Peachy Keen

It’s 5:00pm on a lazy Tuesday afternoon in July.  My belly is full of fresh blueberry pie from a small-town bakeshop and the couch is waiting for me to lie down and take a nap.  I consider this a perfect moment.  I’m rarely off on a Tuesday, but it’s one of the perks that comes along from time to time when you are in business for yourself…a random day off, almost like a snow day except for the fact that’s it’s balmy and warm outside.

Balmy is probably an understatement when it comes to high summer, especially when it’s a day full of thunderstorms mixed with a languid heat.  Stepping outside the front door is tantamount to swimming in the liquid air.  For some reason I don’t mind, though.  I grew up in the mid-west where it’s fairly hot and humid all summer long and I don’t find New York to be that much different, and in fact it strangely reminds me of home from time to time.  The woods, mountains and streams that cover a large part of Westchester are reminiscent of the Ozark Mountains where I’m from and I find it comforting.

As I was looking through my “peachy” photos (this morning) for this week’s posting, having some coffee and listening to the birds chirping outside, I decided to go on an excursion.  I often fantasize about having days off and what I would do if I actually got one.  It’s rare I have an unplanned day in my busy, run-around life, but I’ve started making a list of things to do just in case I find myself with some spare time and don’t want to do any work around the house.  One of these trips would be to the beach, but as I said it’s exceptionally stormy out today and I just don’t feel like taking a chance.  Instead I decided to drive up to Cold Spring.

Cold Spring is a town about 30 minutes north of where we live, further up into the aforementioned woods and mountains.  It is a charming old town founded in the 1600’s and I’ve been there on several occasions in the past.  What I love about it (aside from it’s old buildings and charm) are the numerous antiques shops lining Main Street. 

I love a good antiques store.  Antiquing is a game of sorts; hunting for the best deal on whatever treasure you might come across.  I know some people who love the haggling and get almost more excited by their bargaining practices than acquiring the object of desire.  I however am not one of those people.  I guess I wasn’t born with the haggling gene.  What I am concerned with is the hunt. 

Going into one of those shops gives me anxiety at the outset, more from the impending over-stimulation.  The anticipation that the “thing” I have always wanted might be lurking in some hidden corner, overlooked by every other shopper and missed by unfocussed eyes is slightly overwhelming, but then suddenly I’m lost in all the objects.  Every now and again I realize I have been focused on anything from a set of children’s books to furniture to old quilts and have lost track of time in the wanderlust.  Rarely do I find something I absolutely have to have, but sometimes, once in awhile I discover greatness.

Acquiring used property is a funny thing to me.  An antique is something old that was once owned and cared for by somebody else.  I think about all the cake-stands I’ve hunted for and own and realize someday, someone may be hunting for them in a store just like the one’s I was visiting today.  I’m not trying to be morbid, but it’s the fascination of owning history in some way, which really makes the experience of finding antiques so special.  I think of it like having a stopwatch, but in artful object form; history and time crafted into a shape that you could care for and enjoy during your stint as caretaker.  It’s somehow romantic.

Looking through my food photos every week is not dissimilar from antiquing.  It’s a process of careful consideration that brings me pleasure and leads me through a series of moments I enjoyed making (and eating).  This week’s object of desire is a classic find in its own right:  the peach. 

A peach is an essential, All-American summer ingredient.  It’s a fruit associated with memory-laced fragrance, wafting with the perfume of childhood.  When I went to the market Saturday morning there was a sign announcing that “early summer peaches” had arrived.  I quickly moved over to the fruit stand to check out the red-golden orbs of deliciousness. Peaches are velvety and luscious; the sun scatters across the surface and is not unlike our own skin in the way it handles the light.   A beautiful peach is a worthy purchase.  There were several varieties to try, so I bought some of each and took them home to test out.

I decided to try them out in different ways, the first being eaten straight out of my hand.  That first bite is ridiculously amazing.  The peach was saturated with juice and I immediately ran to the sink with dripping hands to keep from getting it all over the floor…and then I just stood there over the sink, consuming the peach in a callous and un-lady like manner, juice running down my forearms as bite after delicious bite disappeared down my throat.  That, my friend, is the only way to properly eat a peach, and it’s not pretty. 

Second, I decided to fire up the grill.  In an effort to keep the house cool, it made sense to do my weekend cooking outdoors.  I had already planned to grill some fresh market corn and other vegetables, so why not some peaches?  A friend of mine at work had confessed his love for grilled peaches earlier in the week, and gave me the quick low-down on a marinade he made to go with them.  I didn’t really have all the stuff for the marinade, but I did have the ingredients to make a sauce of sorts incorporating some of the key items:  Cream, brown sugar, cinnamon and honey.  I just made the recipe up on the fly, but I think it was about a cup of cream, 1/4 cup of brown sugar, 2 tablespoons of honey and 1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon all thrown together in a small saucepan.  Bring everything to a boil and whisk for 3-4 minutes.  Let the sauce cool and it’s almost like having cinnamon and brown sugar butterscotch.  It pairs perfectly with the grilled peaches.

What also pairs well with peaches?  Pizza.  As my outdoor cooking plan evolved and I had a little extra time on my hands, I decided to make some dough and grill pizzas for dinner.  To make the dough takes a little under two hours including the time it takes for the dough to rise twice, so it’s not a major plan ahead kind of affair.  Once the dough is ready, you just divide it into four rounds, roll them out and brush lovingly with a garlic and rosemary flavored oil.  The crusts cook in a matter of minutes on a hot grill, and then you top them with whatever your heart desires.  Ours were mushroom, sausage, rosemary and mozzarella cheese.  The crust is crisp and blackened just like it came out of an old wood-fired oven, very fragrant with rosemary and garlic and simple enough for a backyard bbq with friends.  People would enjoy helping you make these for sure.

Now, back to the peaches…the third way of preparing them was, what else…baked.  I found a cookie recipe calling for fresh peaches and preserves, both of which they had at the farmer’s market.  Fresh-Peach Drop Cookies are exactly what the name implies:  fresh peaches mixed into cookie dough and dropped from a spoon or ice cream scoop onto a baking pan.  These are super easy.  I was in and out of the kitchen in under an hour including baking time.  They are very moist and sponge-y…not unlike cake, but with a crisp crunch around the outside.  I think these cookies would have been moist to begin with, but having such high humidity in the air eliminates any worry of them ever drying out before you get to your friend’s backyard bbq with a batch.

Eating a peach or drifting through antiques stores can conjure up as strong a link to the past as I can think of.  Both house experiences worth preserving, re-examining and reliving from time to time.  A hunt for the perfect fruit and the perfect treasure are healthy ways of preserving a tie to something passionately true and right in your life (or the life you fondly remember).  We may not always find it, or be able to afford it, but the possibility of having a dream come true is what makes life worth living.  Go to the market, look for a peach, stand over the sink with your head held high and devour it.  I promise, no one is looking and if they are tell them to get their own peach.  I know I would.  It’s just who I am.

The New Americana

Picture if you will an old fashioned drugstore.  Inside is a long counter flanked with colorful barstools waiting for kids to plop down and have a Coke or a milkshake.  The street outside is lined with flags blowing in the breeze, a barber pole is whirring its red and blue stripes suggestively as families are filling up the gas tank in their 57 Chevrolet before heading out to the countryside or beach for a picnic.  Once the sun goes down it’s time for a refreshing ice cream cone quickly devoured in the melting summer heat while waiting for the fireworks to begin…and then BANG!!! BOOM!!! …and a few WHISTLES to boot...the 4th of July has come once more.

We have been celebrating Independence Day in our country since 1776 when the Declaration of the same name was signed, declaring our colonies free from the sovereign rein of the king of England.  Though it wasn’t adopted as a formal government holiday until the 20th century, people have gathered for hundreds of years to celebrate their ability to live free or die trying.  Fireworks have always been part of this celebration.  In 1776, the lighting of bonfires, shooting of weapons and other explosive detonations were used as a way to create a mock funeral for the king.  Too bad the king didn’t laugh it off and let us go easily, for not too long after a bloody revolution ensued.

Luckily, much of that struggle and strife is behind us, and over the years being an American has come to stand for freedom.  We have certainly taken our own sweet time as a country coming around to the idea of freedom and liberties for everyone, but I think we’re slowly getting there.  I know for me the 4th of July always represented a high point in the summer season. 

Every year we used to gather at my aunt and uncle’s house to shoot off fireworks.  They lived just far enough outside of town to be able to legally put on a proper display.  Their front yard is a long slope heading down to the road, and on the other side of the road is a wood.  My uncles and cousins (and I) used to set up tables with old Coke bottles out on the front lawn.  The bottles were angled just right to get the bottle rockets, roman candles, and all matter of sparkly paraphernalia up into the air for it’s explosive moment out above the trees…and away from the roof of the house.  While it was still daylight we could do the firecrackers, smoke bombs and parachutes, but we had to wait until nightfall for the adults to put on the real show.

Everyone in my family would bring a dish and we would have the most delicious snacks while watching the darkness light up.  There was always seven-layer dip, pies, Mississippi mud and homemade ice cream churned in a bucket out in the driveway.  The kids would get extremely hopped up on sugar, ooohing and ahhhing and running around like chickens with their heads cut-off just so happy to be with each other.  After the fireworks were done and the sugar wore off you could hear the crickets start up out in the woods and see sparkles still going strong from all the fireflies weaving in and out of the branches.  Those were good times.

Though we can’t legally shoot off fireworks in our backyard we did the next best thing Ossining has to offer…it’s own fireworks show.  Brian and I had an early dinner then walked down to the Hudson River where practically the whole town was gathered to watch the spectacle play out.  There was live music and people having picnics and bbqs all over the lawn, and happily there were ice cream cones to be had.  The show was really quite good, and loud…I must be getting older…and the best part of all had to be watching the young kids get excited about every new colorful design violently appearing in the sky.  They pointed, they exclaimed and I must admit I did a time or two as well.

Because our town does the fireworks on the 2nd of July, it leaves the other days of the holiday weekend open for extended fun.  Our friend Kevin came up for a visit and we took him to the Stone Barns Agricultural Center.  I’ve mentioned it several times before on the blog, but I’m amazed every time I go there.  We were able to stroll through the greenhouses, visit with turkeys and pigs, hike around a lake and up into the woods all in the span of a couple relaxing hours.  Garlic happens to be in season right now and they had the ceiling of one whole outbuilding dedicated to drying and preserving it.  Unless you hang out at the farmer's markets a whole lot you don’t normally see garlic with it’s long stalks still attached.  The fragrance was potent and lovely (if your not a vampire anyway).

Though it was a hot day, the walk in the forest kept us cool.  We followed a creek that criss-crossed over our hiking trail several times.  In the dense underbrush were many squirrels and woodchucks scampering about over fallen tree trunks and through acres of ferns.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if Bambi himself should have stepped out of the magical wood.  We emerged into a sunlit field full of golden grasses, grazing cattle and lots and lots of raspberry bushes.  I always like it when it’s raspberry time.

It only made sense to have a bbq in the evening and invite our friends Izabella and Jonathan and Jonathan’s parents who happen to be visiting.  I had wanted to have a cookout all week.  When it comes to July 4th I can think of nothing better than getting together and sharing food with friends and family, just like the old days.  As far as the menu goes I stuck to something I know and love:  blue-cheese/cheddar turkey burgers, corn on the cob, a refreshing salad and tart yet sweet fruit pies. 

I have to confess the pies were truly my muses.  My destiny has been calling since the July cover of Martha Stewart Living crossed my threshold.  If you have seen it you know there are 6 small fruit pies featured on the cover.  I have made large format pies before, but never 6 small, precious, “wouldn’t hurt a flea” fruit pies.  It had to be done.

The recipe calls for 5-inch size dishes to bake the pies.  I found the exact ones I needed at Crate and Barrel a few days before…and they were red....how perfect.  Creating small pies is just like doing the large ones, but with a little more work cutting out the crusts and making everything look pretty.  You start with the usual pate brisee, doubling the recipe and chilling the dough for an hour and up to overnight.  The fruit filling is up to you, but I recommend getting whatever looks good at your local farmer’s market.

Raspberries, blueberries and blackberries had arrived at the market Saturday morning, and I was there before 9:00am to get the best possible pick.  The fruits are at their peak, sweet and delicious.  To make the “red” pies I used the raspberries, but you could also mix in strawberries if you were so inclined.  The blueberries and blackberries went into the “blue” pies.  One round of the pate brisee dough will make the six bottom crusts, and the other round of dough can be used to cut out your stars and stripes.  I used a pastry wheel to get a nice fluted edge on the stripes, but I had to do the stars by hand since I didn’t have a star shaped cutter.  I would recommend buying a start cutter if you want to do a lot of them…they can be kind of difficult to cut out.

Once you have all the pieces it’s just a matter of assembly and baking.  Insert the bottom crusts, fill with the berries which have been mixed with sugar, cornstarch and lemon juice, then use a cream and egg yolk wash to glue your stars and stripes on top.  It couldn’t be simpler.  All it takes is a little time and you have a perfectly beautiful and color coordinated dessert for your 4th of July festivities.

Thinking back to last year berries were a festive feature of our party as well.  Our friend Kassi had come up for a BBQ over at our pals Andrea and Nathan’s.  As I recall they had most of the neighbors on their street over to celebrate the sunshine and the day.  I made a classic blueberry tart and had just discovered a red and white platter also from Crate and Barrel.  I’m sensing a pattern here, or maybe just an excuse to feed both my baking and shopping addictions.  Whatever the reason, I’m free to make the baked goods of my choosing and buy the dishes with which I think they would present best.  I’m sure that’s not what our forefather’s had in mind while trying to procure our civil liberties, but the right to make choices, both in baking and in life, I’m sure they would understand. 

No, it isn’t the 1950’s any longer, or even the 1970’s or 80’s for that matter, but some celebrations keep going strong just the same.  Enjoy the day, and preserve and observe it the best way you can surrounded by friends and family.  I know I will.  It’s just who I am.

All-American Summer

Remember when you were a kid and the summer seemed endless…in a good way?  I sort of have that feeling right now.  Maybe it’s the extreme heat or the impending 4th of July weekend, but I kind of feel like I’m on vacation.  It could also be the fact that I’ve only been consuming liquids for the past five days on my dietary cleanse and am possibly losing touch with reality, but I tend to lean toward the former observations.

When I think back to some of my best summer memories they revolve around a bicycle.  I used to have to stay with a babysitter when I was a kid…even up through being 11 or 12 years old if I’m remembering correctly.  I would get up every morning with my mother and she would drop me off on the way to work.  Now, I never really liked going to the baby-sitter that much.  I always thought I was too mature for that sort of thing (as I’m sure every kid does), but during the summer when all the kids were there and Wenonah (that was the babysitter’s name) and her husband Herb would prepare the above ground pool, the days became heaven.  There is nothing better than getting into a pool with a bunch of other kids and playing like there is no tomorrow.  We would all move ourselves to the outer rim of the pool and try to run (in the 4 ft deep water mind you) in the same direction around and around until we got a good strong whirlpool going.  Then it was time to float around and be drug to the center of the vortex all the while pretending to fight for our lives.  Those were good days.

The other really fun days were when we took our bicycles out and rode all over town and beyond.  I must have been at least 11 or 12 years old, otherwise I can’t imagine they would just let us leave and ride off to who knows where, but it was a small town and there never was any danger (at least that we were aware of).  We would play a game of chase all over the small town streets, but when we got really brave we would ride out of town and down Terrel Creek Rd.  This always seemed really adventurous and somehow naughty. 

Like I said, it was a small town and therefore didn’t take very long to pass its borders.  Leaving town on a bike could be accomplished within a matter of minutes, and it was exhilarating.  Terrel Creek Rd. would take us out into the hilly countryside along a roughly paved road.  The fields all along the sides of the road were full of weeds and wildflowers along with raspberry, blackberry, gooseberry and even the occasional blueberry bushes.  Tall, dry grasses wilted over from the hot sun would scratch our arms and faces as we whirred past an endless expanse of barbed wire and cattle.

Eventually we came to a more woodsy area a few miles outside of town.  The houses were sparse, but well manicured and mostly private farms.  A group of kids riding by would get a wave from someone on a tractor or sitting on the porch instead of a suspicious glance I imagine they might get nowadays.  We would ride beyond a stone bridge and park our bikes in the weeds.  From this vantage point we could glimpse water through the tangled vines and poison ivy guarding the way down to Terrel Creek.

Hiding beneath the underbrush was the creek: cold and refreshing after such a sweaty ride, full of crawdads and smooth stones ripe for skipping.  And what did we do when we got there?  Throw rocks at each other.  If memory serves rocks seem to hurt less when you are a kid.  These were the war games of summer after all.

Those were glorious and exhausting days, and when we returned from our unsupervised excursions, Wenonah would have lunch waiting.  Sometimes it was Spaghetti-O’s and sometimes it was vegetable soup, but more often than not it was bologna and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  We would happily scarf down our food in an effort to get back out onto our bikes or into the pool or involved in some other sort of game we felt like playing. 

As an adult I can certainly appreciate that burst of summer energy.  I find some days I have it, and some days I don’t, but when I’m on, I’m on.  I suppose I don’t throw too many rocks anymore, other than the ones I've found in the garden and tossed into a pail to get them out of the way.  Or maybe I use the rocks as a natural border in the garden, but people coming over for an afternoon visit don’t have to worry too much about me screaming and throwing rocks at them in a feverish state. 

I’ve traded the pool in for a birdbath and the bicycle for a lawnmower, but the items I refuse to give up are peanut butter and jelly.  I don’t care how old you are, if you can’t find comfort in two pieces of white bread smothered in creamy (or crunchy) golden peanut butter with the jam or jelly of your choice, then I can’t help you.  But if you are someone who still takes a deep, carnal pleasure in a spoonful of Jiff, then I’m your man.

What I decided to do this week has been percolating in my head for a while, ever since I made the carrot bread from Jim Lahey’s My Bread.  A few pages beyond the carrot bread recipe is one for Peanut Butter and Jelly Bread.  Eureka!!!  Since the first time I saw it’s picture I was in love; a deep mahogany loaf stippled with roasted peanuts and containing a secret jelly filling inside.  I couldn’t help myself any longer, this bread had to be made!!!

The recipe is similar to his others by using the no-knead method Jim is famous for.  It’s just a matter of patience.  You start out by making a peanut butter flavored dough, let it rise for 12 hours in a warmish place (no kneading required) and then you pat the dough out into a rectangle.  Spread your jelly onto the dough like a sandwich; roll it up (tucking the sides in to prevent the jelly’s escape), top with roasted peanuts and bake for an hour and fifteen minutes.

The house smells amazing!!!  Even though it’s 10,000 degrees outside and the kitchen gets quite warm with the oven on during the summer I encourage you whole heartedly to make this bread.  I served it as a dessert along with chocolate peanut butter ice cream to much success, but I think it would also be great for a breakfast or brunch.  It really does smell like peanut butter all through the house, and if that’s a comfort food trigger for you you’ll have a hard time waiting for it to finish baking.

I’ve said before that summer smells like grass, but summer can also smell like peanut butter…at least it certainly can for me.  This bread makes me want to get outside and get moving, knowing that after a long journey and a few scratches later I have something delicious waiting for me cooling on the stove.  Now I just need to figure out where I put my bicycle.  It’s just who I am.

Life Is Just A Bowl Full Of Cherry Scones

Apparently I should get up at 6:30 every Saturday morning.  I sure seem to get a whole lot more done than I would normally.  It’s just going on 11:00am and I’ve already been to the airport, ran to the farmer’s market and grocery stores respectively and had time to make a Scone recipe from my beloved Barefoot Contessa, Ina Garten.

It isn’t often I get up early, but I find that I always appreciate it when I do.  Getting up when it’s still cool outside and you need a jacket (even though it will be scorching hot later in the day), a cup of coffee to get you going (though I’m doing a diet cleanse right now and am not supposed to have caffeine) and there is no one on the road to get in your way as you speed down the highway of life (or while taking Brian to the airport).  Maybe sleep deprivation is getting to me and I’m entirely too excited for my own good, but I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.  I’m certainly convinced that Martha Stewart never sleeps.

What’s great about being up so early is the first choice at the farmer’s market.  They officially open at 8:00am and I was there by 7:55 watching the last of the stalls being set up.  It was my first time to the Ossining farmer’s market this year and I always feel so proud when I go and support the local farmers.  There is nothing better than getting food freshly picked that hasn’t traveled miles and lost its vital substance.

All the berries were looking absolutely beautiful.  The scone recipe I found calls for strawberries, which are in season, but having so recently made strawberry shortcake I thought I would let the market dictate what kind of scones I should make.  There were a variety of gorgeous cherries at one particular stand.  Cherries had been on my mind anyway because we got a really delicious batch of sweet ones from Fresh Direct this week at work.  Ding!  We have a winner.  I only bought a pint because the scone recipe calls for 3/4 cup of cut up berries and a pint was about twice as much as I needed.

The vegetable produce was also looking really good.  There were bright, fresh spring carrots, beets and radishes that will fit perfectly into my current eating regimen, and everything just looked so healthy.  No one had been along to pick over anything yet and I had all the best goodies to myself…mwah, ha, ha, ha….

After that I stopped by to the grocery store to get a few missing items I needed for the scones like eggs and good old-fashioned heavy cream.  These scones are really straightforward to make, especially if you have a Kitchen Aid glistening on your countertop waiting to go for a spin.  You could probably use a food processor too, but you would need one that would hold a decent amount of ingredients because there are 4 cups of flour and 3 sticks of butter in this recipe!

What’s nice is it’s a one-bowl process.  Just combine the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in your mixing bowl.  Cut your chilled butter into a small dice, add it to the dry ingredients, and mix on low until the butter breaks down into pea-sized pieces.  Mix together your cream and eggs in a separate bowl, then add them to the mixing bowl while the paddle is still on low speed.  That’s it for the mixing.

Turn your dough out onto a floured surface and using a well-floured rolling pin (because the dough is fairly sticky), roll out to 3/4 inch thick and cut into 4-inch squares.  These squares get cut in half on the diagonal leaving you with about 16 scones.  Lightly brush with egg wash and sprinkle with sugar.  Bake at 400 degrees for 20-25 minutes and you have a lovely brunch snack for friends if they drop by, or if you are feeling neighborly and decide to go “a callin’”.  Light, buttery and with a sweet/tart cherry taste, these are a “not to be missed” portion of a well balanced diet.

It’s good to get the baking done early on these hot pre-summer days.  In fact, it will be summer next week!  I can’t wait for the cobblers and crumbles, fruit pies and refreshing glasses of lemonade or a mojito out on the veranda.  If only I had a proper Southern veranda I would be set!

Now with the day ahead of me I have time to mow the yard and tackle some weeding in the garden I’ve been putting off.  With all the rain and constant moisture this year it has turned into a tropical jungle.  I don’t guess I necessarily mind since I was going for more of a cottage garden look, but apparently I’m nearing more of a “garden gone wild!” sort of theme.  An eye for editing is key at this point, and it would do me some good to use it.  After seeing all the gardens in Ptown last weekend I think I could be content with only hydrangeas, roses, lavender and some tall spires of sea grass.  I don’t have the heart to “clear-out” my garden, but maybe next time around I’ll do things a little different.

I can’t help it if I’m a fan of excess.  It’s just who I am.

Dunes

The dunes were simply breathtaking.  Miles of sea grass hand planted into the hills and mountains of sand, blowing in the breeze as the sun was setting.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it before, and hadn’t expected to experience such a foreign landscape last weekend.  Happily, my expectations were left in the dust.

In the concluding episode of our vacation, Brian and I took a long weekend to Provincetown, Massachusetts (lovingly known as Ptown).  It’s where the Pilgrims first landed in America before moving on several weeks later and settling in Plymouth.  The place is extraordinary to me, not only for it's place in history, but for its architecture.  Hey, I love a good pilgrim as much as the next guy, but it's the houses that make this place so special to me.

Provincetown is located on the tip of the spiraling landmass known as Cape Cod, on the Atlantic Ocean.  Coming into town you can sense the history if you are willing to look past a main street full of shops and eateries (which I also love).  There is one street in particular I like to stroll along:  Commercial St.  When you get out to the West End area of town walking along Commercial parallel to the water, homes and gardens that have been thriving for many generations line the brick walkway, and to me are photographs waiting to be taken every step of the way.

I’ve been in love with “Cape Cod” style homes for years.  The cedar shingle, large colorful shutters and details, well built wood construction that has stood the test of time; it makes me feel safe.  Today, few houses in America are built the way these beauties were crafted.  This whole town was built to last and is happily waiting there for me whenever I get to visit.

This is my third time to Provincetown, and we happily went with several of our usual vacation companions:  Randy, Nick and David.  While the three of them stayed in Nick’s lovely home, Brian and I spent our mornings and evenings at a quaint little guesthouse called the Brass Key.  The people were friendly, the room was lovely and it was just moments away from all the shopping and eating we set out to do.

I must confess now to numerous trips to the Fudge Factory.  Batches of freshly made fudge line the shelves along the wall, and the people working there were very generous with samples.  My favorite had to be the cappuccino fudge (I’m quite a lover of coffee) and I think this is something I’m going to have to re-create in my own kitchen.  I was also forced on occasion to eat a hot fudge sundae and a wicked slice of peanut butter mousse pie at a great old restaurant called the Red Inn.  It was heaven on a plate.

The highlight of our trip had to be our own pilgrimage into the dunes outside of town.  Apparently about 80% of the land around Ptown has been set aside as a national park and nature preserve containing the most unexpected landscape I’ve seen in some time.  We took a guided tour with a friendly gentleman named Rob who drove us up and down through the wild mountains of sand while telling us stories about the grasses, wildlife and some amazing shacks that are still standing and inhabited way out in the middle of nowhere.  Since we were conveniently driving through “nowhere” we got a glimpse of some of the structures. 

Over the years various artists, writers and other creative types have come out to these shacks for solace and a place to work on their craft.  Though the government now owns a majority of the properties, few of the buildings still house persons willing to live off the grid and be left the heck alone.  I know I mentioned Walden recently in one of my postings, but here it was all over again, the structures in the flesh and a place I could empathize with wanting to never leave.

It’s hard for me to describe the alien landscape.  I guess if you have ever been to the desert, it must be something like that, but with tall grasses and scrub pine.  We drove through as the sun was setting and made our way out to the beach for a clambak .  Our guide prepared the food and spread out blankets while we wandered around in awe at the beauty and emptiness of the space.  We were the only people on a deserted beach and it seemed like we had traveled to Mars.  The water was a deep blue turning black as the orange fiery ball of the sun collapsed into its depths.  The sky turned grey and then midnight with Venus appearing out over the horizon.  Rob lit a bonfire and we gathered around after finishing our lobster and clams, chilled by the night ocean breeze and very aware of how spectacular and moving our surroundings were.  Occasionally you know when you are having a magical moment. 

I think the only thing that could have made this experience better would have been dessert!  I’m sure I could continue to write about the stunning scenery, but I really need to focus on the Lemon Tassies.  With all the heavy confections, ice cream and other naughty treats I was eating what I really needed was a palette cleanser.  What accompanies seafood on the beach better than a hint of lemon?

I realize I have made lemon desserts two weeks in a row, and I debated making fudge, but I really needed something a little brighter and lighter.  I had received my daily cookie/pastry email containing the lemon tassies some weeks back and had filed it away to break out at a later date.  The time has come.

The two most important things about this dessert is that people will gobble them up like there is no tomorrow because they are that good, and that it took about 20 minutes to make.  It is comprised of two parts, the crust and the filling.  They are very similar to a pie, but without all the fuss.  All you need to have is a mini-muffin pan and a food processor is very helpful. 

Place the butter, flour, sugar, vanilla extract (or paste), egg yolk, lemon zest and salt in the processor.  Turn it on and pulse until smooth.  Normally with a crust you would pulse just a few times keeping your butter in pea sized pieces, but here you can grind away and make the consistency more like bread crumbs.  Butter your muffin pan, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees and divide the dough into quarters.  Take each quarter and divide it into 6 parts.  Roll the small pieces of dough into balls and press into the muffin pan.  Use your thumb to make an indention that will be the bottom of your mini crusts.  I do recommend using your thumb to press the remaining crust up the sides of the muffin tin (this will give you a larger cup to pour your wet batter into).  Bake the crust for about fifteen minutes and let it cool.

Meanwhile you can make the filling.  Combine the cream cheese, lemon juice, vanilla, lemon zest and sugar together.  Fill your mini crusts and bake for another 10 to 12 minutes, and voila!  The taste is like a cross between a light lemon cheesecake and shortbread (two of my favorite things) and they certainly seemed a big hit at work.  The lemon flavor is strong from all the zest, packing a punch but without being overwhelming.  My palette was surely cleansed and I was ready to hack into another lobster.

It’s sad that vacation is over and I have to return to reality, though my reality is certainly nothing to complain about.  Taking time away reminded me of the things I miss about my routine (if that’s possible).  I like watching my usual television shows, making dinner, poking around in the garden and even my reading time on the morning commute.  Vacations and travel is the best way to open your eyes, heart and mind to the world around you and then bring a tiny piece home to cherish, especially on those more challenging days life offers up.  Without sounding too cliché I must utter the beloved phrase, “There is no place like home”.  It’s just who I am.

And 1000 Miles Later...

I love sitting on the front porch, rocking in the old wood and cane chair as the sun sets.  It’s not something I get to do very often, but when the street is quiet (or maybe kids are shouting and playing in a nearby backyard) there is nothing quite like it.  The soothing sound of birds in the trees and a nice glass of lemonade are all you need to get right with the world.  Or maybe you need a Pink Lemonade Pie.

Brian and I recently made it back from our whirlwind visit to the Midwest, practically driving all over kingdom come in an effort to visit as many friends and family as possible.  We tried to squeeze in as many dinners and hangouts as we could, but of course we couldn’t make it around to everyone.  There never is enough time, and all the driving around left me with plenty of “time” to think about this very concept. 

I haven’t lived in the Midwest for over eight years now and it’s funny how some things in life change, and many others stay the same.  There were neighborhoods built up in places that used to be miles of fields, and there were big empty spaces where buildings once stood.  The contrast between the old and the new was startlingly apparent to me.  Maybe because of my time away I have the perspective to see changes other people don’t catch.  When you live in a place, and time is passing from day to day (as it does) it’s difficult to perceive change.  It’s good to step out of your “normal” life once in awhile for a reminder to appreciate the things you have. 

While driving around both Missouri and Oklahoma I remembered how I always craved a “big city” life with little ability to appreciate the endless expanse of fields and roaming animals, never happy with what I had.  Fortunately and unfortunately this is a common theme in my life, always wanting more and trying to take on that next big thing.  Being forced to slow down for a bit and take in the landscape was just what I needed.

Our drive to Bartlesville, Oklahoma (to see our friend Maria and her new baby, Noah) took us over a portion of Old Route 66.  The road is a bit worn in places and many storefronts are boarded up where life once thrived before bigger interstates came along.  There is a certain loneliness and sense of longing I associate with seeing this.  The feeling is a like a craving, a craving for a time I’m not even old enough to remember but thanks to film and television I have a sense of.  I get the same feeling when I look at the artwork of Norman Rockwell, a captured innocence of our country which has been seemingly lost or left behind in an effort to do things bigger, better and faster.

Bartlesville is the original home of the Phillips Corporation, and was once a booming town until Phillips merged with Conoco and relocated their headquarters to the southwest.  Though the town seems to be doing just fine, I had a strong sensation of a place trying to find itself again and figure out it’s next move, or maybe that is just my own feelings about life being projected onto a place.  Regardless, our friend Maria works for the tourism board and is helping bring people to town for both business and pleasure.  Brian and I were obviously there for pleasure, and we were not disappointed.

Having lived there all her life, Maria knows everybody and gave us the full tour of town.  We visited redeveloped industrial lofts, small (and fabulous) main street diners and even had a chance to visit a place called Woolaroc.  This place is a nature preserve, similar to that of Dogwood Canyon, which we visited last week in Missouri.  Woolaroc (Wood, lake, rock) was created by the head of the Phillips Corporation decades ago, and is home to many animals including buffalo and a horse and zebra combination called a Zony.  The main attraction of the property is a museum housing American Indian artifacts.  In the gift shop I was perusing through trinkets and “what-nots”, coming across a section of homey cookbooks.  While flipping through the pages I saw a recipe that spoke to me as uniquely Midwestern.  It is, of course, our pink lemonade pie.

The simplicity of the recipe is what stopped me.  There are only four ingredients:  a store bought graham cracker crust, Cool Whip, a can of frozen pink lemonade and a can of sweetened condensed milk.  It sounds crazy, but I thought I just had to try it out in honor of Oklahoma (and in honor of “baking” something really quick while on vacation).  I did buy three of the four ingredients, but my conscience wouldn’t let me purchase a store-bought crust.  I know, I know…they are good you say!  But this is a baking blog after all and I had to at least put something in the oven for goodness sake.  So I made the Graham Cracker Crust.

The crust recipe, too, is super easy.  All you need is sugar, butter, graham crackers and a pinch of salt.  It’s easily made in a food processor and then pressed into a 9-inch pie plate.  Once it’s baked (at 350 degrees for 12 minutes or so), the crust needs to cool completely.  Mix up your filling ingredients and pour it into the cooled piecrust, refrigerate for at least 2 hours and dessert is ready!

I might recommend putting the pie into the freezer just to get a little more firmness before cutting the pieces.  Though the filling does hold up pretty well, it’s a bit on the soft side and doesn’t like to hold its shape the way you might like.  The taste is, well, like pink lemonade.  It almost reminded me of Smarties candies from when I was a kid, or possibly the taste of Sweet Tarts.  It’s a very childhood-memory inducing flavor and seemed to fit with my memory laced journey around the countryside.

The goal of our trip was to see family and “get away from it all”.  It’s hard to escape your past; whether that was something you consider good or bad.  Driving around, seeing old, overgrown highways, fields full of wildflowers and hay bails and quite a few of the friends and family I grew up with (many with kids and families of their own) made me realize time hasn’t stopped.  In my mind certain convenience stores are still in a my small hometown, people “cruise” certain roads on Friday and Saturday nights to find out where the party is going to be, my 23 year old brother is still 6 and everyone is still alive and well with their lives and fortunes ahead of them.  Some dreams came true, some didn’t, but most people are still plugging away trying to make the best life possible for themselves.  I can relate.  I’m doing the same thing in New York.  It’s just who I am.