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Dill, by Stephanie St. John.

Recipe below: Penne with Swordfish, Capers, Almonds, and Dill

The only time I remember having dill as a kid was when my mother would make her “American” potato salad. The potato salad was held together with Hellmann’s and may have included sweet pickles. And it had dill, possibly dried, I’m thinking, which wasn’t perhaps my ideal initiation into that bold, beautiful herb. Strangely I can’t remember if I liked the potato salad. It was just one of those things that fulfilled the starch quota when pasta wasn’t appropriate (when would that be exactly?), appearing at some point during the summer, usually when hot dogs were on the menu.

Dill is almost never used in Italian cooking (or in traditional French cooking either). Now when I think of dill I first recall non-Italian dishes that I’ve grown to love, such as borscht, gravlax, picked herring, cucumber salads, yogurt sauces, and Greek spanakopita. It’s an herb native to Southern Russia, Western Asia, and the Eastern Mediterranean and has never taken hold in Italy, even in the South, where you’d think it would appeal to their affinity for bold flavors. But basil wasn’t native to Italy either, and look how that’s changed the flavor of Italian cooking. Dill certainly would be easy enough to grow down there. Possibly wild fennel and fennel seeds have filled the niche that dill and dill seed would have occupied.

Even though I didn’t grow up with much dill in my life, I now love it, and I look for ways to sneak it into my Italian dishes. It’s best when mixed in with a more traditional herb such as fennel, basil, or parsley, so it doesn’t completely throw the taste off kilter. Recently I made a caponata, the Sicilian agro-dolce eggplant dish that usually contains basil or parsley. By adding a little dill along with the parsley I got it closer to eggplant preparations like baba ghanoush or the Greek melitzanosalata, both of which often include dill. I think it came out great.

And with fish, as the Scandinavians well know, dill’s a natural. Many years ago I tried substituting the wild fennel in pasta con le sarde, which is impossible to find on the East coast unless you grow it yourself, with a mix of bulb fennel fronds and a few dill sprigs. The flavor was not spot on, but I loved the result. I’m pretty sure a straight-up Palermitan would not be pleased with my altered version of his city’s classic, so I named it New York-style and left it at that.

The dill in my herb garden is now exploding with umbrella-like yellow flower clusters. Seeds will follow, and I’ll try and collect some for drying. My plant is also home to several beautiful yellow-and-black-striped caterpillars, which I have learned will soon enough turn into eastern black swallowtail butterflies. They love to eat Queen Anne’s lace and all members of the carrot family, which includes my dill. Watching them eat is interesting.. They lift their heads, bunch up their necks, bob a bit, and then slowly chew down a dill frond. Then they relax. I’m careful not to disrupt their resting spots when I take my cuttings.

FullSizeRender.jpgMy soon-to-be eastern black swallowtail butterfly.

I’ve again been thinking about combining fish and pasta with dill, and I’ve come up with this new Sicilian-inspired dish using swordfish. This time I mixed the dill with a little fennel pollen, and I thought the blend tasted excellent. See what you think. 

(Serves 5)

Extra-virgin olive oil
¾ cup dry homemade breadcrumbs
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon fennel pollen
4 scallions, thinly sliced, using most of the tender green part
2 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced
About 20 summer cherry tomatoes, cut in half
4 anchovy fillets, roughly chopped
1 pound penne
¾ to 1 pound swordfish, skinned and cut into ½-inch cubes
A big pinch of sugar
A splash of dry vermouth
About 10 large dill sprigs, chopped
⅓ cup slivered almonds, toasted
⅓ cup salt-packed capers, soaked and well rinsed

In a small skillet, heat a tablespoon of olive oil over medium flame. Add the breadcrumbs, seasoning them with salt, black pepper, and half of the fennel pollen. When they just begin to turn crisp and golden, after about a minute, pull them from the heat, and put them in a small bowl.

Set up a large pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt.

Meanwhile, in a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. Add the scallions, and let them sauté until softened, about 2 minutes. Add the garlic, and cook until it gives off aroma but doesn’t color, about 30 seconds. Now add the cherry tomatoes, and sauté until they start to soften and throw off some juice. Add the anchovies, and stir them in. Turn off the heat.

Start cooking the penne.

Toss the swordfish cubes with about a tablespoon or so of olive oil, the sugar, the remaining fennel pollen, and a little salt and pepper. Heat a large skillet (cast iron is good) over high heat. When it’s really hot, add the swordfish, spreading it out in more or less one layer. Let it brown well on one side without moving it around at all, about 2 minutes. (I don’t bother to turn the pieces; I’m just after color on one side, to provide flavor and texture. When I’ve tried browning the other side I’ve found it easy to overcook the fish, and already the fish will continue to cook a bit when you add it to the tomato sauce.) Add the splash of vermouth, let it bubble for a few seconds, and then add the swordfish, with all its cooking juices, to the tomato mix. Give it a good stir.

When the penne is al dente, drain it, saving about a half cup of the cooking water, and place the pasta in a large serving bowl. Add a big drizzle of fresh olive oil, the dill, the almonds, and the capers, and toss. Now pour on the swordfish sauce, and give it all another toss, adding a little of the cooking water if needed for moisture. Serve hot, topping each bowl with a generous amount of the breadcrumbs.

 

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Lovage, by Fiona Morgan.

Recipe below: Smoked Trout Salad with Avocado, Green Olives, and Lovage

I always prided myself on eating and liking any odd or foreign flavor put in front of me, but then I came up against cilantro. That was decades ago, but I still can’t get my taste buds to accept it. I read recently that Julia Child couldn’t stand the taste or smell of cilantro either, so I at least I feel I’m in good company, as a cook. Shiso too I find a huge problem. I’m always picking those pretty leaves out of my sushi rolls and hiding them under my plate. I struggle with these flavors and try to understand my aversion.

Smell and taste evolved to provoke strong responses, partly so we could avoid threats, such as poisons, but also to give pleasure, so we’d eat and stay vigorous. People like me, who never experienced cilantro or shiso at an early age, have no taste memory of it. Because of that I somehow sense my tongue only recognizes a threat, the soapy taste that causes that gag response in so many cilantro haters, and none of the pleasant notes that make it alluring to others. Knowing this, I assumed I could condition my Southern Italian palate over time. After all I grew up in New York eating Mexican, Thai, and Indian food. So far it hasn’t worked. All these years later, ridiculously, I’m still picking little green bits out of my food. I wish I could get over it.

I mention my cilantro issue because I now have a large herb garden, and I’ve been reaching out to plant culinary flavors I’m not completely familiar with. Lovage is one. I had previously brought bunches of it back from the Greenmarket but found its strong celery aroma odd. It had celery attributes, mostly the bitter and flatter ones, but it lacked, to my palate, celery’s fruity high notes. Yet I planted some anyway. It’s grown strong and righteous. Lovage is a beautiful herb, with large, dark green three-pointed leaves and thick stalks. In late spring, when I first put in my seedlings, I’d catch a whiff when I brushed against them. I’d rub the leaves between my fingers, take a sniff, but not be turned on my what I smelled. So I’d pass the lovage by on my way to pick some fennel or Thai basil.

A few weeks ago I finally broke lose and started using a few leaves here and there, in places where I would use celery, such as a sofritto or a salad. At first the taste was a strain on my palate, not as severe as with cilantro, but still. I’d rather it weren’t in my salad or my pasta or my pesto. But then I started noticing lovely undertones to the herb. Something like a gentle Indian curry flavor emerged. I didn’t take long to get to like it, and then, after a few culinary voyages, to really love it. Success. This makes me very happy. Lovage mixed with parsley or basil makes a wonderful pesto that is excellent on grilled fish. And it marries well with smoked fish, cutting through its richness, as I learned when I concocted this smoked trout salad. If you don’t know the herb, check it out. This is its season.

Oh, and I’ve been working on my own smoked trout recipe, which will be up shortly.

(Serves 5)

1 large head frisée lettuce, torn into small pieces
2 tender, inner celery stalks, thinly sliced, plus their leaves, lightly chopped
2 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using most of the tender green part
2 smoked trout fillets (about ½ pound), skinned and broken into bite-size pieces
A handful of green olives (I used Picholine)
A dozen lovage leaves, lightly chopped
4 large sprigs tarragon, the leaves lightly chopped
1 ripe avocado, sliced

For the dressing:

About 1 teaspoon lemon juice, plus the grated zest from 1 small lemon
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon crème fraîche
Black pepper
Salt

Place the frisée in a large, wide salad bowl. Add the celery, scallions, trout, and olives.

Whisk all the ingredients for the dressing together in a small bowl. You’ll probably need about 2 tablespoons of olive oil. I like my dressings low acid; feel free to add more lemon juice if you prefer more pungency.

Add the lovage, tarragon, and celery leaves to the salad. Add the dressing and toss. Place the avocado slices around the edges of the bowl. Serve right away.

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3ce8e09f8d1967b4f3ae25279a249e3dWorshiping the Tulsi Plant, Pahari School, circa 1750.

Recipe below: Grilled Summer Zucchini with Thai Basil Crème Fraîche

I sometimes experience deep sadness when forced to serve people what I know is inferior food. This was never a worse problem than when I worked in catering in the late 1980s.

Back then grilled vegetables had to make an appearance at almost every event. It didn’t matter the time of year; caterers were certain that if guests didn’t see a platter of grilled vegetables somewhere, the party would be a social failure. I recall one event in particular, for 850 people, that took place in Grand Central Terminal. I don’t remember the theme or why it was held in such a lovely place, but a few other annoyed cooks and I spent three days grilling various vegetables and stacking them in hotel pans. Spongy zucchini in February? Had to have it. Bitter eggplant? Bring it on. And to make matters worse, the vegetables were served not even at room temperature but dead cold, along with some “spring” pesto that tasted a tad rancid after suffocating in plastic tubs for 48 hours. But it wasn’t the temperature that bothered me as much as the horrible gas taste left from cooking all the stuff on commercial grills. When I uncovered the hotel pans and served it all up, that noxious smell came blasting back at me. Gassy, blackened, and often still raw. This was always the case during my grilled vegetable days. Such an injustice. Nobody, even drugged-up partygoers, deserved to eat such stupid food.

I haven’t done catering in several decades, but creating food that’s not my best for anyone still disturbs me. I get angry even if I’m alone in my own kitchen cooking for my family. Every dish of pasta or plate of chicken needs thought and complete attention. I’m especially set off by bad ingredients. They can make me scream. But I also mean when something I’m cooking just doesn’t come out right. That, for me, is a deep-rooted disappointment. It’s a failure. I’ve let people down, friends, people I wanted to nurture or impress. But most of all, I’ve let myself down. And the longer I cook, the more pissed I get when things don’t go as planned. I’m hard on myself, but I’m also in love with celebration, so when a dish turns out as planned, or even better, well, that is the payoff, that is why I cook, and why I continue to cook.

I’ll tell you one thing, though: You can’t fail with this basil crème fraîche. It just tastes wonderful. Thai basil, or tulsi (holy basil), as it’s called in India, gives off an aroma and taste that drives me a little wild. To me it has a sharper and more licorice flavor than other basils, and it looks beautiful, with purple veining and dark, slender leaves. It was long so glorified in India that they hardly ever used it in cooking (only in tea). They kept the plants for ceremony, mostly for burials and weddings, arranging them and sprigs from them for presentation, or just strewing around the leaves. Luckily for me I’m a pantheist, so I get to eat just about anything I want, and I want to eat Thai basil. It’s growing extremely well at my little place upstate, better than the Genovese variety, even. For my basil-flavored cream I used a mix of both varieties, and the blend produces a full, sweet flavor, a sum greater than the parts. Later in the summer, when tomatoes are perfect, I’m going to add a dollop of the cream to my zuppa di pomodoro fresco.

Happy summer cooking to you.

(Serves 4)

8 large sprigs Thai basil, plus extra leaves for garnish
8 large sprigs regular (Genovese) basil
¾ cup crème fraîche
¼ teaspoon allspice
About 20 young summer zucchini, about 3 inches long, cut in half lengthwise
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt
1 teaspoon Aleppo pepper
1 teaspoon sumac
3 summer scallions, cut into thin rounds, including most of the tender green stem

Stem the basil, and blanch the leaves in a small pot of boiling water for 30 seconds. Drain into an ice bath to cool. Now squeeze out as much water as you can.

Place the crème fraîche in a bowl. Chop the basil finely, and add it to the bowl, along with the allspice. Mix well. Let sit at room temperature while you continue with the recipe.

Place the zucchini in a shallow bowl or on a platter, drizzle on a good amount of olive oil, and season with salt and Aleppo. Toss well.

Start your charcoal, and let it burn down to a nice blue-pink low-flame intensity. I use a perforated grill plate over my grill to cut down on excessive charring. It gives the zucchini time to cook through and brown, avoiding that upsetting black-on-the-outside raw-on-the-inside problem that direct grilling can produce.

When your coals are hot and ready, place the grill plate over the grill, and then let it heat for about 5 minutes. Brush it with a little olive oil. Put your zucchini on the grill, cut side down, and grill until golden brown, about 2 minutes. Turn it over, and grill its skin sides. After about a minute, give one piece a poke with a skewer to see if it’s tender. You want it cooked through but not falling apart. When it’s really young, the halves maybe only about ½ inch thick, this can go quickly.

When the zucchini is nicely grilled, lay it out on a curved platter, and sprinkle it with the sumac and maybe a touch more salt, if you like. Scatter on the scallions and the extra Thai basil leaves. Serve hot, with a dollop with the crème fraîche.

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Mosaic_in_Villa_Romana_del_Casale,_by_Jerzy_Strzelecki,_06.jpg
Ancient Roman grilling, in a fresco at Piazza Armerina, Sicily.

Recipe below: Grilled Peperoncino Chicken with Spice and Herb Yogurt Salsa

Grilled fat smells really good to me. Sizzle chicken skin over red-blue charcoal, and it will crisp up to form a coating that tastes fantastic, feels good going down, and protects the juicy meat it encloses. I think back on the barbecues of my childhood, in our little New York backyard, the sagging green awning over the grill catching all the smoke, our eyes burning (we could have moved the grill out from under, but no one ever did, because, who knows,  it could start to rain), a big wheel of luganega inevitably starting the show (a light appetizer, to my father’s way of thinking).

For years and years that theatrical sausage, held together with wooden skewers, and its aroma defined our family cookouts. But lately, messing around on my own grill. I’ve found that chicken brings back my most intense flavor memories. My father, the grill master of my childhood, is long gone, so now it’s up to me to keep that fire burning. Chicken, my father always said, is “a tricky son of a bitch.” You had to pay real attention to hit the perfect midpoint between “blackened to death,” as my mother called it, and raw. Each piece of chicken had to be repeatedly evaluated, more red wine consumed, a thigh moved around or turned, a drumstick taken off early, others left to cook longer, to avoid “bloody at the bone,” which nobody could tolerate. The worst was blackened to death and still bloody at the bone. We’ve probably all been there at some point. It’s complicated.

At my new upstate cottage, I’m getting myself reacquainted with the grill. I first cooked shrimp, a whole sea bass, steak, and lamb kebabs. All went smoothly. Last week I tried chicken, using only dark meat. (Breast meat is easy to dry out, which is one reason my father’s chicken got unnecessarily complicated, so I avoid it.) Even so, I felt his little grill dance begin in my head, working its way down to my tongs and spatula. I began moving pieces around. Some were darkening too fast, others looked flabby. At least my mother wasn’t around to supervise. So up to the warming rack some pieces went, while others got shoved to the side, away from the direct flame. The red wine flowed. Things started to come together. And, I have to report, my chicken eventually came out just about perfectcrisp, not too black, juicy inside, and spicy with fresh peperoncino, the way my father often seasoned it. Playing daddy is fun.

I’ve paired this diavolo chicken with something my father would never have thought to make, a North Africa-inspired spice and herb yogurt. I’m now growing dozens of herbs upstate, way more than I had room for on my city windowsills, and I try to come up with new ways to use them as often as I can. For this salsa I chose spearmint and lemon thyme; if you like cilantro,  use that in place of the thyme. Italian parsley or basil would be good, too.

(Serves 4)

For the yogurt salsa:

½ teaspoon cardamom seeds
½ teaspoon coriander seeds
½ teaspoon cumin seeds
1½ cups full-fat Greek yogurt
1 summer garlic clove, minced
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt
12 big sprigs spearmint, the leaves well chopped
6 or so large sprigs lemon thyme, the leaves chopped, plus a palmful of small sprigs to garnish the chicken
A squeeze of fresh lemon juice

For the chicken:

6 whole chicken legs, cut into thighs and drumsticks
4 summer garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed
1 tablespoon za’atar spice mix
1 fresh red peperoncino, minced
1 teaspoon pimenton de la vera (Spanish paprika), or another medium-spicy smoked paprika
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 shot cognac or grappa
1 teaspoon warm, runny honey
Salt
4 chopped scallions, for garnish

Toast the cardamom, coriander, and cumin seeds over low flame just until their aroma rises up from the pan. They shouldn’t color. Stick them in a spice grinder or a mortar and pestle, and grind well. Put the yogurt in a small bowl. Add the garlic and the ground spices, and whisk in the olive oil. Add the spearmint and lemon thyme and some sea salt. Add enough lemon juice to give it all a light kick. Stir everything well. Now thin the sauce with a little warm water. (It should be liquid enough to run off a spoon into a thick puddle on your plate, but still thick.) Let sit while you prepare the chicken.

Put the chicken in a big bowl and add all the other “for the chicken” ingredients except the scallions. Toss well, and let sit at room temperature while you start up your grill.

I use charcoal, so I need about a half hour to get to glowing coals with no wicked flames. Whenever your grill is ready, place the chicken on it, presentation side up. If it flames up, cover the top until the flame dies down. Grill until the skin is well browned and crispy but not the dreaded black that drove my mother crazy. Give the pieces a turn, and crisp up their other side. Then move them to the edge of the grill, to let them cook through without taking on too much more color. This whole process should take about a half hour, and since you’re using all dark meat, the pieces should cook through evenly in about that time. If you find that the thighs need a little longer, move the drumsticks to the warming rack. Test for doneness by pressing on the thigh meat or the thickest part of the drum stick. It should be firm but still have a little spring to it.

Pile the chicken up on a big platter. Scatter on the scallions and the palmful of lemon thyme. I always add a little more sea salt after grilling, since a lot of it will have been grilled off, but that’s up to you.

Serve with the yogurt salsa.

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Thyme, by Manon Gauthier.

Recipes below: Black Olive and Thyme Butter for Summer Radishes; Wild Fennel, Thai Basil, and Parsley Pesto, for Grilled Fish

Ever since I started growing my own herbs, first on my city window sills and in stoop pots, and now at a small upstate house I just purchased, they have had a strong pull on me. Last week I wrote about my need to consume rosemary. The urge hasn’t abated. I always liked rosemary, but only with certain things, like lamb, of course, and beans, and roasted winter vegetables, and stews, and a sweet rosemary polenta cake that I’ve been making for years. Now I think it goes with just about anything. I don’t often have particular food cravings. Usually I just want to eat whatever’s in front of me. I guess rosemary has become part of my physical and psychological evolution, which I hope isn’t a sign that something unpleasant is lurking inside my body in desperate need of herbal remedy.

Thyme is different. It has been a favorite herb of mine for a long time, but I’ve overused it, maybe even abused it. It’s my less harsh replacement for oregano in many classic Southern Italian dishes. I use it early in cooking, as I would a bay leaf, to add intensity. But thyme is too special to use indiscriminately. Adding an herb should be a dedicated decision. I’m now rethinking thyme, giving it more respect. Background noise no more. I’m putting it up front, using it as the wild, ancient flavor that it originally was and still is. And I want to taste it raw.

IMG_1282.JPGPart of my upstate herb garden. Here I’ve got epazote, mentuccia, thyme, opal and Thai basil, fennel, chives, and parsley.

Black Olive and Thyme Butter for Summer Radishes

I’ve used this and many other compound herb butters on many things. This one is especially good on grilled chicken or fish. Any that’s left over can be refrigerated and used cold on hot food. It will melt right in. I’ve found that after about 4 days it tends to lose some oomph, so I make it in small batches.

Note: I’ve tried a food processor for this butter, but I find that the color gets murky, losing some of its aesthetic charm. I prefer to chop all the ingredients separately, fold them into the softened butter, and then let the butter sit for about a half hour to meld all the flavors.

(Serves 4 as an appetizer)

1 stick unsalted butter, softened
6 black Niçoise olives, well dried, pitted, and minced
About 5 chives, minced
The grated zest from 1 lemon
6 large thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped, plus a little extra for garnish
Sea salt
A pinch of allspice
A big bunch of French breakfast radishes, or another seasonal radish, sliced in half lengthwise, leaving some of the tender green stem

Put the well-softened butter in a small serving bowl. Add the minced olives, chives, lemon zest, thyme leaves, a big pinch of sea salt, and the allspice. Mash everything together with a fork until it’s well blended. Wipe down the sides of the bowl, and let the butter sit for about a half hour.

When you’re ready to serve it, just spread a little of the butter on the cut side of your radishes. Garnish with extra thyme leaves. This is a good antipasto with a glass of rosé wine or prosecco.

Wild Fennel, Thai Basil, and Parsley Pesto, for Grilled Fish

I used this on grilled swordfish, and the next morning I spooned some over scrambled eggs. It was also good that afternoon, spread on a grilled fontina sandwich.

(Serves 6)

½ cup blanched, lightly toasted almonds
1 summer garlic clove
½ cup wild fennel fronds (or the tops from bulb fennel, plus a big pinch of fennel pollen)
½ cup Thai basil leaves
½ cup flat-leaf parsley leaves
½ cup good, fruity olive oil
Sea salt
The grated zest from 1 small lemon

Place the almonds and garlic in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse to a rough grind. Add all the rest of the ingredients, and pulse until you have a smooth, not too thick, bright green sauce. If it’s too tight, add a little more oil.

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Women with Fish

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If you could see her through my eyes, she wouldn’t look fishy at all.

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3Insects on a Sprig of Rosemary, by Jan van Kessler the Elder, 1653.

Recipe below: Strawberries with Rosemary Honey Syrup and Ricotta

I’ve been getting strong cravings for rosemary. Seems like a strange thing for my body to demand, but that is what’s been happening. And the desire is growing. The other night I ordered my routine takeout chicken, which is always decently seasoned, but I had to shower it with rosemary, and I did, lots of chopped sprigs until it veered toward the medicinal. But I wanted all that, and it tasted right to me. Also lately I’ve been flavoring many types of seafood with rosemary, where in the past I would have chosen a less woodsy herb, maybe basil or marjoram. I added rosemary to a white wine clam sauce. I’d never done that before, but it was just what the doctor ordered. I added pancetta and tomato that perfectly balanced all the piney notes, and those clams really hit the spot. I also made rosemary almond biscotti. And I bought rosemary gelato, which zeroed right in on my need, even though, oddly enough, I’m not generally an ice cream fan.

I was curious about what might be fueling this new craving, so I, of course, Googled it. Seems rosemary has always been thought to have healing properties. And most interestingly it turns out this resinous herb, with its woody stems and potent oil, has been used to help manage depression and anxiety for hundreds of years. Anxiety I’ve got by the truckload, so that might account for my wanting it so badly. Hey, it’s no Klonopin, but I do sense a slight lessening of my jitters.

Strawberries with rosemary whipped cream, custard, or goat cheese are all dishes I’ve heard of, mostly in the French kitchen. A touch of deep resin with sweet fruit makes so much culinary sense, especially lately. I’ve Italianized this recipe by including ricotta, which cushions the strong herb nicely. Try this for dessert or breakfast or as a midnight desperation dish with a glass or two of rosato. Your worries will start to slip away.

(Serves 2 to 3)

For the syrup:

3 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon wild lower honey (I used acacia)
3 big sprigs rosemary, lightly crushed with the side of the knife to release their oil, plus a few small sprigs for garnish
A small piece of vanilla bean, split
A long peel of lemon skin
1½ cup dry white wine

Plus:

1 pint small, local strawberries, left whole (Tristar are a good variety), or larger ones cut in halves or quarters
About 1½ cups high-quality whole milk ricotta
Freshly ground black pepper

Put all the ingredients for the syrup in a small saucepan, and simmer over medium heat until large bubbles appear on the surface, about 5 minutes (the bubbles will let you know that it has properly thickened). Let sit for about 5 minutes on the turned-off burner to further blend the flavors. Now strain into a small bowl (or just pick out the herbs and such). Stick the bowl in the refrigerator until cool.

Before using the syrup, bring it to room temperature.

Place the strawberries in a bowl. Pour the syrup over the top, and toss gently.

Portion out the ricotta in small bowls or big wine glasses. Spoon on the strawberries and then some of their syrup. Finish with a few grindings of black pepper, and garnish with rosemary sprigs.

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