According to Wikipedia, “dog days” refers to that lazy and unbearably hot time of year generally falling between early July and early September depending on the hemisphere where you live. My goodness, I believe it. It has been ridiculous and I’m ready for it to stop. It seems hotter this year than any I’ve lived in New York and that’s really saying something. Although I grew up in the Midwest and it’s hotter than “blue blazes” there as well, I don’t find much of a difference on the East Coast unfortunately.
The “dog days” more pointedly refer to Sirius, the Dog Star, which is closest to the sun during this period of time. That puppy must be running laps and laps around old Mr. Sun because I feel like my brain is frying. Remember the “this is your brain on drugs commercials from the 80’s???…Well, it’s a lot like that.
The pavement of the city heats up enough to cook an egg for certain let alone my spirit. Stepping down into the subway is tantamount to entering the 12th circle of hell with all its fury. It must be at least 20 degrees hotter down there and damp, humid, gross, a little funky smelling and downright monstrous in personality. It’s best to wait until you hear the train coming and then run down to the platform otherwise you will find yourself drenched in a matter of minutes desperately waiting for a chilly, air-conditioned car of comfort to rescue you from all the heated madness.
I guess I’m trying to say it’s hot and I’m done with it, but I’m afraid it’s not done with me. The heat makes me feel so lazy all the time and all I want to do is sit around in the AC playing video games or taking a nap after eating too much Ben & Jerry’s. Unfortunately my schedule doesn’t really allow for that, but it’s somewhat nice in theory.
It’s funny how summer starts off really exciting with thoughts of picnics and excursions to the beach, tops down and tops off, running willy-nilly through a field of grass and daisies while gently being kissed by the sun... and slowly erodes into a test of endurance. The idea of eating fried chicken outdoors on a checkered blanket sounds almost preposterous right now.
Fortunately, the one good thing summer has going for it is it isn’t winter. I’ll take heat any day my friends, any day. And also the smells…not the “city” smell (and I’ll leave it at that for my more sensitive readers), but the smell of wildflowers and trees, roses and herbs that occasionally waft by when nearing a city park or community plot are delightful. Small garden plots are one of the great things about New York City. After walking along an endless stretch of buildings you most always can find an unlooked for nook or secret place where someone is trying to coax a little nature out of the cement palace, and I appreciate it.
Today I was walking along and once such scent greeted me. I don’t know exactly what flower or plant produces the smell, but I was immediately taken back to being a little kid going down a waterslide. There were several “water parks” near where I grew up and on the weekends I would go with my dad and we would slide at breakneck speeds down the blue painted cement half-pipes. Some were definitely scarier than others and those were the most fun to go down. I guess the threat of being thrown out of the slide and into certain death heightened the experience immeasurably. It’s a feeling not unlike the wild freedom produced by a rollercoaster ride or presumably a bunji jump (I have never tried that one, though) and I realized I wish I had a waterslide to go and jump on right now. August was meant for being at the water, whether it’s a slide or a lake or river. The proximity of a large body of water seems to make everything better. A rope swing or an inter-tube to go “floating” down the rapids would make it the best.
It’s much more fun to think about all the things I could be doing as opposed to walking around a hot city on a daily basis, but since I’ve gotta eat I’ve gotta work, and if I don’t go down into that hot subway everyday then I certainly won’t be able to by my farm fresh eggs and sticks of butter required to maintain my pastry addiction.
This week I considered doing something in the “no bake” category of dessert treats. As kids we always used to have no-bake cookies from time to time in the summer, but Saturday cooled off just enough to turn the oven on. I forced myself out of bed in a timely fashion to get over to the farmer’s market and snatch up some good fruits and vegetables before all the other folks gave it a once over. I’ve made the mistake the past couple of weeks of going near closing time only to wind up discouraged with the “leftovers”. The early bird does seem to get the worm when it comes to the weekend farm stand competition.
Plums have finely come into season and were looking pristine and beautiful in their aubergine and yellow coats. Only recently have I tried a yellow plum and found it to be just as delicious as the purple ones, but I felt somehow exotic eating it. I chose “plum” plums this week because that’s what Ina’s recipe called for along with peaches and blueberries. The dessert is called a Summer Fruit Crostada, and the name is every bit as exotic as the color of that yellow plum. (I couldn’t find a direct link to the recipe via Barefoot Contessa, but I did find a thoroughly explained version of the recipe on another blog. Thanks!)
Not only were the plums perfectly juicy and sweet with a tart outer skin, but eating one gave me a similar sensation to a peach I was eating a few weeks ago…bliss!!! I found myself once again standing over the sink with fruity perfection in my hand and juice dripping down my chin. When you get fruit in the perfect condition it changes your perception about all other fruits that you eat. No matter if it’s a different fruit entirely, the revelation of a plum or peach or a cherry in its prime is enough to make everything else pale horribly in comparison…yea I’m talking to you grocery store.
As I was saying, the fruit was good, and the berry crostada was great. It’s funny how people come up with different names to describe the same thing (in my opinion). A crostada is really like a galette, and a galette is really just a fancy name for a freeform tart. The only difference I find with the crostada is it has a topping similar to a cobbler or crumble. Oh so many names, but all with one hopeful outcome…a vehicle to eat delicious fruit and crunchy, buttery pastry. For me, the simplest definition of the dessert is a tart meets cobbler mash-up, which is heavenly.
All you must bring to bare in creating this dessert is your tart crust making skills combined with slicing some fruit. I promise it’s no more difficult than that. The appearance is rustic and delicate, a cobbler/crumble for the new millennium (I mean it is 2010 for goodness sake) and one that will certainly impress the people you share it with. And you can pretend that it’s healthy because it has so much fruit in it. See, no guilt either, unless you decide to top it with a healthy scoop of vanilla ice cream, but I’m certainly not suggesting it. The crostada is served at room temperature, which is technically warm if you look at the thermometer hanging outside your kitchen window.
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