Garden

I'm crazy about shiso and was thrilled that we were able to grow several plants in our garden this summer. Turns out they like a spot that is a bit shadier, neither wet nor dry. We had to rescue armloads of the stuff before the first frost as it immediately and tragically goes black and limp. But then there I was with tons of shiso and only a few ideas as to how to use it. I've always enjoyed the crystallized shiso leaves, coated in a brittle crust of sugar, that are part of the dessert plate at Matsuri, but I couldn't really see making them at home. And I do like the pickled umeboshi-plum-and-shiso roll that is on every classic sushi menu, but that would use up just a few leaves at most. I did go ahead and make a simple syrup infused with the smaller quantity of red shiso I had—great for cocktails and to mix with soda water—but that still left me with vast quantities of the green. A quick scan of the web revealed virtually no inspiration, aside from an edamame salad enlivened with chopped shiso. So I put on my special Glutton's Thinking Cap (looks something like this, or perhaps this), gazed deep into the vast recesses of the fridge, and came up with a rather inventive way to use large handfuls of deliciously pungent, minty shiso.

A surfeit of green tomatoes had me racking my brain—and scanning the web—for recipes that called for neither frying nor pickling. I came across one that looked pretty easy and interesting on Melissa Clark's blog. You've probably read her column in the Times, but may not know that she has collaborated with all the best chefs on a zillion cookbooks, including Daniel Boulud's Braise, a particular favorite of mine around this time of year. (It features fantastic recipes for short ribs; grouper with fennel and cashews; and carbonnade with Belgian beer and gingerbread, among many others.) So she knew what she was doing when she threw together this dish of country-style pork ribs slow-braised with green tomatoes, citrus and vermouth. And, if I do say so myself, I knew what I was doing by serving it with fresh, warm cornbread.
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We had tons of yellow cherry tomatoes from two plants this summer, and they continued to produce long after I could figure out what to do with them. They filled bowls and trays, rolled around our kitchen counter, and generally beamed up at me like small blonde children. In the end, I came up with a perfect way to preserve—and even intensify—their sunny sweetness. I simply roast them in the oven at a relatively low temperature and then pack them into jars with olive oil. Are you familiar with Craisins? They are Ocean Spray's attempt to make dried cranberries more palatable by piggybacking on the popularity of raisins. Well, in a stroke of pure marketing genius, I have dubbed mine Tomaisins. Although they aren't totally desiccated, and I don't especially foresee adding them to trail mix, I think they have a lot of potential.

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Did I mention I'm in a diet? Sigh. I'm eating a lot of vegetables, and for dinner I'm having a small portion of whatever.  If it's pasta, I just have the sauce. Lots of salad. One cocktail a week and no cheese to speak of. Waah! Actually I'm not that miserable. Worse was when I saw a video of myself shot from behind. Emphasis on behind. It rocked my world. I have been in denial because most days I just pull on a pair of sweatpants, that's all the fashion required upstate. I'll let you know how it goes. If I manage to lose 20 pounds by the time we go to Mexico for New Year's, it will be a freaking miracle. 10 pounds even will be a heroic feat. There's pumpkin custard to make, and thousands of caramels to wrap before that day comes. But I have a will of steel when I want to and, trust me, I want to. Still, total deprivation is a recipe for disaster (hello, late-night quesadilla binges), so it's good to have the right kind of treat now and then. This cooling cucumber sorbet, spicy with ginger and lightly sweetened with honey or agave, satisfies every craving and does not feel like diet food, even though it's virtually calorie-free.
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Such gorgeous weather this weekend, perfect for a walk in the woods. The wild turkey and deer abound; half a dozen turtles are sunning themselves on an old log in the lake; and the musical cackle of migrating geese fills the air. Even if you don't live in the country, I hope these photos inspire you to drive to a nearby forest or visit your local park to take in a few of the sights and sounds of this glorious season.

I remember Union Square before it was lush with may apple and trillium and wild geranium and bushy mountain laurel. I remember when it was full of runaways and junkies and winos—another kind of seedy entirely. This week, G came across this vending machine at the farmers market there. It sells "seedbombs," little nuggets of plant seeds, compost and clay that turn everyone into a guerilla gardener. They're meant to be simply dropped into soil anywhere. Created by design duo Daniel Philips and Kim Karlsrud of Los Angeles-based Common Studio, the seedbomb vending machines help people transform empty outdoor spaces into lush, green communities. Their Northeast Wildflower Mix contains almost two dozen varieties, including Aster,
 Purple Coneflower, Sweet Alyssum and Black-Eyed Susan. The vending machines are available to rent or buy, and Common Studio will even develop a seed mix and a strategic neighborhood intervention plan in response to the unique ecologies of your area. Machines can then be installed at local bars, businesses, schools, parks, or anywhere you think they can have the biggest impact.
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The tomatoes just keep on coming. Every morning, G goes out to the garden to poke around, and inevitably returns with a handful of cherry tomatoes, some kale, maybe a squash, and lately the big yellow beefhearts. This week I made an Indian dal with lentil-flour flatbreads and a tomato chutney spiced with curry leaves and black mustard seeds. Tomorrow, I'm planning to serve icy cold bloody marys made with fresh tomato juice and spiked with celery bitters and horseradish. What do you make when you have a surplus of tomatoes? It's been raining for about 24 hours straight at this point, so a pot of soup is really a no-brainer. I think this creamy, dairy-free version is just what the doctor ordered. 
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The last of the tomatillos came off the vine this week. You know they're ripe when the papery husk grows tight. I love how these are tinged with lavender. They're a different kind than the smaller, all-green ones we harvested last year, though they have the same vegetal yet citrusy flavor. I whipped up a large batch of sauce—a slight variation on my usual recipe—some of which I'll use for enchiladas, and the rest will be frozen. The light, tangy sauce is chunky with bits of onion and pepitas (green pumpkin seeds) and is beautifully spiced with jalapeño, garlic, cumin and coriander.

It's here again: fall, the season of transition. It bridges the vast chasm between sultry summer and winter's austerity. Nature's gorgeous swan song, fall reaches a grand crescendo before its blazing colors are finally extinguished. The leaves have begun to turn, with bursts of ochre and russet punctuating the drive from country to city. I have always found this time of year especially poignant, for we are witnessing the demise of all that we saw come to life these past months. It is the natural order of things, and it is bittersweet. My dear friend, the talented illustrator and creative director Jan Richter, captures the intensity of fall's colors in these gorgeous illustrations of the season's glories.
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Fall is encroaching on our garden. Though we'll still be getting kale, chard, broccoli and collards for weeks to come (inshallah), the basil suddenly turned punky and the last tomatoes are hanging heavy on the vine. It was a banner year here in Eldred, and G's photos tell the story...