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Still Life with Soup Tureen, by Oskar Moll.

Recipe below: Minestrone with Pumpkin, Parsnip, Borlotti Beans, and Rosemary

Minestrone, the big chunky vegetable soup of Italy, is traditionally cooked long and slow for a uniform flavor that many people find comforting. Not me. There’s something about that sour long-boiled vegetable taste that turns me off. The minestrone of my childhood, both Progresso and homemade, was so disappointing, bland, boring. And I wasn’t crazy about the soup’s look and texture either. I cook my minestrone hard and fast. My grandmother would definitely not approve. Her summer minestrone was soft and greenish brown from its zucchini, yellow squash, and string beans, with a suggestion of maroon from its long-cooked backyard tomato. I know long-cooked vegetables are a Southern Italian thing, the idea being to try to coax nuances out of the vegetables. But you reach a point of diminishing returns, and my people have crossed it many times. My family used to cook broccoli rabe down to practically a purée. I haven’t made it that way for decades. Why grow or buy beautiful vegetables and then go boil the crap out of them?

I’m not saying a minestrone should be al dente. That would be completely un-Italian. You do need to release flavor with cooking. I’m looking for the perfect sweet spot of tender but not falling apart. This is especially important with pumpkin, butternut squash, and sweet potato, all of which disintegrate into a mush with almost no encouragement. I like having the beautifully colored little bits of vegetable collapse in my mouth, not in my bowl. The cooking time for this is only about half an hour. I think my grandmother let hers go through a whole afternoon of soap operas.

I served this fall soup topped with a spoonful of parsley sage pesto. I thought that was a nice match with the rosemary. If you’d like to give it a try, you can find my recipe for the pesto here.

Minestrone with Pumpkin, Parsnip, Borlotti Beans, and Rosemary

Extra-virgin olive oil
1 ¼-pound chunk of pancetta, cut into small cubes
1 large onion, diced
2 celery stalks, cut into medium dice, plus their leaves, lightly chopped
¼ teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg
3 carrots, cut into medium dice
1 sweet potato, peeled and cut into medium dice
3 parsnips, peeled and cut into medium dice
1½ cups chopped pumpkin or butternut squash (chopped to about the same size as all the other vegetables)
6 medium rosemary sprigs, the leaves chopped
6 thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
2 fresh bay leaves
Salt
Black pepper
½ cup dry vermouth
1 quart homemade chicken broth
1 15-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, well chopped
1 1-pound bag Rancho Gordo cranberry beans, cooked until just tender and then drained
A drizzle of rice wine vinegar, if needed

Get out a big soup pot, and drizzle into it about 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Get it hot over medium heat, and then add the pancetta, letting it release its fat and crisp up a bit. Add the onion, celery plus leaves, nutmeg, and carrot, and let cook for about 4 minutes. Add the sweet potato, parsnip, pumpkin or butternut squash, half of the rosemary and thyme, and both bay leaves. Season with salt and black pepper, and let sauté, stirring everything around occasionally, for another 5 minutes.

Add the vermouth, and let it bubble away. Add the chicken broth and the tomatoes. Bring to a boil, and then turn the heat down just a touch, and cook, uncovered, at a medium boil, until the vegetables are all just tender, about 15 minutes. You’ll probably need to skim the surface at this point.

Add all the beans and enough warm water to achieve a medium loose soup consistency. Let cook for about another 5 minutes. Taste for a good balance of flavors, adding a tiny drizzle of rice wine vinegar, if needed, to bring up the acidity.

Add the remaining herbs and taste for seasoning, adding more salt or black pepper, if needed. Add a drizzle of fresh olive oil.

Serve hot or warm, with or without the sage parsley pesto. If you don’t use the pesto, you might like to top each bowl with a grating of grana Padano cheese.

I Love Chili con Carne

Red Hot Chili Peppers, by Maria Kireev.

Recipes below: My Chili con Carne; My Hot Sauce, Mexican Style

If you’ve never tasted chili as imagined in the culinary head of an Italian American girl, you’re in for a treat. I am the chili queen of the West Village, or at least I’d like to think so. Over the years I’ve been playing around with my recipe, and I believe I’ve now gotten it down, a good blend of North Mexican, Southern Texan, Northeastern American, and Southern Italian. Sound like a mess? It works for me.

I grew up with chili. Every other Wednesday it appeared on my public school lunch tray, very brown, very sour. It trended in 1970s New York, a thing at all-night diners, the perfect hangover helper. Diner chili was often dull beyond belief, helped by a coating of Tabasco. Every Italian American mom I knew made chili, mine included. It’s similar to putting together a good ragù Bolognese, so the reflexes are in place. My mother made great ragù, with nutmeg, white wine, milk, and a touch of tomato. Her chili was okay, but it wasn’t in her blood, so generic ingredients, such as supermarket chili powder, took over. I can’t stand the taste of that stuff.  Chili cooking is not in my blood either, but I just figured it out. First off, no musty chili powder. I instead go with a mix of dried ancho, smoked paprika, and cumin, and then I add soft notes with cinnamon and allspice. It tastes like country cooking. Whose country I’m not sure.

So here’s my version. I make it with a mix of beef and pork. It’s a medium-hot chili that suits my husband and sister, who can’t take too much heat. I serve it with my hot sauce on the side (the recipe for that is here, too).

My Chili con Carne

Extra-virgin olive oil
1 pound ground beef chuck
1 pound ground pork
1 chorizo sausage, finely diced
Salt
1 tablespoon wildflower honey
1 large onion, diced
1 cubanelle pepper, diced
1 poblano pepper, diced
1 jalapeño pepper, diced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
2 fresh bay leaves
1 teaspoon each of dried ancho chili powder, sweet smoked Spanish paprika, ground cumin, ground cinnamon, and ground allspice
1 cup dark beer
1 14½-ounce can Italian plum tomatoes, chopped and lightly drained
1 cup chicken broth
1 1-pound bag Rancho Gordo Ayocote Negro beans, cooked until just tender and left sitting in their cooking liquid
About 8 sprigs of fresh Italian oregano, the leaves lightly chopped
The juice from about ½ a lime

Get out a big casserole-type pan fitted with a good lid. Set it over medium heat, and pour in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add all the beef, pork, and sausage, breaking it up with a wooden spoon so it covers the pan bottom. Season with a little salt, and drizzle in the honey. Let the meat brown a bit. Add the onion, all the peppers, the garlic, and the bay leaves. Cook down until everything is soft and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Add all the ancho, paprika, cumin, cinnamon, and allspice, and cook another few minutes so their flavors can open up.

Add the beer, and let it bubble out. Add the tomatoes and the broth. Turn the heat to low, cover the pan, and let it simmer for about an hour.

Add the beans with about ½ cup of their cooking liquid. Simmer for another half hour. If the chili looks very liquidy, cook it uncovered.

Taste for seasoning. You’ll probably need more salt, but also consider the spices. I often add a little extra cumin at the end. You might want to add more ancho or a little more fresh jalapeño. Add the chopped oregano and a squeeze of lime.

I like to serve my chili over rice, with a dollop of crema, a drizzle of hot sauce, and possibly some chopped scallion greens.

My Hot Sauce, Mexican Style

  • Servings: About 1½ cups
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Extra-virgin olive oil
1 Scotch bonnet pepper, chopped
4 Red bell peppers, seeded and chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 garlic clove, peeled and smashed
1 fresh bay leaf
A few thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
A big pinch of allspice
A big pinch of cumin
A big pinch of hot smoked Spanish paprika
A drizzle of rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon sugar
Salt

Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in a sauté pan over medium heat. Add the Scotch bonnet and red bell peppers, shallot, garlic, bay leaf, thyme, allspice, cumin, and paprika. Cook until everything is fragrant and just starting to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the vinegar and sugar, some salt, and a splash of water. Lower the heat, cover the pan, and simmer until everything is very soft, about another 8 minutes. There should be some liquid left in the pan. If not, add more water. Purée in a food processor. Adjust the seasoning, and pour into a bowl. This should last about 2 weeks in the fridge.

Shrimp Painting, by Suntola ART.

Recipe below: Shrimp Saganaki with Feta, Dill, and Marjoram

There used to be a small Greek restaurant, or more accurately a kind of a diner-restaurant, on the corner of Seventh Avenue and 14th Street, right around the corner from my Manhattan apartment. Mykonos was a casual place with average Greek food, and you could also get an American-cheese omelet or a hamburger. I liked their spanakopita with a side of Greek salad, which was what I almost always ordered. And they served a super-resinated retsina, which I always ordered. I ate there a lot. One afternoon, having a real need to get out of the small study in my small apartment, I walked in and sat down, feeling pretty good about myself. I didn’t order my usual spanakopita but chose instead something called shrimp saganaki, because I didn’t know what it was, and the mix of shrimp and feta sounded so terrible I just had to try it. This must have been about 25 years ago.

Everything went well enough with my retsina, but I was feeling anxious about a piece I was on an early deadline for for Food & Wine magazine, “How to Grill Summer Fruit”—hard to write in January. My bubbling plate of shrimp and feta and tomatoes arrived. It looked decent and smelled like dill and dried oregano. Not bad at all. But for some reason, seemingly out of nowhere and for no reason, I started to cry. I tried to choke it back, but that just made it worse. Everyone in the place stared. The waiters asked if I was all right. I said yes. They whispered to one another in Greek. I thought if I didn’t pull myself together they might call the police (as if the cops didn’t have anything better to do). I had a job. I wasn’t living alone. I had friends. But at that moment I felt like a creep. Was I turning into one of those West Village wack jobs who drink alcohol in diners at one in the afternoon? I hoped not. Maybe I was at a point in my life where I was just all-around scared.  Maybe I actually had no idea how I was going to write that fruit article. Maybe I was hoping my Italian American father would walk in and bring me back home. These were all possibilities.

After what seemed an embarrassingly long time, I stopped crying. I apologized. The waiters assured me everything was okay. I felt like a mess and knew I looked red and blotchy. One of them reheated my dish. A nice touch. He also brought me another retsina, a free one. An even nicer touch. I then ate the whole shrimp thing and loved it (although the shrimp was a tad overcooked—I suppose it would have been better had I eaten it when it was delivered). Shrimp with feta turned out to be a good thing. The waiter then brought me a baklava, also for free. Maybe I should have cried in restaurants more often.

This saganaki shrimp creation was a 1960s-era Greek dish that made its way to this country largely via Greek-owned diners and restaurants. It’s an elaboration on a cooked cheese preparation also called saganaki, which is just the name for the crockery it’s cooked in. I still order it when I see it offered, and it hasn’t made me cry since, which I take as a sign of my maturity. Symposium, an old-time place on the Upper West Side, makes it, and it’s not bad there. Not great though. Mykonos is long gone, so I can’t have it there anymore. I’ve ordered it at other restaurants, other Greek diners, and found it unreliable. It requires a delicate balance. You need lovely shrimp, good fresh or canned tomatoes, fresh herbs, and a tangy but not chemical-tasting feta. It’s not usually great at a diner, but higher-quality Greek places often get it right.

If you cook it at home, as I often do, you can make this potentially lovely dish sing sweetly. I like to prepare it at the end of the summer and in early fall, when I’ve still got local tomatoes and lots of herbs in my garden. Like now. Marjoram and dill might seem a strange combination, but, as I’ve discovered, they really aren’t. Dill mixed with oregano is a common flavoring in Greece, so, by extension, marjoram, oregano’s gentler more floral sister, has to be good—better even, and less harsh. I’ve added a little cinnamon and honey to the tomato sauce because I’ve tasted and liked those flavors in some versions.

I’ve been saddened this year with summer’s end. Not crying saddened, but just kind of dulled out. Making this shrimp saganaki again, with what’s left of my homegrown tomatoes and herbs, really picked me up. Maybe it can help you too.

Shrimp Saganaki with Feta, Dill, and Marjoram

2 pounds shell-on extra-large wild-caught shrimp
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt
8 dill sprigs, lightly chopped, plus some sprigs for garnish
A big splash of dry vermouth
5 medium-size round end-of-summer tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped
The grated zest from 1 lemon
A pinch of sugar
Aleppo pepper
2 medium shallots, diced
2 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
A big pinch of ground cinnamon (about ¼ teaspoon)
1 teaspoon runny wildflower honey
About 8 medium marjoram sprigs, chopped, plus a few whole sprigs for garnish
A 6-ounce chunk of Greek or French feta cheese (French is a bit milder)

First you’ll want to make a quick shrimp broth with the shrimp shells, so shell and devein the shrimp, putting all the shells in a medium saucepan. Add a big drizzle of olive oil, a little salt, and a big sprig of dill. Sauté the shells until they all turn pink, about a minute or so. This will intensify their flavor. Add the vermouth, and let it bubble away for a minute or so. Pour in about 1½ cups of water, and let everything simmer at a low bubble for about 15 minutes. By then the broth will have deepened in flavor and reduced. It should smell sweet and shrimpy. You’ll want about ¾ cup of nicely flavored broth, so let it cook a little longer if it still looks watery. Strain the broth into a small bowl, and set it aside.

While your broth is bubbling away, place your chopped tomatoes in a colander, sprinkle them with a little salt, and let them drain into a bowl for about 15 minutes. Summer tomatoes can be very juicy, and you may wind up with too much liquid in your finished dish if you don’t drain them. But keep the tomato water, just in case you find you need a little moisture later.

Put the shrimp in a bowl, drizzle it with a little olive oil, and season it with salt, the lemon zest, a pinch of sugar, and some Aleppo pepper to taste. Give it a good toss.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

In a large, wide skillet (cast iron is a good choice), heat a tablespoon or so of olive oil over medium heat. Add the shallot, and sauté until it’s soft and fragrant, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and the cinnamon and a bit more Aleppo, and sauté a minute longer, just to release their flavors. Add the tomatoes, the honey, the chopped marjoram, the remaining dill, and a little salt, and simmer, uncovered, for about 5 minutes. Add the shrimp broth, and continue cooking about 5 minutes longer. You don’t want it to go too long, as the sauce will continue cooking in the oven.

Arrange the shrimp on top of the sauce. Crumble the feta over the top, and give everything a good drizzle of olive oil.

Stick the skillet in the hot oven, and roast, uncovered, until the shrimp is just cooked through and tender, about 7 or 8 minutes. Garnish with the marjoram and dill sprigs, and serve hot.  A side of orzo or couscous will be very nice with it.

Recipe below: Penne with Chicken Livers, Summer Tomatoes, Cognac, and Sage

In Diana Vreeland’s “Why Don’t You?” column in Vogue, she would dare us to do all sorts of zany things like ride down Fifth Avenue on a leopard wearing nothing but a pair of jewel-incrusted Roger Vivier court shoes, and other wild fashion stunts. I’m thinking of starting a food version of that column, suggesting you try cooking something you might not want to, for fear or disgust.

This gets me thinking about chicken livers, which happen to be one of my favorite foods. I understand that a lot of people don’t love them, whether from the way they look, reflecting too strongly on what they actually are, or maybe just thinking they don’t like the taste. Okay, I sort of get that. But all I ask is that you try them this way, in a pasta dish, with beautiful end-of-summer tomatoes and a lot of fresh herbs.

Here are a few tricks to making delicious chicken livers: First, buy really good ones, not the nasty Perdue brand, and make sure they’re really fresh. Dry them well, so you can get a good crispy sauté. Also—I learned this in my years of restaurant cooking—a last-minute flame-up with cognac or brandy or grappa or a fruity eau de vie will do wonders to remove that slightly irony taste that many find unappealing. Also you must not overcook them. A uniform gray throughout is no good. Ideally a touch of pink in the center is chicken liver perfect.

For herbs, sage and liver are a time-honored combo, so I went with them. But to round out the dish I added rosemary, too, incorporating it during the cooking so it mellowed out. The sage I cut into chiffonade and scattered in on at the end. I sometimes find that if you chop sage finely and leave it too long on the heat it can get a musty taste. This way it stays fresh, without opening up and permeating the whole dish.

Penne with Chicken Livers, Summer Tomatoes, Cognac, and Sage

  • Servings: 4 as a main course
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1 pound good quality organic chicken livers
Salt
Black pepper
A big pinch of sugar
Extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, possibly a little more
1 large shallot, cut into small dice
1 small carrot, cut into small dice
¼ teaspoon allspice
4 or 5 small sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped
A splash of sweet vermouth
4 or 5 medium round summer tomatoes, peeled, seeded, cut into medium dice, and then drained for about 15 minutes (but save the tomato water)
1 pound penne
A splash of cognac or brandy
About 6 sage leaves, cut into chiffonade, plus a few nice-looking whole sprigs for garnish
A chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano or grana Padano cheese

Trim the chicken livers of any connecting sinewy tissue, and then cut them into approximately 1-inch chunks. Dry them well, and stick them in a bowl. Sprinkle on a little salt, black pepper, the sugar, and a drizzle of olive oil. Give them a toss.

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, add salt, and bring it to boil.

While the water is coming to a boil, get out a large skillet, and set it over medium heat. Add a drizzle of olive oil and half of the butter. Add the shallot and carrot, and sauté them until softened, about 4 minutes or so. Add the allspice and the rosemary, season with a little salt and black pepper, and cook a minute longer, just to release their flavors. Add the splash of sweet vermouth, letting it bubble out. Add the tomatoes, and simmer, uncovered, for about 5 minutes. You really just want to heat them through, not cooking them much, to preserve their freshness. Turn off the heat.

Put the penne in the boiling water.

Get out another large skillet, and get it hot over high heat. Add the rest of the butter. When the butter is bubbling, add the chicken livers, spreading them out over the pan. Let them cook without moving them around at all until you can see them start to brown nicely, about 3 minutes or so. Using tongs, turn the livers, and brown the other side, about a minute or two longer. You want them to stay a touch pink at the center. They may sputter and pop a little while cooking. Don’t let that upset you. It’s normal. Just stand back a bit. Add the cognac, which will most likely flame up. I find it exciting. Shake the pan for a few seconds, just until the flames die down, and then add the livers to the tomato sauce.

Drain the penne, and pour it into a large serving bowl. Add a drizzle of olive oil and the sage chiffonade, and give it a toss. Add the tomato liver sauce, and toss gently, adding some of the tomato water if it seems dry. You can also add a bit more butter, if you like (I usually like). Check for seasoning, and then garnish with the sage sprigs and serve right away, bringing the cheese to the table for grating.

Still Life with Apricots, Luis Melendez, Naples, 1716–1780.

Recipe below: Apricot Tart with Almonds and Thyme

Growing up in New York I’ve almost never had a decent apricot. Seems we don’t know how to grow them here. Even in season at farmers’ markets they’re usually sour or, even worse, mealy and tasteless. I asked the people at Migliorelli Farm in Tivoli about this and was told that apricots are “temperamental” and have a “short period of perfect ripeness.” My brother, who lives north of L.A., says the local apricots out there are much better than we get. I was upset to hear that.

Cooking helps immensely. The ones I found recently were pretty sour but also juicy and  just so pretty I had to buy them. The ones Migliorelli grows are a deep orange with splotches of pinky red. They smelled good, sort of like apricots should, so I thought heat and sugar would wake them up. And they did.

This tart was inspired by a Patricia Wells recipe I learned about many years ago. The technique is so easy compared with pâte brisée–based tarts. What you do is basically make a cookie dough and press it into a tart pan. You don’t even have to roll it out. And forget about the annoying blind-baking bean-and-aluminum-foil procedure. You just stick it in the oven to firm it up a bit before filling it. Cut the apricots in half (small plums also work well), stick them cut side up in the pan, and pour a cream and egg mix over the top. I flavored my custard with almonds and a drizzle of orzata syrup, which I love and which is less obnoxious than that crappy, ultra strong almond extract, the ruin of so many Italian American pastry shops.

The mix of apricots and almonds can’t be beat, and, as I’ve just discovered, adding fresh thyme brings the whole thing together with a weird hit of savoriness.

You’ll want a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom.

Apricot Tart with Almonds and Thyme

For the crust:

1 stick unsalted butter, melted and then cooled to room temperature, plus a little extra butter to grease the pan
⅓ cup sugar
1 tablespoon orzata syrup
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
The grated zest from 1 small lemon
1½ cups regular flour
A pinch of salt
1 tablespoon finely ground almonds

For the custard:

1 heaping tablespoon crème fraîche
½ cup heavy cream
1 large egg
1 teaspoon regular flour
1 tablespoon orzata syrup
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons runny wildflower honey
About 6 sprigs thyme, the leaves lightly chopped, plus of few nice looking sprigs for garnish

Plus:

About 1½ pounds ripe local apricots, pitted and halved (a bit sour is better than mealy), cut in half and pitted

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Put all the ingredients for the crust except for the ground almonds in a bowl, and mix them together until you have a crumbly, moist mass. Coat the tart pan with a little butter, and then dump the crust into the center of the pan, pressing it all around until you have a nice, relatively even crust all around. Build the sides up a touch to allow for shrinkage. Poke the bottom lightly with a fork in several places.

Stick the tart pan in the oven until the crust is very lightly golden at the edges and puffs a bit in the center, about 12 minutes or so.

Take the tart pan out of the oven and sprinkle the almonds more or less evenly over the floor of the crust.

Put all the ingredients for the custard in a bowl, and whisk until smooth.

Arrange the apricots, cut side up, in the tart pan. Pour the custard mix over them, being careful not to get any over the rim.

Bake until the crust is golden and the custard looks set, about 35 minutes. Garnish with the thyme sprigs. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Pink and Sage Green, by Jennifer Hornyak.

Recipe below: Grilled Pork Chops with Caper Sage Salsa

I love a grilled pork chop. When it’s properly done the fat gets all crispy and there’s a slight pink at the bone. My nostalgia for grilled pork grows partly from childhood memories of my father’s boozy summer grill nights, when everything and everybody was amply toasted and things were not often properly done. It’s a mixed bag of recall, but it gives me mostly a good feeling.

Dick would start his grill nights with a “mart,” meaning a good-size glass of vodka on the rocks with a twist. He’d have a few of those and then move on to the big bottle of mouth-puckering Chianti. The pork went on a fire that never was given a chance to die down to suitable-for-cooking orange coal. Flames shot up, and the meat almost always emerged burnt on the outside and still cold in the middle. My mother would scream that everything was “completely blackened. Disgusting. And raw.” There was a lingering fear of trichinosis back in the late sixties and early seventies, so the “raw” question stirred panic in Italian American moms (maybe in all moms, but it seems the Italian ones were always especially prone to medical scares). We ate all the blackened raw pork anyway and sort of loved it. The few pork chops that were actually overcooked in addition to being blackened (no trichinosis there), were coveted. I actually preferred the rare ones. They were more like steak. I also thought I knew that trichinosis was a thing of the past. All the pork chops, in whatever stage, got topped with fire-roasted onions and peppers, and that was a good touch. I suppose our grill nights might possibly have been just as unruly without the booze, but I guess we’ll never know.

I still love grilled pork chops, especially soaked in a simple marinade. Here I prepare a marinade with a hint of the sea. When I “man” the grill now, I try to not get too bombed and actually pay attention to what I’m doing, which in a way seems like less fun than when my father was at the grill, but I guess it’s a tradeoff. I like my pork cooked juicy, with that little touch of pink. I try for that and usually more or less succeed.

Sage is a strange-smelling herb. I like it, but sometimes it stumps me. I search for new ways to use it, especially since I’ve got so much of it in a patch that comes back bigger every year. This sage and caper salsa was a surprise. I was expecting it to be kind of harsh, but the good olive oil, the capers, and the pine nuts seemed to bring out the sweetness in the herb. Sage is lovely on pork, classic, but also, I have discovered, on whole grilled trout. And try it on thick slices of roasted pumpkin or butternut squash, as the summer moves toward its end.

Happy summer grilling to you.

Grilled Pork Chops with Caper Sage Salsa

4 large bone-in pork loin chops

For the marinade:

2 teaspoons Thai fish sauce or Italian colatura
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 summer garlic cloves, crushed
Black pepper
1 tablespoon sweet vermouth
1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar
A little salt

For the salsa (makes about 1 ½ cups, probably a bit more than you’ll need, but it’ll keep for a day or two without losing too much flavor):

¾ cup fresh sage leaves
½ cup flat-leaf parsley leaves
½ cup Sicilian capers, soaked for about 20 minutes, rinsed, and drained
½ cup really good extra-virgin olive oil (I used Olio Verde, a Sicilian brand)
A palmful of pine nuts (about 1½ tablespoons)
1 small fresh, summer garlic clove, lightly crushed
The grated zest from 1 small lemon, plus a squeeze of its juice
Salt
Black pepper

Dry off the pork chops and lay them out in a shallow pan. Mix all the ingredients for the marinade together and pour it over the meat, turning them over a few times so everything is nicely distributed. Let marinate in the refrigerator for about 2 hours.

To make the salsa: Set up a small pot of water and bring it to a boil. Add the sage and parsley leaves. Blanch them for a minute, and then pour them into a colander and let cold water run over them to set their good green color. Squeeze out as much water as possible.

Put the blanched herbs and all the other salsa ingredients in a food processor, and pulse about 6 times or so, until the mix has a loose but rough green pesto-like consistency. Don’t let it pulse so much that you wind up with a smooth purée. Scrape the salsa out into a small bowl.

Take the pork chops out of the refrigerator about a half hour before you want to cook them. While they’re coming to room temperature, set up your charcoal grill and let it burn down to orange coals (not my father’s impatient flame fire).

Rub oil on the grill surface. Take the pork chops from the marinade, letting excess marinade drip off, and place them on the grill. If it starts to flame up, lower its cover. Let the meat cook until you’ve got good grill marks and the chops move easily when you give them a nudge, about 4 minutes. Flip them, and grill their other side. If your fire is really hot you might want to move them slightly off to the side so they can cook without browning too much. Another 4 minutes is about right for cooked but with a touch of pink at the bone, but that really depends on your fire and the thickness of the meat, so it’s a personal judgment call.

When your chops are done, give them a final sprinkling of salt, and plate them. Top each serving with a big dollop of the salsa, and serve right away.

If find that these chops go really well with ratatouille and grilled country bread rubbed with summer garlic and brushed with good olive oil.

These peaceful fish and lady are happy to be underwater, where they hear a lot of rumbling. This painting is by Sergio Fiorentino. This is a portrait of me.

Still Life with Peaches, by Paul Gaugin.

Recipe below: Crostata with Summer Peaches and Rosemary

Fruit and herbs. I’m always looking for good new combinations of fruit with fresh herbs. And in my culinary travels this summer I’ve discovered I love rosemary with stone fruit. Not too much rosemary; just a small amount will perfume the fruit with a gentle evergreen aroma. Too much and you might wind up with harsh medicine. So follow me here, and I’ll show you how nice it can be.

I first tried this flavor combo last week with small yellow plums, called lemon plums, that I found at the Union Square market, making a rosemary-scented syrup that I poured hot over the stoned fruit, letting it soak in. It was piney and sweet. Then I moved on to peaches, which had just become available at Migliorelli, my farm stand in Rhinebeck. They had both yellow and white peaches. I chose the white ones for this, but I left their mottled red skins on for color and richness of taste. Before I went about putting this crostata together, I sliced a peach, placed a few rosemary needles on it, and ate it. The taste was a mix of sweet, pine, lemon, and, I thought, also a hint of black pepper. That was what I was hoping for.

Heat both mellows and deepens flavor, depending on what you’re working with. For instance here the peaches became less acidic, more just melting sweet with a hit of citrus. The rosemary lost its harsh edge, but also spread its flavor throughout the crostata in a softened way. All good.

When apricots show up at my markets, in the next week or so, I’m going to try using rosemary on them, maybe in a sorbetto. I’m not sure, but stay tuned.

And happy summer herb cooking at all my friends.

Crostata with Summer Peaches and Rosemary

For the pastry:

2 1/4 cups regular flour
1 tablespoon sugar, plus a little more for sprinkling on the crust
A pinch of salt
2 small sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped (about 1 teaspoon chopped)
1½ sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into small dice, plus a little more for greasing the sheet pan
¼ cup cold white wine
1 egg yolk, for brushing on the crust

For the filling:

4 large or 5 medium-size summer peaches, unpeeled and sliced
¼ cup sugar
2 small sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped (about 1 teaspoon chopped)
A tiny pinch of salt
A pinch of ground allspice
A tiny splash of Kirsch or grappa (about 1 teaspoon)
A big squeeze of fresh lemon juice

To make the pastry, put the flour in a food processor. Add the sugar, salt, and rosemary, and give it a few pulses to blend everything. Add the butter, and give it a few quick pulses to break up the butter into tiny bits. Add the white wine, and pulse a few more times, just until you have a crumbly, moist mass. Don’t pulse so much that it works into a ball.

Turn the dough out onto a work surface, and press it into a ball. Cover it with plastic, and stick it in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours (you can also leave it overnight, if you like).

About a half hour before you plan on cooking the crostata, put the sliced peaches in a large bowl. Add the sugar, rosemary, salt, and allspice. Add the Kirsch and the lemon juice, and give everything a toss.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, and rub a large sheet pan with butter.

Take the pastry from the refrigerator, and let it warm up for about 15 minutes.

Flour a work surface, and roll the pastry out into a 12- or 13-inch round, trimming the edges to make it even. Place it on a large, standard-size sheet pan, which is 13 inches wide, so it should fit perfectly.

Lift the peaches out of the bowl with a slotted spoon so most of the liquid gets left behind (you don’t want the crostata to get too soggy), and place them in the center of the pastry, pressing them down a bit so the fruit comes to about 1½ inches from the rim. Pull up the edge of the pastry, and fold it back toward the center, pressing it all around so it makes a pretty tight package (see my photo above for what it should look like).

Put the egg yolk in a glass with a splash of water, and whisk it around. Brush the crust with the egg wash, and then sprinkle it with a little sugar.

Bake the crostata until it’s golden and fragrant, about 30 to 35 minutes. Then let it rest for about ½ hour before cutting.

I like to serve it with sweetened ricotta or crème fraîche or whipped cream—or with nothing. A glass of Beaujolais is a wonderful accompaniment, reminding me of the bowls of peaches in red wine my father used to bring out for summer cookouts.