If you’re a long-time reader of this blog, you probably know by now, that I love summer. No, it’s not the warm weather, in fact that makes me wilt like a cut flower. And when I was younger, and in school from September to June, I looked forward to the summer recess just like every other child. But as welcoming a break as I knew it to be, I really didn’t need it. I was one of those children who actually liked school. No, the thing I most love about these warm summer months is the fruit, and all that can be cooked (or not cooked with it).

A delicious stone fruit pie is divine; a clafoutis chock full of tree-ripe apricots; and a nectarine cobbler, the juices bubbling out from under the nubby crust, each are list-toppers for me. But sometimes turning on the oven, even for only an hour, its steaming surface puffing more hot air into my already warm apartment is too much to bear. So then I turn to another summertime favorite, melons of all sorts.

This melon salad has proven itself time and time again this season to be one of my favorites. Its salty-sweet combination is a delight, and the crunch of dry-roasted peanuts adds yet another crisp dimension. A mixture of Thai ingredients, this salad proves to be a refreshing snack, or a pleasing side dish to a lite meal.

The dressing is simple. The zest and juice of one lime, are combined with a lump of brown sugar, and the secret, salty ingredient– Thai fish sauce. Yes, that stinky stuff adds the perfect briny element to the mix. Chop up some refreshing mint, bash up a handful of salted peanuts, and garnish your melon pieces with this whole concoction. Serve and eat this right away, so the mint remains sprightly, and the peanuts still have their crunch. And most importantly, enjoy the summer, and all of the bounty it has to offer.

I have a lot of cookbooks, not more than I should, but enough that each box made Brian curse my not-so-little collection as we moved into our fourth floor walk-up last summer. Some of the books are well-loved, splattered with a sauce from page 84, a gooey drip of batter from page 128, and a fragrant spice mixture comes tumbling out of the spine each time I turn to page 223. Others are pretty to look at, with vibrant meals displayed on each page, and blurry, saturated images of food artfully presented, with the serving utensil displayed just so. I love my cookbooks, but the fact of the matter is I rarely use them as they are supposed to be used.

A good cookbook can be used as much for inspiration as it can for hard and fast recipes. I read cookbooks much like I read a stellar novel, from cover to cover. I glance at each page, my eyes focusing in on the endless lists of ingredients. I may try to imagine the final product, because as we all know a cookbook is often like used car salesman selling you a final product that is not always like what he says. Sometimes, even I am in need of some inspiration in the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen and it is like a science laboratory, science never really being one of my strong suits in school–I am lost. I have no idea what to cook for dinner, and worse yet, nothing even sounds good to go out for. It is times like these when I crack open a book that is good for inspiration if nothing else (but it is great for other things too)– The Kitchen Diaries, by Nigel Slater. And he never fails. This week, he offered me zucchini cakes with dill and feta.

Why isn’t Nigel Slater a bigger deal in this country? Maybe he needs to wear cleavage baring tops like Nigella Lawson, or bash everything up in a mortar and pestle throwing British-isms around like rice at a wedding like Jamie Oliver, but whatever the reason may be I adore him. And I love this book. I purchased it in the U.K. awhile back, so all of my measurements are metric. (Although now this book is available in the U.S., so run, run to the bookstore!) Whenever I bake from this cookbook (and measurements are key), I depend on my trusty kitchen scale. But when I cook (or fry, as this recipe would have me do), I grow too lazy for exact measurements, and just wing it. Which is exactly what I did for this recipe.

The book is arranged much like a daily calendar, and on July 15, these pancakes are what Mr. Slater had to eat. And on June 26, Adrienne, feeling quite inspired, had virtually the same little cakes. I grated and salted a few zucchini and left them to drain for a half hour in a colander. In a saute pan, I softened a few sliced scallions and one clove of sliced garlic. Then I stirred in the drained zucchini, and cooked until the zuke was just beginning to color. I added few tablespoons of flour, and continued cooking , just to get the raw taste out of the flour. Then I removed the whole mess from heat, and placed it in a mixing bowl. I crumbled in some salty feta cheese, and a handful of fresh sliced dill. I tasted the mixture, seasoning with salt and pepper. After mixing in an egg or two, I had a loose, not watery batter.

Then I heated a few tablespoons of olive oil in a shallow pan, spooned in the batter, a few tablespoons at a time and cooked until golden brown on both sides. About 5 minutes. Flip gently. Elaborating upon the original recipe, I added a yogurt sauce for dipping. Simply take a small container of plain yogurt, grate in half a clove of garlic, another handful of fresh dill, salt and pepper, and mix until blended.

Perfect. Light. Utterly Delicious. And the ideal way for me to use one of my cookbooks.

When I was young there were two sandwiches which I absolutely could not stand– egg salad and tuna fish. Although their lumpy appearances definitely did not appeal, it was above all their lingering odors that were so detestable to the sensitivity of my young nose.

I would head out to the kitchen, teeth brushed, shoelaces tied, and shirt tucked in (because yes, I was one of those never-play-in-the-mud, proper children), to pour myself a bowl of cereal. Before I even arrived in the kitchen, the sulfuric smell of my mother mashing a half dozen eggs, mixed with coarsely chopped dill pickles for her egg salad, would hit me like a ton of bricks . A proper, though never meek child, I would fuss about the smell making me gag first thing in the morning. Pleasant.

Then there was school lunchtime. I would pull out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich sandwich; the only sandwich I would tolerate for some years. Friends would gather next to me, we would chitter-chat absentmindedly, and then the odor would come wafting through the cafeteria table. There my friend Jane would sit, gobbling up a tuna fish sandwich straight from a crinkly waxed paper wrapper. Sitting for hours, warming in her Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox, it smelled of the ocean after a storm, one that had riotously blown all of the fish out of the sea to bake in the sun. But Jane was a dear friend who did not deserve my complaints like my mother did. Instead I simply did not breathe through my nose for the duration of lunchtime in the cafeteria.

It’s funny how tastes (and smells) can change over the years, because fast-forward about twenty years, and I have been known to eat many a stinky thing: Cheese? Pass it over my way. Anchovies? But of course. Pate? Why not! I’ll even eat the dreaded egg salad and tuna fish sandwich, get this– together.

Ah yes, the good old stinky sandwich, all grown up, and made even stinkier, and brinier by the addition of fried capers. Made with olive oil packed tuna fish, drained (but not too well), a few perfectly cooked hard-boiled eggs (11 minutes in boiling water), and some chopped fried capers mixed into one wonderfully smelly mess. I add a few leaves of crisp, peppery arugula, and serve the whole jumble on a fresh baguette. De-licious!

Stinky Sandwich

2 hard-boiled eggs (11 minutes in boiling water)
2 tablespoons capers, coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 can 5 1/2 ounce can tuna, packed in olive oil
1-2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
salt and pepper to taste

Fry capers in olive oil until crisp, about 2-3 minutes. Set aside.

Peel eggs and coarsely chop in a mixing bowl. Drain tuna, leaving a bit of oil to coat the fish. Add tuna to the egg, and add the Dijon mustard, and the capers. Mix well. Taste, and season with salt and pepper, if desired.

Serve on a baguette, with arugula. Enjoy.

Ambrosia has always fascinated me, not the food of the Greek gods, rather the good ol’ American buffet speciality. (And maybe by fascinated I should clarify– repelled.) I remember a few family BBQ’s at my grandma house. All the food would be lined up on the dinning room cum buffet table: potato salad, crocks of baked beans, ears of corn, and way down, at the end of the table, a Melmac bowl full of ambrosia.

You would think this salad would be endlessly pleasing to a child’s palate, mandarin orange segments, chunks of pineapple, dried coconut, mini-marshmallows tumbling about. Sounds pleasing enough. But it was the “dressing” that turned me off every time. The thick, globby, preservative-laden dressing, or sauce…maybe covering is the best choice of words for the concoction, which was so dense you could not even see what it concealed. Sometimes it was made of sweetened sour cream, other times an entire container of whipped topping was mounded then mixed into the fruit, and other times, it was a combination of the two. Regardless of its nature, this mixture just did not do it for me.

I’m not even sure what made me think of this “salad” of yore, but I started thinking about making a new ambrosia. How about mixing in a bit of plain creme fraiche, unadorned, and just enough to coat but not smother? And why must the fruit be peaked, easily hidden by this sweet dressing? I wanted something bright, not buried– I wanted berries. And this is what I got.

Pink, delicious ambrosia. These cherries and raspberries were the berries and cream of my dreams. I pitted so many cherries, bursting with juice, for my ambrosia, that my fingertips became sanguine, but I didn’t care. I spooned in a tablespoon or two of creme fraiche, and mixed carefully. The topping turned from stark white to a stunning, rosy pink shade. Then I folded in the much more delicate raspberries, each knob of the berry getting a proper, thin coating. The creamy topping was buttery and just rich enough, nothing like adding a bit of decadence to a normal fruit salad.

And there you have it. I’m not sure if this ambrosia would have gone over very well at my childhood BBQ’s, but as a dessert at my adult dinner, I loved it.

Well, I’m back from California. But I suppose that I should have told you that I was going upon leaving. The first of two trips back this summer, aaahh, it is wedding season! Bring on the bouquets; bring on the bridesmaids; and bring on the catered food. Northern California was actually cold when we arrived, balmy and breezy, with a thick layer of marine fog in the morning. Cold though it may have been, the inclement weather did not keep the farmers from harvesting every sort of stellar local produce possible and bringing it to market

California was inspiring. I guess you cannot take the state out of a girl who was born and raised there. There were pies to be made at my parent’s house, with a mixture of stone fruit, and boysenberries so plump they looked like the belly of Santa Claus. Apricots that were far from elegant, bruised and dimpled, yet bursting with flavor. The shelling English peas, the pods opening with a crack, and the smooth peas lined up like soldiers inside, were so delicious I could eat hundreds raw. And the produce was cheap as chips.

But for me all of this inspiration for to simplicity. If I learned anything from being raised in California, it is that when food is in season: bright and flavorful, you don’t have to do much with it in order to make a miraculous meal. It seems almost ridiculous to show you what I made for lunch the first day back in NYC. But a trip to the market, some careful selecting, and this is what I had:

A little bite of bruschetta (well several, it was my lunchtime). I bought an ear of corn which was flash sauteed in a bit of olive oil. Juicy beefsteak tomatoes were seeded and coarsely chopped. Some freshly torn basil, a grinding of pepper, a good dose of salt, and a drizzle of green olive oil, and there I had it. Mounded high on slices of grilled baguette, lunch was served.

I made this bruschetta in New York. And staring out my living room window, at the feathery green tree tops, peeking out of Central Park just a few blocks away, munching on my lovely bruschetta, I realized that I just needed a trip to California to make me realize that summer is here.

Some people have electronic gadgets that do almost everything for them, others simply have to glide on yet another new shade of glistening lipstick, other people inhabit homes that resemble radio stations with albums lining the shelves like blades of freshly cut grass on a soccer field. Me, I’m a sucker for unique fruit. If fruit were eternal, never to rot away with age, I definitely would have a collection.

Frankly I’m not even sure where this love came from. But the first time I saw those mini watermelons lined up one on top of the other, my spine tingled. I thought to myself, “How ingenious, a personal sized melon that won’t take up precious room in my already full refrigerator!” Or those flat donut peaches, when I walked by their fragrant bouquet, and touched their delicate skin, I knew that a life-long love affair was about to begin. So imagine my glee when I spotted the fabled red apricot at the market recently.

No it’s not the aprium, or even the pluot, or better yet, the plumcot, all which I have become intimately familiar with in summers past. It is simply the red apricot. And let me just say, a fruit with skin this crimson, can taste as sweet. However, this fruit toyed with my senses. When I took a slice of this apricot to my lips, skin rosy yet with a flesh pale orange, my mind began to play tricks on me. Although the scent was pure apricot, flowery and fresh, I could have sworn that upon the inaugural bite, I tasted a plum. The fruit just looked so much like one. But bite number two, was a different story.

I closed my eyes, and took a second taste. Placing the fruit squarely on my tongue, the firm feel, the soft fuzz, and summery taste was of course, all apricot. What a relief, nothing had happened to my beloved stone fruit, they had simply donned a new, racy set of clothing. I guess even fruit is allowed to have a change of style from time to time.

And by this I mean: I don’t know how I got invited to a Martha Stewart event, but I did. Way up on the the 36th floor of some giant midtown skyscraper, there I stood with about 60 other people, some of them Martha’s minions, to celebrate Martha’s new interview show on Sirius Satellite Radio. Oh, and Jean-Georges was there too.

How did I get invited to such a function, you ask? Well, I’m as clueless as you are. One day about a week ago, I opened my inbox and there it was, an electronic invitation (not quite an Evite) beckoning me to attend a recording of Martha and J.-G. chattin’ it up on the radio. Cocktail attire was not stressed, however hors-d’oeuvres would be served from J.-G.’s restaurant, Vong. So I though to myself, washing my hair can wait for another evening. I’m game to snack on crispy spring rolls, satay shrimp in a fried coconut crust, fresh rolls with daikon sprouts, and sachets of crepe filled with salty caviar and topped with gold leaf. Not to mention hangin’ with Martha.

Actually, there was little hanging to be had. Martha and Jean-Georges made a quick appearance, photos were taken (see above) and then they headed off to the soundproof glass booth, decorated with stunning floral arrangements and draped in Martha Stewart textiles (no doubt, available at KMart), to enjoy an hour of conversation on the radio. It was definitely a step up from the last radio station I set foot in, a college station badly in need of a vacuum cleaner, that smelled like sweat mixed with a peculiar heavy scent of an herb, and I don’t mean tarragon.

I couldn’t tell you much about the interview because, although it was piped into the reception room, the room was full of the less-than-subtle sound of schmoozing. And, dear reader, I did my part. Actually, it was strange but nice. I met some of Martha’s minions, some fellow food bloggers, and some folks from the radio. It was a room full of people who really love food, love to talk about it, and even love to write about it too.

A good time was had by all. And I even got to go home with some swag, which I in turn documented Nosheteria-style! (Notice the Sirius Satellite lip-balm. That’s odd, isn’t it?)

Quail eggs are sweet, some might even say darling, in the same way that a petits-four or a mini tartlette is. But they can also be quite expensive. Usually I cruise by them at the market, thinking longingly of making diminutive hard-boiled eggs, topped with dollops of cool, black caviar. But each time I pick up those tiny cartons, and see the price– around $6 for one dozen, I quickly put these eggs back on the shelf, and scurry away. Five quail eggs equals about one chicken egg, and let’s just say I am usually not feeding dainty diners.

But in Chinatown, during my splendid day out, there were stacks and stacks of quail eggs, in cartons of 24 (that’s two dozen, mind you!), all to be had for $3 and some change. You have to love Chinatown. I of course bought a passel, and there they sat, in fridge for nearly one week before I decided what to do with them. I wanted to make something that exemplified their stature, so I knew that scrambling them just would not do.

It’s that time of year, a time when my little apartment is overrun with guests. Since our move to NY, Brian and I have had more welcomed visitors than our entire tenure in Berkeley. Each of these guests expects a little something special to come wafting out of my tiny NY kitchen, and I am only to happy to oblige. Especially when I finally know what to do with those lovely quail eggs.

Fried quail eggs on crostini, simple yet spectacular, bright and sunny, with those shiny yolks staring right up at you. I made the crostini from slices of baguette, brushed with olive oil and baked in the oven until they reach a toasty brown. Then one egg, fried in olive oil, sunny side up, of course, adorns each toast. A sprinkling of fresh chives, a grinding of pepper, a dash of salt, and breakfast is served. Four crostini, one half a grapefruit, and a mug of good, strong coffee, and my guest were off to enjoy a day of sightseeing. I of course told them Chinatown should not be missed.

As I stumble out of the Grand Street subway station, I am immediately caught and taken away by the crowds of people, each grasping flimsy plastic bags holding ingredients, ready for cooking. This is Chinatown, a place so teeming with people I often wonder where they all come from. The shops each specialize in their own brand of goodies, from clothes to housewares, meat to fish, exotic fruits and vegetables, to more bottles of condiments than you would see bottles of potions in an old-fashioned apothecary shop.

I could spend hours here, and I do. I stroll along the streets, more quiet, with people actually sitting along the curbs once you turn off of Grand Street. I look at all of the dried roots, and mounds of dehydrated shrimp in one shop. At the butchers there are cuts of meat that I have never seen, and I buy a fresh, uncured ham. I’m not sure what to really do with it, but I just have to buy it. The fish monger is amazing. Walking onto the tiled, wet floor, there are rows upon rows of fresh, whole fish, their scales glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. And the produce market, that is really where I go crazy: baskets of bean sprouts; oranges, individually wrapped like a little present of citrus; knobby ginger root; tangles of grapes, purple, red, and green. And then I encounter this:

Water Spinach. I had never seen this bright, leafy green vegetable before, let alone cook with it. But the kind man working at the produce market, told me to cook it as I would traditional spinach. So I bought a bundle, still unsure how I would prepare it. A little further research at home on the internet (don’t you just love the internet?) and I found a bit more out about this lovely green.

Most common in Asian countries, it is grown in the United States as well. Here however, it is called a noxious weed, due to its high growth ratio. This sucker grows. In moist soil, or even still water, this spinach grows tall and fast, at times clogging water ways. Well, there is only one thing to do with such a quickly growing plant, and that is to eat it quickly. I am doing my part to help American agriculture by making, and eating, noodle stir-frys.

I am not a skilled Asian cook, so I will just say that this stir-fry was inspired by the stellar ingredients found in Chinatown. My skillet had been piled high with mounds of cleaned water spinach. Just like traditional spinach, water spinach cooks way down. The tubes, once crisp and airy, collapsed– becoming chewy vessels for whichever sauce you choose. In this case, I used a simple ginger-soy, gratings of sinus-cleansing ginger, mixed with simple light soy sauce, and a smidgen of sesame oil. Toss in the egg noodles, a handful or two of crunchy bean sprouts, fry quickly, and slurp away. It may not be the most traditional use for water spinach, but it was pretty darn good.

Stay tuned for more of what I purchased and cooked from one afternoon in Chinatown. And p.s. I still haven’t figured out what to do with that ham, which is now resting in my freezer– suggestions are always welcomed.

And by the lily, I mean banana bread. And you should gild it with ganache. End of Post.

No…let’s talk a little bit about this banana bread. For a girl that never really liked bananas, I always liked banana flavored things…like banana bread, and banana nut muffins, and banana cake. As a kid, when I would order a fruit salad out, I would always pick out all of the banana slices. A short tower of pale discs would teeter at the edge of my dish, waiting to either be eaten, or finally just removed by a very forgiving waitperson.

But my mother routinely made a banana bread from Sunset magazine that I loved. She sprinkled sugar on the top of of the batter, causing the loaf to split into two mounds upon baking. The crust was also studded with candied cherries, my favorite part when I was a child. I loved the chewy texture of the cherries, dying the soft, natural color of the bread bright red as they lay nestled in the loaf. I would eat the bread plain, or sometimes with a slathering of butter. Every time my mom made banana bread, I would eat banana bread– but only my mom’s.

I got a hankering for moist, flavorful banana bread recently, but something did not have me scurrying back to Sunset magazine for the recipe. I was ready to try something new. I found this recipe on-line for a sour cream banana bread, and decided to give it a shot.

And I’m so glad that I did. The bread was lovely– the texture, delicate; the crumb, moist; with a subtle banana flavor. The addition of sour cream to the batter was a welcome one; it brought a tang to the taste and an unparalleled richness. I’m sure the bread would have been good all on its own, but I felt it could use a little something more– a touch of chocolate to bring it from cozily ensconced in the breakfast bread realm, to calling out loudly from the dessert table. I made a bit of ganache, and spread this glorious concoction over the loaf. Yum, is all I can say.

For dessert, or if you’re anything like me, even for a naughty breakfast, this banana bread is a welcome change. I guess I will have to make room in my repertoire for more than one banana bread recipe.