Strawberry shortcake for my dad

Really, the ten quarts of strawberries that have taken over my kitchen are all my dad’s fault.

“Wake up Dad, let’s go DO something!”

If he didn’t plant a garden when my sisters and I were growing up, if he didn’t take us strawberry/cherry/apple picking at the U-pick orchards and fields around our town, if he didn’t spend nearly every week in summer making a fruit pie or shortcake of some kind, if he didn’t teach me how much better tomatoes and corn and strawberries taste when they’re fresh and warm from the sun, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

My dad will shake his head (I can tell, even over the phone) and laugh at me when I tell him about the stash I brought home, but I think behind that he understands. He grew up on a farm (ask him about tractors and combines some time), he lived the whole “farm to table” “snout to tail” thing about 50 years before it was trendy. For my dad, that was just…how it was.

Nothing says love (or trust) like letting your kid hold your hand with a knife in it as you carve a pumpkin.

He gave me a taste of that life growing up with our garden. Each year, he would till a 30’x15’ plot (my dad just corrected me–it was at least twice that size, enough space for 3 rows each of 3 to 4 varieties of corn) behind our house before walking along the rows with my sisters and me, helping us plant corn, squash, tomatoes, beans, just about anything you can think of.

I want to say we would eagerly watch and wait for the little green sprouts to peek through the dirt, tending and caring for them, but I don’t think it ever occurred to us that this was something special. My sisters and I didn’t know that most people didn’t run out back for broccoli or spend Sunday picking dozens of ears of corn off their stalks. We thought it was fun to watch our dad simmer and slice “caterpillars” off the corn or mash tomatoes through the food mill, and being a good helper by funneling it all into bags for the freezer and dinner in December.

At the beginning of this year, less than two weeks after his 65^th birthday (and only a few days after my 30^th) my dad ended up in the hospital from a heart attack. Knowing that my dad came that close to not being around, that I came that close to not hearing his amused, incredulous “Christina!” when I tell him how many strawberries I bought or calling him to ask what a misfire in cylinder 4 on my car means was the most terrifying moment in my life, to be sure, and I have no doubt that it was a less than a treat for him. Want to really appreciate your dad? That’ll do it.

Dad, we have a 5K to walk in a few weeks (the only time I’ll be able to keep up with you), and you need to be around to say “I told you so” on that far-off day that I have kids who gripe that they like chicken nuggets better than my homemade whatever. I guess, given all the complaints a kid could have about their dad, the fact that I’m pretty much unable to buy tomatoes or strawberries or corn off-season and that I appreciate the finer points of a perfect strawberry shortcake means you did something right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you and I’m really glad you’re around.

It’s 5 o’clock somewhere

There are two drinks that define summer for me, that embody (em-bottle? em-glass?) Fridays lounging in the shade on my porch or basking in the sun on a rooftop patio with friends: margaritas (good ones, salt required) or vodka lemonade (best with homemade lemonade, light on the sugar). Bastardized gin rickeys now join that list.

I am not a big drinker, I will be the first to admit, and my pretty broad palate when it comes to food is significantly less experienced when it comes to booze. No time like the present to start expanding my horizons though, right? Right!

So many people talk about the gin and tonic as a classic summer drink. If only tonic didn’t make my mouth twist up like a 2-year-old biting into a lemon for the first time; it’s just not something I get the appeal of. But a (sorta) gin rickey? Gin, lime, seltzer, a little sweetener, and a pretty garnish in a tall glass? Yes please.

If it’s not clear from the drinks above, citrus clearly has my heart in summer. And with a little fizz? Even better. Gin just smells good to me; I like its herbalness, it smells like standing in a garden. (And I love this interview about The Drunken Botanist I heard on NPR this week–wine and liquors come from all sorts of plants, that means they count as vegetables, right?! It’s just like V8 juice.)

Any go-to summer drink for you? I also just discovered two great summer beers (Unibroue Ephemere Apple and Dogfish Head Festina Peche) which for me as a non-fan of hoppy bitter brews, was quite the accomplishment.

In a rhubarb jam

I feel like I’m trying to make up for lost time. When I first tried rhubarb last year, it was at the very end of its season and it’s hardly the most popular kid on the block when it comes to the freezer case at the grocery store. So now that rhubarb season has come around again–now closer to its end than beginning–I find myself buying it in bunches by the pound (more accurately, 5 pounds). I just can’t get enough of the color, its pretty red to pink to green stalks, or its flavor that reminds me of sour cherries.

Pie is of course a great way to use up a big bunch, but I don’t want to overload myself on pie before I even get to strawberries, blueberries, cherries, or peaches. Cake is good too, and I’ve simmered a good amount (4 cups chopped) with sugar and water (1 cup of each) and a vanilla bean (split) to make rhubarb syrup (cook for 20-30 minutes and strain) to add to seltzer or slightly more boozy libations that deserve neon bendy straws and a sunny day on the porch.

But how to keep a little taste of spring around longer than the last crumbs of baked goods or drops of syrup? Jam, of course. I picked up this cute little cookbook at Chicago’s Printers Row Book Fair last weekend and figured it was just the push I needed.

Ginger is a pretty common accompaniment to rhubarb’s tartness, and it’s easy to taste why. The prettiest rosey pink color of the jam looks like it would be overwhelmingly sweet but the tingle of ginger (in raw and candied forms) along with a little bit of sour from strips of lemon zest make this my new favorite thing.

I’m usually indifferent to jam stirred into yogurt, but this jam is perfect for that (and hey! pink yogurt! pretty!); I’ve also been spreading it on a slice of whole wheat bread with dried fruit baked in. It would be so perfect with scones or cream biscuits, and I can’t wait to use this in thumbprint cookies, or even some variation on a linzer tart or cookies.

…Excuse me, I need to go buy 5 more pounds of rhubarb before it’s all gone.

It’s MAGIC! On ice cream!

Oh. My. God. Whatever you’re doing right now, stop. Find coconut oil and chocolate, melt them together, drizzle it over ice cream. Watch it harden, crack with a spoon. Eat. Be happy.

Does anyone else remember Magic Shell, that chocolate sauce that hardened into a crunchy coating when it hit cold ice cream? Or the ice cream places that used to be at the mall that would dip naked ice cream bars into vats of chocolate sauce and then bins of your chosen crunchy bits, turning into customized little ice cream bars? Man, between that place (or Orange Julius) and B. Dalton for my Nancy Drew fix, I could have lived at the mall when I was in middle school.

Anyways, flashback aside, this is that chocolate sauce and it’s so stupid easy it doesn’t seem right to even call it a recipe. Pour this over ice cream as-is or top with crushed nuts or rice crispies, make fakey ice cream drumsticks or ice cream bars and you will be a hero for any summer party. Or be your own hero and keep it all for yourself, screw sharing. Oh, oh! Or stir it into homemade ice cream right when it’s almost done churning for such pretty chocolate chip ice cream.

Most grocery stores sell coconut oil now, it’s all the rage. I like the unrefined version because it still tastes a little coconutty, but  buy what you can find or what you like. Use whatever chocolate you have, or like, too–I had half a bar of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate bar leftover from Christmas, so that’s what I used, but I’m certain this would work as well with milk chocolate, white chocolate, (butterscotch chips??), etc. Add a little pinch of cinnamon or cayenne for a little kick, or a drop or two of mint extract.

Yeah, pie, cakes, elaborate baked goods involving the freshest ingredients from the farmers market. Whatever. I can make my own magic shell chocolate sauce.

Market goodies for June 1

Strawberries!!!! And the Amazing Wall of Lettuce! None-green-things made their first appearance this week in a lonely (expensive!!) little quart of strawberries.

In other tasty treats, SO. MUCH. LETTUCE. I’m trying to double the number of salads I eat per week, which means lots of yummy lettuce varieties to try, along with green garlic, garlic chives, baby red onions, swiss chard, spinach, another bunch of rhubarb, and bread. God I love this time of year.

Bolder in Boulder

No time for a market trip this week, thanks to being on vacation in Boulder visiting family friends. But along with the biking, hiking (and bear-spotting!), and 10k-ing (my first!) still some ridiculously good food to go with the amazing views and weather.

He wanted to steal our pic-a-nik basket.

Down the Flatiron

Up the Flatiron

Our wheezy leader (who mostly led from behind)

Rhubarb pie to celebrate

A year ago today I claimed this little corner of the Internet as my own. I wasn’t sure what to expect, not sure what to write, very little idea of how to take a decent picture, or even who would read what I had to say. And yet here we are, a year and 62 posts later, and I couldn’t be more thankful for everything. So here, have a slice of some birthday pie. Sorry, I forgot the candles, but I do have ice cream.

This recipe embodies everything I hoped this blog would lead to. Last year was my first encounter with rhubarb and I shared it with you; this year, I couldn’t wait for it to show up so I could really explore what I’ve been missing.

Last year, making pie crust involved muttered swears and prayers over bowls and rolling pins, with no discernible rhyme or reason to success or failure. Through some crazy experiments, including learning to render my own lard, I’ve had three pie crust successes in a row–hardly mastery, but as least my confidence has grown leaps and bounds (…I’ve just jinxed myself, haven’t I?).

As much as I’ve learned about cooking over the past year, though, the best part by far has been sharing with you and reading your comments; those connections mean everything to me, so thank you.

When it comes to this pie, it seems a crying shame to wait until strawberries appear to enjoy rhubarb. Since their seasons overlap for just a few short weeks around here, half of rhubarb season is already gone by the time summer’s opening act takes stage. Why not enjoy spring’s sweetest offering on its own merits? I think it’s earned its moment in the spotlight.

If you’re a rhubarb newbie like me, this pie is a great place to start. Rather than muddling flavors with strawberries, rhubarb stands on its own here. Its tartness is tamed with just enough sugar to make this a for-real dessert, juices are thickened simply with flour into the prettiest mauve-y pink oozy filling, cinnamon adds just enough to bring out the full range of rhubarb’s flavors.

Cheers to year two everyone–thanks for sticking around. There’s pie on the counter and ice cream in the freezer, please help yourself.