Ruby Gold tomato sorbet: Sweet!

by June
The garden gives us not only food, but such pleasure. Until I started gardening myself, I never realized how very hard it is to grow food. Enthralled as I am by the miracle of compost and of seeds that spring to sprout when water is added, engaged as I am by the sprint to the sun by the corn and by the ohhh! moment of harvesting ample beets and carrots, I remain daunted by Japanese beetles and squash bugs, by blight and too-hot temperatures. Or too much rain. Or too little. So any harvest is a celebration for our family.

I love that Fern and Blossom rush to help me unload the baskets with exclamations over how well the corn did (our first ever this year!) and over how many edamame beans are on each stalk. Look how long the carrots are! How fat the beets! I love that our girls are watching and waiting as eagerly as I am. It does feel as though we celebrate each bite we take when the garden is providing our meals.

That is never so true as with tomatoes. We love our tomatoes. And, of all our heirlooms, we love the big, knobby, gloriously swirled Ruby Golds most of all.

This year we made a sorbet with Ruby Golds that is a celebration of all that's best as summer bends to autumn (and we bend to the work of stacking firewood). The last hot days spin down into evenings that close in too early—but find us eating our supper by candlelight. This sorbet goes very well with candlelight.

Ruby Gold Tomato Sorbet
1 cup sugar
3 pounds Ruby Gold (or other heirloom) ripe tomatoes—peeled, cored and chunked
a handful of basil leaves
• Make a simple syrup: In a saucepan, melt sugar into one cup of water and bring to a rolling boil. Turn off the heat and toss in the basil leaves. Let it steep and cool.
• In a blender, puree the tomatoes then pour the puree through a strainer.
• Strain the the basil out of the simple syrup.
• Combine the syrup and tomatoes in a bowl and chill until thoroughly cold.
• Process in an ice cream maker as you would any frozen concoction.
• Serve it softly frozen or scoop it into another container and freeze it until firm, which may take about three hours.


We served ours topped with slow-roasted Sungold "raisins" and a little sprinkling of Malden's flaky sea salt. We also baked some Lime Basil Shortbread cookies.


Oh, you want that recipe, too? Yes, you do! It turned out to be a passionate favorite here (and everywhere we shared it).

Lime-Basil Shortbread Cookies
(do yourself a favor and just double it)
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 cup (1 stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut into chunks
2 tablespoons sliced fresh lime-basil (or any sweet basil)
2 teaspoons finely grated lime zest
1 tablespoon lime juice
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
granulated sugar for sprinkling the tops
• Place flour, powdered sugar, butter, basil, lime zest and juice, and salt in a food processor.
• Pulse until the dough clumps together in a nice moist hunk.
• Chill the dough for at least an hour.
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
• Measure tablespoonfuls of the dough and roll them between your palms into a ball. Place each ball onto a large baking sheet lined with parchment paper.
• Dip a juice glass into water, then into the granulated sugar, and press each ball of cookie dough into a circle.
• Bake for eight minutes, then check. We like them with just a rim of golden brown.

Enjoy by candlelight! Happy summer-turns-to-fall-but-still-tastes-like-summer sorbet and cookies!

Sungold noodles!

By June


How lucky are we that readers actually miss us when we're gone? And miss our recipes? We've gotten special requests for more tomato recipes—one request came from a local friend while we were up to our necks in the lake and another came all the way from a friend in Oklahoma, where the tomato harvest is probably almost over (while ours has barely begun).


We're honored that friends—far and near—care! Thank you!

Fortunately, we've been eager to share one of our favorite recipes. This is the week when we finally finally finally got a whole bowlful of Sungold tomatoes, which means we immediately put on the water for pasta.


This recipe comes from an Alice Waters book from way back. She recommends Sweet 100 tomatoes. I always use Sungolds. My apologies to Alice because I no longer crack the book. I just do it from memory now, which is no doubt the best homage a cook can have. It means the recipe has a place on your family's table—and in their hearts.


So from our hearts (and my memory) to your table...


Sungold Tomato Pasta


Halve as many Sungold tomatoes as you can get your hands on (four or five or six cups). Marinate them in a cup of really great-tasting extra-virgin olive oil and enough red wine vinegar to suit your palate. Add a grinding of black pepper (liberally) and sprinkle on salt to satisfy. Let that rest while you...


...toast a cup-and-a-half (or so) of homemade bread crumbs and...


...boil up your pasta, out of a box or freshly made. We like spaghetti or spaghettini for this recipe.


Just before the pasta is ready, add your tomatoes to a deep skillet and set the flame to a gentle hum. The juices may start to simmer but don't let it simmer long. You just want to warm the tomatoes and get them ready to melt only when you eat them.


Drain the noodles and then tip as many as will fit into the deep skillet. But be gentle with the tomatoes. The beauty of this dish is that the tomatoes melt on your tongue—and not before!  Load into a spacious bowl and sprinkle with the toasted breadcrumbs and a huge handful of torn basil leaves.


Enjoy! We enjoyed ours so much last night that I didn't even grab a photo. You'll have to take our word on this: It was a beautiful sight. And the way it tasted was pure Sungold art.

Sugar days

by June
Can you tell we've been a little frozen up?

It's been a winter of hugging the woodstove (and one another) as the wind howled, the furnace rumbled, and the snow mounted. I know that somewhere it is already spring. The calendar says so. But here we are still swinging between frigid nights and days that are often bright but bracing. Fortunately, that's perfect weather for gathering maple sap to boil down into syrup.

We have a wedding tree on our place. It was an old New England tradition to plant a sugar maple in the front yard—to celebrate a wedding. Our tree has four trunks—a sugar clump, we call it. It is always gloriously ablaze for our October wedding anniversary, and then in spring it graces us with more sweetness...a bountiful run of sap that pitter pats into the buckets. If we're diligent about keeping the fire going, that clump can give us syrup for a year's worth of pancakes and popovers and lemonade.

When we are at the sugar clump, we notice that even though the taps are often iced up, some signs of spring are here. The light is crisp and warm. Robins hop about on the patches of grass where the snow has retreated. The mourning doves coo to one another in the firs. Daffodil spears are slicing up through the soil and lilac buds are swelling. Spring will come. Summer too. And when it does, some hot afternoon, we'll have a glass of maple lemonade and think of these cold days of almost-spring.

We hope this favorite lemonade recipe of ours will be enough for you to forgive us our long absence here. It's such an easy drink to make, yet it is the most refreshing treat on earth. Squeeze six lemons into a glass pitcher, then add about a half-cup of maple syrup (more or less to taste). You can add a little sugar if you want to boost the sweetness but preserve the precious syrup. Grate a little lemon zest into the pitcher. Add ice and water until it tastes right to you. (We've learned that this recipe is flexible and personal. Each one of us angles it a slightly different way.)

If this tardy missive of ours reaches you (and if you haven't given up on us), please send word back. We've missed our friends, each of you. Is it spring where you are? We welcome reports of buds and blossoms and nesting birds.

Celebrating the Year of the Rabbit with homemade dumplings!

by June
What is the potential of some flour and a little water? This time of year, in our home, those humble ingredients are mixed together to become part of a tradition that stretches all the way to China—and back in time thousands of years.

When we first brought our babies home, we despaired of being able to give them a connection to Chinese culture in any deeply meaningful way. Living in Maine, how could we  begin to understand the complexity of one of the world's oldest and richest cultures? I remember thinking, How can we do it without a Chinese grandmother to cook and tell stories and impart wisdom handed down by generations?


We were fortunate to find other families with ties to China. With them, we celebrate each new year with dancing and singing and dumpling-making. Other families share their grandmothers and those grandmothers share their wisdom—whether it be the finer points of mah jongg or the secrets of making dumpling wrappers.


This Chinese New Year's eve, we were snowed in. But we had flour and water and the sweet promise of a day coming soon when the music would soar and the children would dance and the dragon would wind through the swirling crowd.


As families around the world did that night, we made dumplings according to the wisdom passed down to us by loving grandmothers.


We took about two cups of flour and mixed it with about a half-cup of water that is just off the boil. We stirred it with wok-size chopsticks counter-clockwise, and then when we could gather it into a ragged ball, we began to knead it with our hands. When it was soft as an earlobe (that tip could only come from a grandmother, no?), we wrapped it in plastic wrap and let it rest for a few minutes.


Then we rolled it into a snake and pinched off pieces about as big as a man's thumb. (One of our favorite cooks does it by scissoring the base of her thumb against the base of her first digit.)


Next we wielded our dumpling rollers. (One of our dearest grandmothers still uses a rung off a chair that she found decades ago, but Birch made the girls each a rolling pin from a wooden dowel. Blossom named hers Half Apple and Fern calls hers Bamboo. They use them for cookie dough at Christmas and pie crust any old time and dumplings at Chinese New Year. Even though the rollers are only about five years old now, they are already silky from rolling between the pads of little hands and dough.)

The trick to dumpling wrappers is to flatten the dough lump in one direction then another, then turn the dough and take a swipe here and a swipe there, then turn it again. With practice, a circle emerges.

On New Years' Eve, we rolled and rolled.

Then, onto the full-moon dumpling wrapper went a little filling.

A finger dipped in water traced the outer edge, and then one side got folded up until the rims touched.

Pleating is an art. We are still learning that art and will never be as fast as the grandmothers who are patient in showing us; their fingers fly. We feel clumsy in comparison. But, the eating is so good that we are willing to forgive ourselves some lumpy dumplings. So we cradled the filled dumpling and pinched and pleated from one end to the next.

Our filling was simple. We've done all kinds of elaborate fillings through the years and eaten some wondrous fillings created by our friends. But on a snowy night at home, it's always possible to have some kind of dumplings.

Simple and Fast Dumpling Filling


1/2 pound ground meat (we used turkey)
1/2 cup chopped scallion greens (we didn't have Chinese chives)
a pinch of salt
1 and 1/2 teaspoons of rice wine
a grind of pepper
1/2 teaspoon (or more, to taste) of sesame oil


Mix all the ingredients together.


Place the dumplings in a bamboo steamer and steam over high heat for about 14 minutes. Test whether the dumplings are done by cutting one open.


Our dipping sauce recipe is here.

We ate ours as we are eating all meals these cold nights...crouched around the coffee table by the fire. Even though we were one little family tucked away in one little home, we were part of a grand tradition that encircled the globe that night.

Happy Year of the Rabbit!

Snow and cherries!

by June
The third blizzard of the year is whooshing around our windows. And we are eating cherry pie for breakfast. Eating cherry pie has many pleasures, not least the crunch of the sugared glaze and the tartness of the cherry zinging out of the sweet sauce. My favorite pleasure this morning, though, is remembering the July day we picked the cherries at our favorite farm.


I can't cut you a slice—as much as I wish I could. But I can share these memories of blue skies and glowing fruit and grass so green it throbbed.

Summer itself seems baked into a crackling crust on this day when everything is white—the sky, the ground, the wind itself. To remember the colors of summer is as sweet as the pie itself.

Battle Hymn of the Bunny Mama

by June
That Tiger Mom has certainly stirred up a conversation, has she not? As an American mother raising daughters who were born in China, I am alert to cultural differences between western and eastern ways of teaching or parenting or... I haven't yet dipped into the book (though I am eager to read it cover to cover). I have read the Wall Street Journal column written by the author. A Yale law professor and devoted mother of two, Amy Chua wants her daughters to succeed. Her approach to their success involves a rigorous dogma (that she says reflects Asian expectations in general): No playdates or sleepovers or school plays. No tv. No being number two in any subject except gym or drama. No choosing their own extracurricular activities.  No playing any instrument but piano or violin.


I am riveted by the window Amy Chua gives onto her family's life. She recounts how she coerced her seven-year-old into learning a complicated piece on the piano. Her daughter shredded the sheet music, only to have her mother tape it up and put it in a plastic sheath. The mother withheld food, water and bathroom breaks until the daughter learned that piece. In the end, the daughter was thrilled with her accomplishment. Mother and daughter snuggled in bed, laughing.


Because of Amy Chua's articulate argument, I understand and even sympathize with what she's trying to do—instill in a child a belief in her own capabilities, a belief that will remain steadfast whatever life brings. But I'm just not a Tiger Mom. I'm more of a bunny really. For instance, I begged my daughters to give up the piano.

Fern and Blossom, age 7, at the piano in their footie pajamas

Blossom and Fern started taking lessons when they were four. They loved their teacher. They loved learning. They worked at it diligently, and they progressed. But, as the years passed, they began to approach the piano with dread. They hated when they made any mistake. Each one couldn't help comparing herself to her sister. Every practice involved tears, theirs and mine. The bitter tone of those practice sessions was seeping into all the learning that was happening in our home. And they never ever ever sat down to play the piano for the joy of it. Never.

I just couldn't ignore a deep discordance between their struggle and what I believe is the point of playing the piano, which is music. Music has always been something I cannot accomplish myself but which moves me deeply. Listening to a wonderful composition is akin to reading a grand passage of literature. It transports me beyond the moment in which I am living and gives me a glimpse of something beyond myself, something greater than myself. I was a terrible piano student (unlike my daughters), but I did come to recognize that I too could transport myself beyond the moment in which I was living—through reading and writing. Writing became my work, and by that I mean it became the thing I cannot not do. It requires discipline and rigor. It requires me every day to overcome frustration and impatience with myself. Yet every day it brings me joy. It is my music.


No one ever made me do it. My parents read constantly. I remember standing at my mother's knee as a very young child.  I watched how still her face was as she read. Her lips weren't moving, and yet I understood that words were spilling into her awareness and filling her with the emotions that showed in her eyes. I spent summers reading. In third grade, I got in trouble for reading under my desk when I was supposed to be learning grammar. Later, I began to write radio plays and stories. As a young child, I began the work of my life, the work of making my own music through words on a page.


That's what I want for my daughters, I want them to find their music. I want them to find what awes them in the world, what they cannot get enough of. And I want each of them to feel that inner upswelling of necessity, that bursting sense of realizing that it's all up to her. Only she can make her own music.


Years of homeschooling have changed what I believe about success. I no longer believe that success comes from a GPA or class ranking or a professional title or a tax bracket. And I'm saying this as someone who was valedictorian in high school and had  a 4.0 in college and who grew up to work where I always dreamed I would work. But, truly, I now see that my dearest successes can't be quantified by anyone but me. My greatest accomplishment has been to pinpoint what I want and to make that my life (regardless of what success others would have me seek). Amy Chua probably wouldn't recognize my life as a success. Some days I don't either. But I cannot imagine living my life for any greater reward than my own deep sense of fulfillment.

By this measure, my daughters are already successful. They design their days around their passions: They love math and go to Khan Academy when they need more help. They play with Vi Hart's ideas. They do science experiments with Robert Krampf, the Happy Scientist. They study Mandarin and study it and study it. And what they don't like about the world, they find a way to change.

For instance, they wanted to live in a world of animals. Turning this dream into a reality would be a major accomplishment because they were living in my world, a world from which I had carefully carved away the allergens that made it hard for me to breathe. In New York City, I'd found a way to live without asthma because I lived largely in a world without animals. In Maine, because of my daughters' careful engineering, I now live with a cat, sixteen chickens, and two goats. My daughters earned those animals by first earning my trust and respect—and the money to make it all happen. Having their animals is no small accomplishment, nor is it any small amount of work. Last night, it was sixteen-below-zero at our house; this morning, Fern and Blossom got up and fixed warm oatmeal for their friends out in the barn. They pulled on their Carharts, and out they went.

For now, goats are their music. And they are willing to work at that music until their fingers and toes are numb from the cold...until it hurts. The work fulfills them because it comes with joy and awe and laughter. They cannot not do it. Around here, that is success.

Christmas-morning watering (in their footie pajamas)

A fresh start

by June
We never intended to wait ten days deep into the new year to wish you happiness, but here we are at last. Where have we been? Outside often...in the glory of snow.

Yes, it snowed. Finally. Deeply. It was an actual blizzard. The girls tied a rope from the house to our makeshift barn, a trick they learned in the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. They didn't need the rope, as we don't live on the Great Plains but are surrounded by a windbreak of beautiful pines and old hardwoods. But it was fun to pretend they might need a rope and lots of pluck to keep their goats and chickens nourished. (Their mama believes they are plucky every morning— to leave warm beds for the morning rounds.)

Snow means sledding on the back hill.

We'll be back here more frequently now that we are in our groove for the new year. We hope to share the best of winter with you—books by the fire and walks in the woods and a good browse through the seed catalogs and kitchen work to warm the house and nourish us too.

New year...here we come!

Holiday giving: Popover kit!

by June

Who doesn't love eggs fresh from the hens? And all the better if they come with warm holiday wishes and the makings for popovers.

One of our great pleasures is sharing food we love. For the holidays, we often try to pack up a mini-meal in a basket. Time is scant for everyone, and if we can give friends a tasty meal—and also help them shift a few minutes toward relaxing by the tree—well, that's two kinds of nourishment, isn't it?

Christmas breakfast is one of our most anticipated meals of the year. (We'll show you why tomorrow.) It delights us when we can contribute a little something to another family's holiday morning. Last year, when our hens were in the full vigor of laying (as they are not this year), we made popover kits.

We mixed a cup and a quarter of flour into a treat bag with a quarter-teaspoon of salt.

We nestled three eggs next to a sweet loaf of apricot-orange-cranberry bread (for nibbling while the popovers baked).

We added lemon curd (from Amy's yummy recipe) or our cherry-pie jam and tucked it all in a tin with instructions  (see below) for how to mix up the popovers and bake them.

Holiday-morning Popover Instructions

 In addition to the kit you will need…

1 ¼ cup milk

2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into dabs

a muffin tin

 Preheat oven to 400 degrees and set rack in the middle.

Butter or spray the muffin cups with oil.

Pour the dry mix into a blender. Add the three eggs and milk. Blend a minute or two – until the batter is bubbly and about the same consistency as heavy cream. (You can do this the night before, but let it come to room temperature before you use it.)

Stick the EMPTY muffin tin into the oven for two minutes. Then place a small dab in each muffin cup, return to oven until the butter melts and begins to bubble, about ONE MINUTE.

Fill each cup half full with the batter and bake 20 minutes, then reduce temperature to 300 degrees and continue baking 20 minutes. (Watch carefully toward the end.)

Makes 12 popovers. Serve with butter, jam, and spreads like lemon curd.

ENJOY…with love from all of us at Four Green Acres, including our flock of chickens.