. Like hedgehog. Or tipple.

    Apparently, before it became my new favorite summer dessert, pre-16th century, posset was a hot drink made of milk curdled with ale or wine and drunk either as a delicacy or a remedy. I’m glad it continued to evolve.

    Topped with macerated strawberries and served on the candlelit screened porch, my lemon posset was a success, I think. By the time the posset was passed, we had been together for a little while, so we were less awkward — you know, the way one sometimes is with people one loves but doesn’t get to see too often. The wine may have helped. But it seemed like, over dessert, the conversation came more easily, and we heard all about Victoria’s poetry and her painting and her plans for the future. It was one of those summer evenings specially made for connecting, for remembering when, for imagining the great things that lie ahead.

    If there’s anything hard about this recipe, it’s believing that it can become so velvety without the addition of egg yolks or cornstarch or gelatin. The cream is simmered with sugar and strips of lemon zest for 5 minutes or so. The zest sparks up the lemon flavor and the simmering concentrates the proteins and fats in the cream. It’s the acidity of the lemon juice, added next, that gets those proteins to come together. Don’t think of reducing the fat here — the same acidity would make milk curdle.

    Strained into little cups, the possets set in the refrigerator. I make them in the morning, and they are perfect by supper, but they could also be prepared the day before. The custard is light and sweet-tart. The recipe makes just enough for six small servings to round out a meal. If you have larger or more servings in mind, it is easily doubled.

    So, head to the garden, take a swim, turn the page, or stay in the hammock until the very last minute. The posset will be ready when you are.

    Lemon Posset

    Lemon posset can pose as fancy, if your visitors warrant that. But secretly, it’s the perfect dessert for anyone who’d rather be reading in a hammock than cooking. (Photo Teresa Parker)

    Makes 6 small servings

    For the custard
    2 cups heavy cream
    2/3 cup sugar
    Zest cut in strips from 2 lemons
    A pinch of salt
    1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

    For the fruit topping

    1 cup sliced fruit — whatever is freshest
    1 teaspoon granulated sugar

    In a medium saucepan, stir together the cream, sugar, lemon zest, and salt over medium heat and bring to a simmer, stirring continuously until the sugar is dissolved. Continue to simmer until the mixture thickens just a little, about 5 minutes.

    Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the lemon juice. Allow to cool about 20 minutes. After cooling, stir and then strain the custard into a large measuring cup. Discard the zest and any lumps. Pour the custard into four medium or six small bowls and allow to set in the refrigerator, uncovered, for at least 3 hours, or overnight.

    For the topping, mix the sliced fruit and sugar in a small bowl and let stand for at least half an hour to allow the fruit to give up its juices. Once the custards are set, top each with a spoonful of fruit.

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