Condimental

We've scarcely had any rain up here in the hinterlands. I've even considered doing some sort of little dance in an effort to placate the gods. A winter without snow means no melts to form the vernal pools where frogs and salamanders spawn, and it can also lead to precious few mushrooms. (And this was to be my year of tracking down morels!) But driving home late the other night, we came across a yearly event that would seem to indicate that things are mostly proceeding according to plan: smashed frogs on the road. Yes, every year they make the trek from the ponds behind our house to the ones across the way. I know not why as it seems like a dangerous endeavor. A good number give up their precious lives along the journey to greener pastures. Out in the woods, we found other signs of spring, too.
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The Pavlova is a truly historic dessert. I first posted about it way back in the Early Bloggian period, here; and it made another appearance at an Eastover celebration a couple of years ago, here. It's truly one of my very favorite desserts, so texturally complex, light yet satisfying. And I also adore its provenance: created in honor of the Russian ballet dancer, Anna Pavlova, during one of her tours to Australia and New Zealand in the 1920s. The nationality of its creator has been the cause of controversy between the two countries for many years, though formal research seems to indicate that New Zealand is the original source.

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Our annual combined celebration of Easter and Passover came and went in a frenzy of cooking and eating, as usual. I was in charge of the bulk of the menu this time but, as always, our 15 friends brought traditional treats and specialties that really pushed things over the top. I'm going to spread out the telling of this event over the week, posting a different recipe each day, or else it will be too overwhelming for both of us. As you can see from the photo, above, we gathered at Beaver Dam, the gorgeous upstate home of a very chic French gallerist I am lucky to call my bosom friend. Big dogwood branches, hyacinths and other spring blooms came from the city, as most plants are still dormant up here. The sun was shining, the air was cool and fresh, and we had a roaring fire going. Spirits were high as the advent of spring always brings a rush of renewed energy.

My love affair with mangoes goes way back to summers spent in Mexico. Late afternoons on the plaza, after the rain had doused everything, fidgeting with anticipation as the mango man peeled me a big ripe one with his blackened steel knife, pierced it with a stick, then drenched it with lime and sprinkled on salt and earthy red chile. Sweet, slick, soft almost to the point of slimy and oh, so juicy. These flavors reach back inside me and conjure up memories of bustling markets, the smell of burning leaves, the delight of a pirulí—that brilliant red elongated pyramid of a lollipop that I twirled and twirled in my mouth. Ah, childhood. Every year at this time I can get it back for a moment when I eat my first mango of the season.
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I have a big collection of salts—Indonesian, Himalayan, Japanese, smoked, curried—and I am not shy about liberally sprinkling them as finishing touches on everything from salad to oatmeal. I've also experimented with adding my own flavors (black trumpet mushroom, wild lime, shiso seed) and recently was inspired by this lovely post to try some new ones. If you have not yet discovered the wonders of sea salt in all its sparkling, saline glory (maybe you missed this post?), this is your chance. Of late I have sprinkled black trumpet salt on mushroom risotto, smoked salt on ricotta, cacao salt on beans, citrus salt on tempura and cumin salt on lamb. It adds a wonderful crunch and a pure burst of flavor that dissolves on the tongue. Irresistible.
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Even though it may seem like I am the most organized kitchen bitch on the planet, there are definitely times when I reach for something and it's not there. Although once I was not above keeping canned (or boxed) stock in my pantry, I now resist that easy (and nutritionally challenged) out. Tragically, my source for chicken feet dries up in the winter and though I'll make stock from whole birds, it's just not as good. Dashi, the Japanese broth made with kombu and bonito flakes is one option, but its flavor is very specific. So when I came across a recipe in The River Cottage Preserves Handbook for a homemade vegetable bouillon, I got very excited. It's basically just a bunch of vegetables ground into a paste and preserved with salt. You stir a bit into hot water to make an authentically flavored stock for soups, stews, curries, whatever you like.
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When I was growing up, every 7 years my family lived in Spain. My father was a professor of Spanish literature, and he spent his sabbaticals doing research, writing and collecting the Sephardic ballads that were his specialty. The year I turned 15 there, my sisters (5 and 7 years older than I) were already out of the house, so I was  essentially an only child. I went everywhere with my parents, which meant a very diverse cultural life (opera, theater, dance, symphony, museums, galleries), lots of meals out and visits to some very fancy Madrid residences. Perhaps because we were in Europe—or maybe it had something to do with the almost exclusively adult company—the rules relaxed a bit and I was often allowed a glass of sherry, cointreau or vino tinto. This set the stage for expanding my appetite, too, and I tried many unknown delicacies: octopus, white asparagus, kidneys, membrillo. The latter was a deep-amber-colored jelly that was often brought out with the cheese course (another novelty), a sticky, sweet confection to pair with the rich oily Manchego. At the time, I had never seen a quince, and it's a bit of a leap anyway from that fuzzy, essentially inedible fruit to this jammy nectar of the gods.
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This past weekend's journey upstate toward the Vermont border yielded not only a lesson in black Angus cattle, but two gallons of raw cow's milk, some irresistible cider donuts and a couple of award-winning cheeses from the very beautiful Consider Bardwell Farm. (Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while may remember a mention of their cheeses way back when.) The 300-acre farm was founded in 1864 by the fortuitously named Consider Stebbins Bardwell, and became the the first cheese-making co-op in Vermont. Now owned by Angela Miller, literary agent to some of our most beloved culinary writers; her British husband, architect Russell Glover; Chris Gray; and master cheesemaker Peter Dixon, Consider Bardwell Farm makes cheese with the milk from its own herd of 100 Oberhasli (Swiss Alpine) goats and from neighboring farmer Lisa Kaimen's herd of 30 Jersey cows. Rotational grazing on pesticide- and fertilizer-free pastures guarantees sweet, nutrient-rich milk that is also antibiotic- and hormone-free. The farm's 6 cheeses are made by hand in small batches and aged on the grounds. No surprise, then, that they have repeatedly won awards at important cheese competitions here and abroad. All this to say, emphatically, Consider Bardwell's cheeses are divine.
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I think I've already mentioned Julia Moskin's D.I.Y Cooking Handbook for the New York Times online right? It's where I got inspired to make vin d'orange. (Which turned out great, incidentally.) She's got a bunch of useful recipes there, including a few that overlap with some of mine. Like one for making your own ketchup; and preserving lemons; and this one for making your own fresh cream cheese. Hers is a slightly shorter process because she uses rennet, which causes your milk to curdle right away. I learned my technique from Nourishing Traditions, where you simply let milk sit out on the counter for a few days until it curdles on its own. Actually, some good bacteria helps it along. You separate the curds from the whey (reserving the latter for making pickles and sauerkraut, and stirring into soups and smoothies), then drain the curds so they come together in a light, creamy cheese. It's kind of magical.
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I find that summertime requires its own repertoire of refreshing drinks. Bubbles or not, with or without alcohol, thirst-quenching coolers are essential for those moments by the pool, when you come in from gardening and when you're relaxing on the porch after a long, hot day. I love the idea of taking what you have on hand, what's around in your garden or at the farmers market, and transforming it into something far better than bottled sodas and syrups. (As you reach for your Pepsi or Diet Coke, never forget that it's loaded with sugar, high-fructose corn syrup or the artificial sweeteners that essentially trigger the same insulin response; it has zero nutritional value; and it causes tooth decay.) Sun tea is a great alternative. You just fill a big jug with water and add a few tea bags (herbal, black or green) along with whatever flavorings you like—rosemary and lemon, mint, pineapple sage, ripe strawberries—then let it brew under the hot sun. Try this without the tea for a delicately flavored, herbaceous water. I'm also a big fan of infused simple syrups, which you can easily make with honey or organic cane sugar. To capture one of summer's most ephemeral flavors, gather elderflowers at their peak—they love riverbanks and lush hedgerows along back country roads—and brew up a batch of lightly effervescent, citrusy cordial. It's delicious over ice, topped off with some seltzer and a slice of Meyer lemon, or mixed with gin for a truly relaxing tipple.

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