One of my little hills of squash

Nothing will make you more popular than a tomato patch in summertime. I already have quite a list of friends claiming my “extra” tomatoes, once they come in. I hope I have enough to satisfy everyone.

At this point my six plants are growing inches every day, so the tomato situation is looking promising. I have six plants, six different varieties. Four are heirlooms: Brandywine, Green Zebra, Carbon and Cherokee Purple. Two are hybrids: Lemon Boy and Rutgers. Some are old favorites of mine, but the Rutgers and Carbon varieties are new to me. Carbon is a black tomato that supposedly won a tomato taste test at Cornell, so we’ll see.

This is the most beautiful time in the vegetable garden, when everything is young and healthy and full of hope. The true heat hasn’t set it yet, the bugs haven’t gotten out of control, and the gardener looks forward to the fruit of her labors with expectation and optimism. My photographs can’t capture my sense of satisfaction in looking at the orderly rows and well-weeded paths. Over the weekend I put a few marigolds around the borders. They say that marigolds are a good companion plant for reducing insects, but I just think they add a nice splash of color to the unrelieved solid green.

In addition to the tomatoes, there will be zucchini (green and yellow). I love ratatouille and eat it all summer long. I have a row of pepper plants in all colors and heat levels, basil (both Italian and Thai), carrots, and zinnias for cutting. We’ve already been eating salads for a month from a separate patch of lettuce and arugula. Although I have the lettuces under a shade cloth cover, I’m afraid they may not last much longer. The hot weather will set in for good soon, and the plants are already thinking about bolting.

Curiously enough, no-one has tried to claim any extra zucchini I may have this summer.

Chilled Cucumber Soup
(makes about one quart)

2 large cucumbers, peeled, seeded and cut into chunks
1 clove garlic
1 c. greek style yogurt (such as Fage)
1 c. regular plain yogurt (may use 2 c. regular yogurt if greek style isn’t available)
1-2 c. buttermilk (depending on how thick you like your soup)
1/4 cup mixed fresh herbs: mint, marjoram, thyme, you pick
salt (don’t skimp here, it takes at least 1t., and maybe 2)
black pepper

Garnish: minced hard boiled egg, snipped chives

In food processor or blender, buzz up one cucumber and the garlic clove to a rough paste. Add salt, pepper, yogurt and blend on pulse. Add herbs and the second cucumber and pulse to blend, but leave a bit of texture in the soup. Add buttermilk to thin to the desired texture. Chill for at least an hour. You may add a few ice cubes to speed chilling of the soup, but don’t dilute it so much you make it watery. Garnish with the chopped egg and chives.

This Spring raced by, filled with a heavy schedule of consulting and yoga teaching. At last the yoga studio session has finished, and I’m looking forward to a break from teaching. I’ve committed to just one class per week during July and August, which should allow a bit more breathing room in my weeks. I plan to use the extra time to catch up on some overdue writing projects, re-invest in my own personal yoga practice, and hopefully post to the Jam a bit more regularly. Most of all, I want to slow down and enjoy the summer by spending more time with friends and family.

We had the unexpected pleasure today of hosting our good friend and neighbor Chris Apostolou and his father for lunch. Chris’ father is a spry Greek gentleman with a gift for cooking. He’s sent many traditional pastries and other goodies our way through Chris, and today he finally accepted a long-standing invitation to drop in.

Mr. Apostolou emigrated to America from the mountains of central Greece in the early fifties, with no English and just $60 in his pocket. He’s a fantastic story-teller and an inveterate leg-puller. I was charmed to learn his name is Pericles! Greek names are so wonderful. I’ve met other Greek-Americans with names like Socrates or Athena. It’s enough to give a person a cultural inferiority complex.

We lingered over lunch for a couple of hours, listening and laughing over Mr. Apostolou’s stories of working as a haphazardly trained waiter at high class hotels like San Francisco’s Fairmont and Washington’s Mayflower in the fifties. His best punch line: “And how do you want your steak tartare done?”

If I worked in an office I’d never get to have lunches like that.

Favorite Oatmeal Cookies
3/4 c butter, softened (1 and 1/2 sticks)
1 c packed light brown sugar
1/2 c granulated sugar
1 large egg
1/4 c water
1 t vanilla
2 and 2/3 c rolled oats
1 c flour
1 t salt
1/2 t baking soda
1 c sweetened flaked coconut
1 c chopped pecans

Cream together butter and sugars, then beat in egg, water and vanilla. Sift all-purpose flour together with baking soda and salt and stir into wet ingredients, then add remaining ingredients and mix. Drop spoonfuls onto greased cookie sheet and bake for 10-12 minutes. Since I don’t have a convection oven, I usually bake them for 10 to 11 minutes, then turn the pan and finish for another 1-2 minutes. Cool on the pan before removing to a cooling rack. These cookies are best when allowed to brown to a light caramel color. They are flat and very chewy, almost like Florentines. While I think old-fashioned rolled oats are best, you can use quick oats in pinch—with quick oats use 3 cups of oats and be aware the cookies will be somewhat doughier and less chewy. I don’t have to talk to you about using real butter, do I? Margarine just would not be the same.

This year I was excited to make a batch because I had the chance to go out to the country and buy apples directly from the grower. Fifer Orchards in Wyoming, Delaware, raises a large variety of apples. Even better, they sell the “seconds” or bruised and nicked apples, for dirt cheap prices out of huge bins right on site at the orchard. I bought an enormous sack, probably at least a peck of apples, for only a few dollars. That’s when the economics of making applesauce work for you, as well as the flavor benefits!

The hardest part of making applesauce is the preparation. Peeling twenty or thirty apples by hand is no joke! Modern kitchen equipment is no help at all here. What you want is something that is nineteenth century technology—an apple peeler gizmo like the one in the photo above. It makes short work of peeling and coring apples. With one of these the job may still be messy, but at least it will be quick.

After peeling and coring the apples, slice them into quarters or chunks. Put them in a pot with a little water and cook for about half an hour. Then it’s back to the old-fashioned techno gadgets for me. For pulping the apples after they’re cooked, I use a manual food mill with the coarsest disk in place. It gives perfect applesauce consistency—textured and not too smooth.

Here’s my very simple recipe, adapted from The Margaret Rudkin Pepperidge Farm Cookbook, ©1963. I love this cookbook, and stole it from my mother’s shelf the first chance I got.

Homemade Applesauce

20 – 25 medium apples
2 cups water
1 cup sugar

Wash, peel, quarter and core the apples. Cook them with the water until tender, about 25 to 30 minutes depending on the variety of apple used. Remove from heat and process through a food mill using the coarsest disk. Add the sugar and cook for five minutes longer. Cool and chill before serving. Makes about two quarts.

Applesauce freezes very well. You can experiment by using different blends of apple varieties. My favorite by far is to use two-thirds Golden Delicious to one-third Fuji. I find that combination produces my Platonic ideal of applesauce flavor and texture.

I’ve always gotten a thrill from visiting the brewery, now just as much as in the days when Victory was a tenth its current size. It’s a surprisingly sensual experience, with fascinating smells from the natural ingredients that go into the beer—the floral green smell of hops, the earthy oatmeal smell of barley malt, and the unmistakable slightly sour, yeasty smell of the fermenting beer. The wing where the beer is brewed and fermented is toasty warm, with bright sunlight falling in from skylights overhead. The rooms where the shiny stainless tanks stand to age the beer are cool, dim and slightly damp, with water puddling on the tile floor.

The finished product is served in a family-friendly restaurant overlooking the lagering tanks. I used to be surprised by how many children I saw in the dining room, but now I understand why. It’s a roomy, casual place with oak tables and chairs and high ceilings. Kids can run around between the tables and no-one seems to worry if they get a little loud. The food is simple but very tasty. The menu includes burgers, salads and barbecue. Most popular is the pizza cooked in two wood-burning ovens.

What draws most people is the chance to sample the full range of Victory’s many beers. There are usually at least eight to ten beers on tap at the restaurant, in a lineup that changes seasonally. Yesterday I sampled a light, fresh-tasting kolsch, a style that originated in Cologne, and a brown ale that’s still in the tanks and hasn’t even been named yet. Both were delicious. Victory has won multiple awards for their flagship Hop Devil beer, an India Pale Ale. They’re also increasingly famous for a Belgian-style beer called Golden Monkey and for their pilsner, Prima Pils. Prima was recognized as one of the best pilsner-style beers in the world by both the New York Times and Men’s Journal magazine in 2005.

If I’ve piqued your curiosity, I encourage you to look for the beer. It’s sold in supermarkets throughout the Washington area and in a growing number of states across the country. The company website has a beer finder to help you find a local distributor wherever you may live. Or you might consider taking your own little trip up to Downingtown. I think you’ll find it worth the trip.

This recipe has been adapted from one found in the Dairy Hollow House Soup and Bread Cookbook, by Crescent Dragonwagon. Yes, she’s a former (?) hippie. She also runs a well-known inn in the Ozark mountains of Arkansas. Her cookbook is one of my favorites, and I’ve made many of the recipes in it over the years.

Chicken Stock

4 to 5 pounds chicken pieces.
Note: A whole chicken cut up is great, or I often use a family pack of leg quarters since they’re so inexpensive.

2 medium onions, unpeeled and quartered
8 whole cloves
3 ribs celery with leaves, broken into big pieces
1 medium parsnip, scrubbed and cut into chunks (optional but highly recommended)
2 medium carrots, scrubbed and cut into chunks
3 cloves garlic, unpeeled
2 bay leaves
8 whole peppercorns
large pinch each of dried rosemary, thyme, sage
4 sprigs fresh parsley
large pinch of celery seeds
2 T. cider vinegar
1 T. salt

Rinse the chicken parts, leaving skin on but removing any large pieces of fat. Spray a large stock pot with non-stick spray and put chicken in the pot.

Stud each onion quarter with one of the cloves. Put all the vegetables into the pot with the chicken. Add the seasonings and top off the stock pot with spring water or filtered water. My stock pot is quite large, so I add about four to five quarts of water.

Bring to a boil slowly, over medium heat. Once the stock reaches a boil, lower heat to a steady simmer and continue to cook, uncovered, for two and a half to three hours. As liquid boils away, replenish occasionally to keep the water level up.

After about three hours of cooking, you’ll be left with a flavorful liquid and a bunch of mushy, tasteless chicken and vegetables. Pour off the stock by straining it into another large container or stockpot. I filter my stock through a mesh sieve lined with several layers of cheesecloth to strain out little bits of herbs and chicken that make the stock not so attractive.

Cool the strained stock as quickly as possible. In summer I often do this by sinking the container in a sink full of cold water mixed with ice cubes. Pour the cooled stock into freezer-safe containers (I use old yogurt containers) and refrigerate for several hours. After the stock has chilled thoroughly, the fat will rise to the top and solidify in a yellow sheet. You can simply lift the fat off and toss it for healthy, defatted stock.

Stock keeps indefinitely in the freezer. When I use it in soups, I never bother to thaw it out in advance. I run warm water over the outside of the container until the frozen stock slides out into my soup pot, then melt the stock over heat and bring it to a boil, which takes only a few minutes.

Makes 4 to 5 quarts stock.

But it’s a good rule to never say never. Just a few years later I found myself in love with a man who had just bought a nice house in northern Virginia. We quickly decided we couldn’t do without each other and I moved my household lock stock and barrel into his place eight miles outside of DC.

I expected that this would mean a sharp reduction in my exposure to other cultures. But I’d been reckoning without the turn-of-the-century model of a suburb. I quickly found that my neighbors were now a far more diverse lot than before. Whereas my neighborhood in Washington had been almost exclusively comprised of white professionals, now I live in a neighborhood where immigrant families outnumber the American-born. My immediate next-door neighbors are from the Philippines, from Jordan, from Guatemala and from the Caribbean. I’ve had lots of occasions to use my rusty Spanish when communicating with the folks with whom I now share a property line.

I haven’t suffered any decline in nearby ethnic restaurants and shops, either. Within walking distance from my house are four Asian grocery stores, two Latin American groceries, and one Indian grocery. There is a Bolivian bakery, a German gourmet food shop, a Vietnamese place specializing in pho (beef broth and noodle soup) and a Korean restaurant. The local pizza and sub shop is run by an Iranian family and the Italian restaurant has a staff of Eastern Europeans. If I get into my car, I am within five minutes of the Eden Center, a huge shopping plaza catering to the local Vietnamese population with restaurants, jewelry stores and video shops, travel agencies and more.

The Bolivian bakery at the end of my street is a great example of the stew of influences I’m surround by on a daily basis. The shop makes terrific croissants and doughnuts, but also sells Bolivian favorites I’d never encountered before. Pastel con api is a popular combination—a light flaky pastry filled with cheese and a thick warming drink made from blue corn and sweet spices. There is also a sit-down Bolivian restaurant nearby and I’m trying to learn my way through a menu that is filled with dishes I’ve never tasted before, like sopa de trigo, a hearty soup thickened with whole grains of wheat.

Don’t think I’m living is some unusual enclave either. In this area, my neighborhood is typical, nothing special. So just a suggestion to my city-dwelling friends still harboring anti-suburban mindsets: Why don’t you come out and visit a little more? You might find that the whole idea of city versus suburbs is more than a bit passé.