Nine years ago, I married a wonderful man. I had been married before—not once, not twice, but three times and each time I had walked down the aisle filled with hope. But I had not been ready. I had not learned the true nature of love. I had not yet ripened into the woman I was to become, the one that could open her heart and receive as much as she could give. When we found each other, everything changed. Our wedding was a beautiful nighttime celebration in front of friends and family. It was cocktails, cake and dancing in a loft in New York City. The flowers were extraordinary and Danny Meyer catered the finger food (there was even an ice cream bar). We spent our wedding night in a room overlooking Central Park at the Carlyle Hotel. It was glorious and extravagant and truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I know I'll never get married again. A couple of months later, we went to India for a five-week honeymoon. What a life! It seems an awfully long time ago in some ways, but our love feels very fresh and alive. And that curry? It's a memento of that trip to India—a green version of an incredible tomato curry we ate in Udaipur at this stunning hotel.

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My friend Mirena Kim is such a superb creature. We met more than 20 years ago and instantly bonded over our love of food, crafts and wicked giggling. Through life's ups and downs, I have watched her handle whatever came her way with grace and humor. She has always been there for me: totally supportive, never judging. Her aesthetic is flawless; everything she makes and keeps around her is quietly beautiful and highly functional. In the last few years, she has dug deeper into her ceramics practice and the world has taken notice. (You can read more about her here and here, visit her website here, and watch this video my husband made about her.) Her bowls, platters and vases are fully integrated into my home life and will be forever. This summer, Mirena flew in from Los Angeles for a spontaneous visit and spent a few glorious days talking, hiking, swimming in the lake and teaching me to make kimchi straight from the garden. 

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Farewell is such sweet sorrow. I'm leaving on a jet plane, just as the garden kicks into its full glory. While I'm away, the peonies are going to bloom in a burst of pink and white fireworks. The jasmine will waft its sweet fragrance all over the yard and into the open windows of our tiny cottage, but I'll be in Greece. Which will certainly be no small consolation for missing one of the prime moments of the season in our little corner of the Catskills. I've never been to Greece before but my suitcase is packed with all things blue and white in anticipation. Last night, only half joking, I made a Greek salad for dinner. Priming the pump. New sights, new sounds, new tastes, new friends: here I come.

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This is summer upstate: Tiny hummingbirds perched on the branch of the redbud tree, their scarlet throats glistening in the morning sun. Thick hops vines twining up the barn. Rising early to the impossibly loud birdsong and air so fresh it's like a cool hand on a fevered brow. Lazy dinners in the screened-in porch, as the sky darkens and the fireflies wink. The hot thrill of bear sightings. Ticks, ticks, everywhere. The sound of ice in the cocktail shaker announcing the end of the workday. Cold cherries. Shades of green so various the mind boggles. Whole fish on the grill. Canoe trips across the reservoir to the waterfall. Hands plunged into the damp earth. Foraging for wild berries. Memories of summers past—camp, swimming holes, fresh corn, cookouts, family picnics. Nostalgia, penetrating and bittersweet. Let me take you down...
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The redbud tree, a beautiful native species, is the first to offer its blush of pink blossoms in the early spring and it holds onto its large, heart-shaped leaves right up until the killing frost. On that very day, they fall slowly to the ground like great green tears. It is a sign that winter is upon us, like the wolf at the door.

There were not a great many garden posts this summer, so you'll have to take my word for it that it was a banner year. I harvested enough mint, chamomile, lemon verbena and anise hyssop to make many tins of my own "Garden Variety" tea. And we are fully stocked with frozen tomato sauce and zucchini. Remnants of its glory remain: the crisp dried globes of hydrangea, blackened peony leaves, a few wild grasses still standing tall. They bring to mind the concept of wabi-sabi, an aesthetic that derives from Buddhist teachings, centered on the acceptance of imperfection and impermanence. I learned about it years ago, from this book a friend gave me, and it resonated deeply right away. I have always loved the patina of age—on leather, on wood, on bronze, on human faces.
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By the end of tomato season, I am so OVER tomatoes that I have to continually remind myself I won't feel the same come February. The green ones, rescued from the garden before the first frost hits, provide an acceptable respite from the red and the onslaught of tomato soup (both hot and cold), tomato sauce, tomato paste, tomato jam, tomato juice, tomato water, tomato powder and tomato fruit leather. Green tomatoes offer a crisp tartness that demands a totally different approach in the kitchen. I love them fried, their firm texture standing up to a deliciously crunchy coating of buttermilk and cornmeal. And green tomato chutney is a useful condiment, equally able to perk up a cheese sandwich or a plate of papadums and rice. But I'm fickle and always looking for something new—for me and for you, too. Got to stay frosty.
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As I prepare to leave you for a month (my last post until after Labor Day will be on Friday), I realize I have shared very little of this summer's garden. I've spent so many back-breaking hours weeding it, and almost as much time picking off the great variety of insect predators that seem to be assigned to each tender vegetable and herb, that I haven't had much occasion to just wander through with my camera. It's bigger and more bodacious than ever. My favorite thing is to take friends on a smelling tour: lovage, anise hyssop, four kinds of mint, wild bergamot, sage, lavender, roses, chamomile, lemon verbena...it massages the senses. But wait. That might be my second favorite. Because what I like best is eating our bounty straight from the ground, still cool from the earth and vibrating with sunshine. And doing things to it first in my kitchen.
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Can't you just see her, proudly leading the parade down Main Street, all rosy cheeks, healthy curves and shiny Breck-girl hair? (Sort of like Hilary Rhoda if she ate more.) Actually, "The Tomato Queen" was what they dubbed Tillie Lewis, whose canning factory in Stockton, California, in the 1940s, was the first to market Italian Roma tomatoes to mainstream consumers. But that's neither here nor there. What I'm writing about today is a way to use all those cherry tomatoes that are still flooding in from your garden (or local greenmarket). I posted my recipe for "tomaisins"—my own deeply clever marketing term for dried cherry tomatoes—a couple of years ago, and I'm running a similar one here because I still think it's a great, easy preserving method. I hope I'm preaching to the converted, but if you still haven't tried this, now's your chance. Of course you can add fresh cherry tomatoes to your salads, toss them raw with hot pasta, slice them with cucumbers or just pop them into your mouth for a snack but, if you're like me, you will still have a ton left cluttering up your kitchen counter (never refrigerate tomatoes). This simple recipe for a flavor-intensified condiment is the perfect solution.
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As much as I love to travel the world, the journey home will always be my favorite. I spent several long hours in the Atlanta airport yesterday, waiting for my delayed flight back to Newark, surrounded by squalling babies, lurid fluorescent lighting, enormously fat people talking much too loudly on their cell phones and a general air of fetid unhealthiness. When it became clear that a real dinner was not in my future, I sidled hopefully up to the nearest Wolfgang Puck Express where I was met with the world's saddest array. Dessicated "baby" carrots, the desperate orange of Guantánamo jumpsuits, huddled in fogged plastic containers alongside clammy cubes of cheese and a few shriveled grapes. Spago it was not. I ultimately gnashed my way through a heap of watery romaine with a lumpy feta vinaigrette and longed for the green, green grass of home. Once aboard the plane, there was a moment of glory: as lightning shot repeatedly through a layer of meringue clouds, we soared high above into a crystalline night sky illuminated by an enormous silver moon. And then the pregnant lady in front of me farted. 

When I arrived home past two in the morning and emerged from the frigid yet stale air of the town car, I inhaled the cool country sweetness and was instantly restored. The wild honeysuckle brushed lovingly against me as I made my way up the front path. Moths slam-danced into the yellow porch light. I crawled into my bed between two biscuit-warm bodies and fell asleep to the rhythmic buzz of the night creatures.
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A quick turn around the garden at this time of year yields an impressive diversity of flowers. Most of them are rather humble natives, medicinals or even volunteers, but they are no less colorful or beautiful than the showier annuals. I love to have cut flowers in my home. I find it very uplifting, especially when we have grown them ourselves. I often add ferns for a bit of greenery, perhaps a sprig or two of mint, and I always include a few stems from my beloved scented geraniums. A bouquet like this is a tonic to the eye and a feast for the senses. Place one by your bed and see if your dreams aren't sweeter.
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