It's about time I gave you a peek at the garden. Things got off to a slow start what with a certain person getting into a spot of trouble in Indonesia, and a certain other person having to rush over there for 2 weeks, but eventually tiny plants were purchased and placed in the soil. And then it rained. And then it got incredibly hot for a few days, and then it got really cold. And then it rained some more. A lot. A ton. Each year brings its own particular set of weather patterns, and the resulting garden is a clear reflection of that. Compared to last July's splendor, we are behind. The lushness is just starting to creep into the vegetable garden after a few solid days of sunshine. My herb garden is bedraggled, the parsley battered. The native plants that we put in last year, though, are, for the most part, doing quite well. Our stone paths are flanked with honeysuckle and fragrant sumac, and the wild raspberry has gone, well, wild. Just now it's beset by Japanese beetles, which chew the leaves into lacy patterns and can strip a plant in the short time it takes you to go inside and down a glass of icy lemonade. Every day I pluck off dozens and drown them without remorse in a cup of soapy water. It's a jungle out here.
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On this very day last year, I was also writing about popsicles. Strange synchronicity. Although thoughts do tend to turn that way when the mercury soars and fresh fruit abounds. The thing about popsicles is that they are SO EASY to make. Frozen liquid, that's all they are. So you could puree bananas with almond milk and caradamom. Or blend coconut water with fresh blueberries and mint. Or even juice some carrots with a little ginger and freeze that. Willing to turn on the stove? Cook strawberries with honey and a dried ancho chile. Puree it then freeze. You don't really need a lot of involved recipes to make popsicles. Your imagination and what's in the fridge can be your guide. That said, Fany Gerson's new book Paletas (Spanish for popsicles) is quite handy. From yogurt with berries to apricot-chamomile to mezcal-orange, she'll steer you toward original combinations, many of them quite adult. Not that you won't feel like a kid again when you're slurping something sweet and icy from a stick.
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Salsa verde has more than one guise. In Italy it is a cold rustic sauce vaguely resembling a pesto of sorts but very light, fresh and tangy. Generally it features parsley, capers, onion, garlic, anchovies, vinegar, olive oil and lemon, but may also contain a bit of crumbled white bread, pickles, mustard and other green herbs. It's an opportunity for you to experiment a bit and make it as you like. This is most definitely not the salsa verde you would find in a Mexican restaurant. That one contains tomatillos and chiles and is a whole other conversation; or post, as the case may be. Nor is it quite the same as Argentina's famed chimichurri, which is missing the umami wallop of anchovy. Incidentally, if you still think you don't like anchovies and you leave them out of this sauce, you will be depriving yourself of a great taste sensation. I understand how you might be turned off by the little oily fillets with their hairy-looking bones and fishy aroma, but once they become part of something else—a Caesar dressing, say, or this sauce—they lose their identity and simply impart a rich depth of flavor that is like nothing else. Not to mention they're really good for you. So, salsa verde: the perfect summer sauce to slather on everything grilled, from fish and shrimp to chicken and steak. My other favorite way to eat it? As a dip for garden-fresh raw or lightly blanched vegetables.
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These are the best ice cream sandwiches. Yes. I know we all have a certain fondness for those semi-industrial rectangular ones we enjoyed as children—with that thin, cakey cookie that sticks to your fingertips, right? But these trump those. These are so big and fat they turn Chipwiches to shame and bring grown men to their knees. These are rustic, hand-hewn beauties. It's about the cookie, sure: melted bittersweet chocolate, best-quality cocoa and semisweet chips make for a lot of rich, fudgy goodness. But what you put between that dark embrace can send you soaring to the heavens. Might I suggest homemade mint ice cream? Or perhaps a creamy vanilla speckled with real seeds and offset with a slather of sweet, sticky cajeta (goat's milk caramel)? We served both on the 4th and I heard no complaints, only soft moans of ecstasy. If you have a big mint patch out back in some shady spot, all the better. I use our spearmint with its subtly cooling, herbaceous flavor, but you can experiment to see what you like. And no, it doesn't taste like toothpaste. By the way, forget the food coloring. The very pale green you'll get is so much more beautiful than that lurid artificial hue.
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July 4th may be my favorite holiday. It has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with freedom. It's a chance to celebrate the founding of this country which, though seriously flawed and in grand decline, is still the place I choose to call home above all others. This year, we also raised a glass to gay marriage in New York! What a day. It dawned clear and warm after days of torrential rains and lightning storms. G had to stand outside in the downpour for hours the day before to smoke the first half of the 60 pounds of pork we served to the hoard of hungry revelers. It was nothing short of heroic. Gin cocktails were sucked down, pickles were scarfed, ice cream sandwiches demolished. Groups congregated in the screened-in porch, on the lawn and front patio, and even in the house. Dogs frolicked and begged. Screams of laughter rang out, joints were passed and kids got purple popsicle juice everywhere. In short, a great party. 
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We're expecting 60 people at our house for pulled pork on the 4th and I am up to my eyeballs in chores! The bustle around here is impressive. And guess what—THE BATHROOM IS FINALLY DONE!!!!! I even had a new shower curtain made from one of those antique batiks I got in Indonesia. I promise to post pictures very soon. Anyway, all this to say that I'm much too busy to be writing here, but I couldn't resist sharing a few snaps I took at a lovely party the other night. Cooking for such a crowd gives me renewed respect for caterers. How do they manage to keep doing it night after night, for people they don't even love? I imagine they work like dogs. This party we went to, a 50th birthday celebration for a dear friend of many years, was intimate and beautifully orchestrated. It didn't hurt that it was being thrown by hosts of impeccable taste and sophistication, in the most beautifully appointed pale-grey apartment. Would it surprise you to know the owner is one of the pivotal geniuses behind the Martha Stewart brand? And the other host is the co-author of this gorgeous tome. Every detail was perfection, including the artful nibbles by Gaylinn Fast. 
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The weather upstate has been so strange and variable—an early heat spell, followed by cold, then way too much rain and not enough sun—that there has been disappointingly little progress with the plants. The mint patches are lush, the shiso, sage and lemon balm are doing well, and the first squash blossoms have appeared, but the cucumbers have scarcely put out a few tendrils. New Jersey has been luckier, however, and there were already piles of newly picked Kirbys at the farmers market in Union Square last week. I bought about 8 pounds in preparation for our annual pulled pork fest on the 4th. Pickles are essential for barbecue! They're a traditional counterpoint to all that fatty meat, and really aid in its digestion. You may remember from last year that I make both dill and bread-&-butter chips. The dills are lacto-fermented, which means all you have to do is slice them up and put them in a jar with salt and whatever spices you like and let them sit on the counter for a few days. Nature will do the rest, creating the right natural bacteria to give your pickles their requisite tang.
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Speaking of fools (as in yesterday's gooseberry delight), who takes up ballet at the age of 48? This crazy bitch does. Uh-huh. I was so pigeon-toed as a child that the family doctor prescribed an iron brace to be worn at night that essentially forced my legs out in a painful and unnatural (for me) position. As an alternative to this medieval contraption, my mother offered ballet lessons. So for 7 years, until I was 14, I was a regular at Wendy Barrett's ballet studio in a little cabin in the woods. I was never very good—and my hips, knees and feet still turn more in than out—but I do have excellent posture. (And to this day, The Red Shoes is one of my favorite films.) Having now discovered the excellent Shain Fishman at Highland Yoga & Dance, I once more find myself heading to a little dance studio in the woods. I have been taking yoga from her for over a year, and recently left my pride at the door and signed up for her Adult Beginner Ballet class. (As with diapers and movies, when you preface something with "adult" it immediately becomes creepy and pathetic. Joke stolen from Jimmy Fallon, btw.)
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That's me. Did you know I've been married four times? And I'm not that old. Twice divorced and widowed once. But in it for the long haul now. I'm so glad I finally found what I was looking for and it turned out to be even better than what I had imagined. I'm in the zone! And so will you be when you spoon a big bite of tart, creamy and dreamy gooseberry fool into your mouth. Allegedly dating back to the 15th century, this dead simple treat is nobody's fool; or rather, anybody's. It's just a cooked puree of sweetened gooseberries folded into whipped cream. Chilled and served in a wine glass or a coupe with a long spoon, it's among the most elegant desserts you can make without breaking a sweat.
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I never was much into wings. My friend Busby always sang their praises when she wasn't going on about California Pizza Kitchen or Popeye's fried chicken. They just never seemed meaty enough to me, and I hadn't yet developed a fondness for eating things off the bone. But G has a passion for wings, and in learning to make them for him, I fell for them. That happens sometimes, doesn't it? Indifference turns to pleasure and life just gets that much better. Now I understand how succulent, how crispy yet gooey, how caramelized and packed with flavor are these little wings. No wonder they make such great stock. Did you ever sample David Chang's wings at Momofuku Noodle Bar? I'm not sure he still serves them but they were insane. I think they were poached, then smoked and then finished on the grill. (Here's an adapted recipe which I may try sometime.) The point is, don't just throw your wings under the broiler and expect them to be great. They have a fair amount of fat, so one great technique is to poach them first and then finish them in a very hot oven. Marinating them overnight or even for a few hours does wonders. They pair beautifully with strong flavors like garlic, ginger and chile, and a little something to help them caramelize like soy sauce, honey or maple syrup.
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