Garden

I heard a rumor we are expecting snow showers next week—can you imagine?! An impending hard frost inspired G to bring in a huge batch of green tomatoes from the garden, the last ones clinging to the now-scraggly vines. Initially, I was a tad exasperated. But then I remembered to be grateful. Not to go all Pollyanna on you, but it's an interesting challenge to turn everything into a positive. The old lemons into lemonade philosophy. Not that a bumper crop of green tomatoes really has anything to do with that. And once they were turned into a tart-sweet, highly spiced chutney—thanks to inspiration from Winnie's Healthy Green Kitchen—I looked at those lovely jars stacked up and felt nothing if not happy. Like all the other animals at this time of year, I'm loading up the larder with stores for the winter.
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Torrential rains accompanied by great gusts of wind have brought many of the fall leaves cascading down in whirling colors. Now the birds are more visible, darting around, and you can see the squirrels—red and grey—perched on branches, nibbling pinecones like corn on the cob. The apples stand out like ornaments on the trees, tempting the deer, which are gorging themselves silly on the sweet fruit. We went back to Julia's ancient orchard to harvest a few more; I wish I knew what they are—2 green and 2 red, heirloom varieties for sure, each more delicious than the next. I decided to cook down their wonderful, winey essence into that most traditional of all preserves: apple butter. It's essentially just a highly concentrated form of apple sauce, produced by long, slow cooking of apples with cider or water to a point where the sugar in the apples caramelizes, turning the rich stew a deep brown. There's no actual butter involved in the product; the term refers only to the thick, soft consistency, and its use as a spread for breads.
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My first apartment in New York was on Avenue A and 3rd Street, at a time when the East Village was a rather seedy no-man's-land where you couldn't score much more than smack and a good bialy. There were no gourmet stores, no coffee bars, not even an ATM within blocks. But there was the original Two Boots pizza parlor and, for a short and very blissful time, a little joint called Southern Style where you could get some clean and tasty down-home cooking for cheap. To my knowledge, they never served fried green tomatoes but that alone is not enough to explain why I'd never eaten any before making them myself recently. Thanks to new restaurants like this, or this one, Southern food seems to be having quite the renaissance these days, so I'll probably end up sampling someone else's fried green tomatoes soon. But until that day, mine will have to set the standard.
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Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Do without.Eleanor Roosevelt said that, probably during the Depression or some wartime crunch. But I love its sentiment: the idea that what we have is enough. "Making do" is not really something you see advertised alongside Big Gulps and $35,000 handbags. Last weekend in the Times' opinion section, I saw this piece about a divorced Brooklyn mother of two who fell on hard times and resorted to starting a victory garden and baking her own bread to get by. (A former Bergdorf Goodman shopper and unwilling to give up perfume, she now makes her own from fragrant herbs!) It was very inspiring, and it gave me serious pause when I went to write "mint tea" on the grocery list that's posted on the door of our fridge. Instead, I went out to the garden and harvested huge armfuls of fresh mint. I had cut the unruly plants back a month ago—and frozen and preserved some leaves then—but they had grown in more vigorously than ever. While I was out there, I also snipped lots of other things to dry and use over the coming winter months.
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Indian summer. We bandy that phrase around quite a bit at this time of year, hoping to conjure up those crisp, sunny days. The expression has been used for more than three centuries, first described in 1778 by John Hector St. John de Crevecoeur, a French-American writer in rural New York: "A severe frost prepares it to receive the voluminous coat of snow which is soon to follow; though it is often preceded by a short interval of smoke and mildness, called the Indian Summer." Its etymology is debated. In Colonial New England, Indian Summer referred only to a January thaw, when Native American raiding parties could be expected in the western and northern areas; the ground had briefly lost its snow cover so tracking the raiders back to their winter camps was much more difficult for the Colonials. Or perhaps it's because this was the traditional period during which early Native Americans harvested their crops of squash and corn. The modern use of the term refers to a period when the weather is sunny, clear and above 70º, after there has been a sharp frost; a period normally associated with late-October to mid-November. It's also used metaphorically to refer to a late blooming of something, often unexpectedly, or after it has lost relevance. (See "middle-aged women.") We haven't actually had the first frost yet—though the temperatures veered awfully close just this morning—but, after a week or two of brisker day, we're expecting a veritable heatwave—77º this weekend. I'm not sure how I feel about that, though it may mean we get to pull a few more tomatoes off the vine. For those of you still reaping summer's bounty, cook it down to the essence of sunshine: a brilliant yellow, sharp and fruity Sunshine Sauce.
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photos by gluttonforlifeAlthough this looks a bit like some exotic fruit, it's actually a seed cluster of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit, variously known as Arisaema triphyllum, bog onion and Indian turnip. This herbaceous perennial grows from a type of corm, not totally dissimilar to crocus and freesia. A highly variable species—some can grow up to 5 feet in height—it's native to eastern North America, found in wet woodlands and thickets, and generally flowers between April and June. Using heat and smell, it attracts the flies responsible for its pollination. The Jack-in-the-Pulpit has a charming, fairy-tale look characterized by its arcing and curving "hood," often with dramatic burgundy stripes on the inside. Its fruit are clusters of smooth, shiny green berries which ripen to a brilliant red in late summer before the plants go dormant. Each berry typically produces between one and five pale-colored rounded seeds. My friend Michael was kind enough to bring me a few scarlet clusters from his plants this season, with instructions to pop each berry "like a zit" to extract the seeds. They need to be planted in a damp, mossy area before the first frost.
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Oh yes, more mushrooms! And it's raining like the devil in these parts, so probably more yet to come. I'm still not complaining. G found a brilliant orange chicken mushroom growing on the split trunk of the oak tree that crashed through our back fence during Irene and it went right into a pot of soup. I have so much maitake (aka hen-of-the-woods or grifola frondosa) in my freezer—and dried, too—that I'm set for hot pots for the rest of the winter. All this bounty has led me to invent a delicious soup: wild mushroom made with wild mushroom stock. The only other wild thing I had on hand (other than my imagination, of course) was some wild rice, so I threw that in, too. It turned out wildly earthy, nutty, chewy—more of a stew, really. Perfect for these days of incipient fall, and for October 1st which is World Vegetarian Day. In fact, I think I read somewhere that October is Vegetarian Awareness month. Meaning that we're supposed to notice they exist? Whatever, it seems like a good excuse to whip up lots of vegetable-centric dishes. Hey, flavor them with bacon, I don't care. But let's explore a few we may not cook on a regular basis: kohlrabi, parsnips, mung bean sprouts, jerusalem artichokes, turnips, puntarelle. It's a wild world but somebody's got to eat it.
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In yesterday's post, I mentioned the wonderful tisane, or herbal infusion, that concluded my meal at Stone Barns. It inspired me to go out and snip some herbs from my garden to make one at home. (And it didn't cost $15!) I experimented with fresh mint, lavender, Spanish sage and hyssop, all of which made delightfully aromatic brews. As per the restaurant's directions, I did not mix up the various herbs, but savored them separately so as not to muddy the flavors. With cooler weather on its way (eventually), I decided to cut many of these declining plants and dry the leaves so that I can enjoy tisanes all winter long and be reminded of the lush greenery of my summer garden. I recommend you try this, even if you can only get your hands on mint. It's a fun process, and the tisanes are very relaxing and therapeutic. Many of these herbs are restorative, aid in digestion and help calm the spirit.
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Squash blossoms are delicate and ethereal, yet somehow sturdy enough to  stand up to a good frying. They're delicious other ways, too, as in this fresh vegetable stew from Mexico, full of flores de calabaza, chiles and herbs. You'll find them fried all over Italy where they're known as fiori di zucca, always battered and sometimes stuffed. One classic version calls for a stuffing of anchovy filets and mozzarella, but mine—herb-flecked goat cheese—is lighter and feels a bit more in tune with these days of Indian summer. Like most fried foods, they're best served fresh from the oil, so they're really not the thing for a big party. But it's lots of fun to fry up a dozen or two for a group of friends gathered in the kitchen, sipping prosecco or rosé and singing the chef's praises. I can't remember where I learned to use masa harina for these, but I'm always on the lookout for gluten-free substitutes for wheat flour. As with my fried calamari, rice flour would probably work well, though the understated corn flavor of the masa harina really does seem to complement the subtle, sweetly vegetal note of the squash blossoms. By the way, zucchini flowers are said to be better than those of yellow squash, which can get slightly bitter. Choose the freshest, perkiest ones you can find. They need to be slightly open. Too tight and the fragile petals will tear as you attempt to pipe in the filling. Ain't that always the way?

It's raining again, which probably means there are more mushrooms in our future. I say our future because I can't help but share with you all my mycological finds. Cry uncle if it's too much. In the meantime, recent walks have revealed a frenzy of weaving going on. It's almost as if the spiders are busy luring as many insects as possible so they can chow down and put on some winter weight. Everybody's getting ready for the cold. Their magnificent webs, beaded with dew, glitter in the early morning sunlight. Some creations remind me of those delicate Victorian chain-mail purses; others, more dense and cottony, are like hammocks for fairies, strung between two plant stalks. And if you're lucky enough to find a spider at work, stop and watch. Their skill and dexterity is truly inspiring.
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