Comfort me with apples—and long autumn walks

by June

We're saying goodbye to the colors—to the oranges and reds of October, but also the green grass that sprouted early this year and has stayed long.

Autumn calls us out for long rambles.

We climb along rocks by the river.

Or we take rides along curving roads and end up at the apple orchard.

This is the season of bittersweet truth though—a crackle of ice on the chickens' water, tracings of frost on the window. Winter will close in.

So we go out with our cameras and dazzle ourselves with the light on the water, the snap in the air, the antics of the goats.

We sit in the grass and stare into our hen's eyes.

We lie down and look at the blue sky and the red leaves and the white clouds. Everything is clarified to its purest hue.

Dark nudges us into the house finally. But we have apples and more time for dinner. What should we make? What should we make up?

Since we have a pizza dough ready to go, how about spinning a pizza inspired by our adventures? How about a Savory Applesauce and Ham Pizza?

We peel and dice up two apples and put them in a sauce pan with a tablespoon of olive oil and two cloves of garlic. We cover the pan and keep the heat low. When it is all good and soft, we roughly mush the apples with the garlic (though you could remove the cloves if you just wanted a garlicky nuance).

While the applesauce is cooking, we slice a red onion into thin rounds and sweat them over low heat, then fire it up a little to caramelize them.

We have a bit of ham and dice it up.

Birch smoothes out the pizza dough. The applesauce goes on first, then the caramelized onions, then the ham, then some shredded mozzarella. We finish it with a sprinkling of ground coriander, pepper and salt.

 Darkness may come early now, but it brings with it the gift of having more time together in the kitchen—more time to make dinner out of what we've found growing all around us this long, lovely season.

Goats will eat anything

by June

I always tell Blossom she's good enough to eat.

Clover thinks so too.

Savoring the harvest: Roasted raspberry spoon jam

by June

Rain is rattling against the window panes. Outside, the sky is low and dark, but the grass is a lively green and the trees that edge the woods have leaves so bright they seem to give off a kind of light. A fire takes the chill off. I consider that it might be the perfect autumn day. But, then, I considered the same thing two days ago when I was picking raspberries and the sky was blue and filled with wispy clouds, when the leaves were coming down in pirouettes and the children and goats were doing their own kind of dance across the meadow. Maybe Monday was the perfect autumn day for picking raspberries, and today is the perfect one for eating spoon jam on fresh bread.

Our everbearing raspberry patch is small. But this year it has done deliciously by us. It gave us a modest bounty early in the summer. Now it is thick with berries-to-be that would fill many a jar of jam. Except that the frost will probably nip hard soon. We've been enjoying the berries as they come. It is surely one of life's luxuries to get up in the morning and walk through dewy grass to pick raspberries into a bowl of cereal. We've had them on yogurt, baked into brownies and into our favorite cake. We've steeped some in spirits and hidden it away for the holidays. And we've jammed them in small batches.

My favorite raspberry jam recipe was shared with me in a raspberry patch on top of a hill on a farm I love. I think of that farm every time I make Roasted Raspberry Spoon Jam. It could not be simpler, and you can make it with a handful or a bucketful. Whatever amount of raspberries you have, you just match it with an equal amount of sugar.

We had a brimming cup of berries one day. We put them in an oven-safe dish.

We measured a brimming cup of sugar into another oven-safe dish.

Then each dish went into a preheated, 350-degree F oven for 20 to 25 minutes—until the berries were just beginning to caramelize. Working very carefully, I then poured the sugar into the berries and stirred as it turned almost instantly into a lava-flow of sweet-smelling jam.

This simple jam never lasts long around here, but while it does, it is the taste of autumn: fresh berries filled with a summer's sunshine and just a hint of warm smokiness. It's cobbler on a spoon.

Our fast food starts slowly, very slowly

by June

One boon of harvest season is fast food. No drive-throughs here, but we have been known to feed ourselves by walking through the garden—plucking a tomato or two, scissoring off some tat soi leaves, and pinching a handful of raspberries for dessert. Even if we slow it down a little, passing it through the kitchen on its way to the table, preparation is swift and simple.

This year, we've had the luxury of tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes. Two of our simplest favorites are salads inspired by Indian spices. Both are so pungent and flavorful that I wonder how I will survive the winter without them.

The first—fresh tomato salad—is nothing but sliced tomatoes (mine are Persimmon heirlooms) dribbled with lemon juice and then layered with basil leaves. Then, I heat some mild-tasting oil (often canola or peanut), toss in mustard seeds and cumin seeds and a lovely, stinky pinch of asafetida, which may qualify as my favorite seasoning. I pour the hot mustard over the tomatoes (but not the basil). Then I dash on sea salt, a grind of black pepper, and a sprinkle of cayenne.

Our absolute favorite dish this summer has been a tomato-and-yogurt salad. It's another variation on the Indian-spice theme. It depends on great Greek-style yogurt, a good cup-size dollop (more or less depending on whether you want the yogurt to melt into a thinner sauce or hold its peaks). Blend sea salt to taste into the yogurt. Fold in tomatoes chunked to your liking or Sungolds cut in half. Mince up a shallot. Heat a couple tablespoons of mild-tasting oil and saute the shallot until it is browning along the edges. Toss in cumin seed, mustard seeds, and a two-finger pinch of asafetida. Pour the hot, spicy oil over the cool, yogurty tomatoes. You can add a sift of cayenne and some rings of scallion—if you can manage any extra flourishes once you catch a whiff of those ingredients melding into creamy, tangy, zesty perfection.

It's a good thing fine dining is so easy just now because the harvest is running us ragged. The countertops seem to pulse with tomatoes, and we move through supper knowing that it's not just the dirty dishes waiting in that kitchen, it's also the next batch of garden bounty waiting to be transformed into winter's comfort—fast food that tastes like summer.

We always seem to be out of jars or lids or both, out of daylight hours (and even midnight hours), out of pep, but never out of tomatoes. Far be it from me to complain, especially after last year's blight left us with a scanty pantry. This year, we've had nothing but sunshine and warmth, and all of it has gone on for longer than usual; our first frost is late this year. We are hard pressed to keep putting away winter's fast food.

We try to blend the preserving with other work we're doing in the kitchen—or outside in the pizza oven. We even used the outdoor oven to roast our tomatoes for Tall Clover Farm's homemade catsup. (Can you blame us after what happened to dear Tom last year?) Tom's catsup recipe is the best we've ever made, and it makes a lot of catsup. I can already tell it won't last the winter around here.

This is our first summer growing San Marzano tomatoes. I can assure you they are here to stay. And so is the way we've been storing them for fast meals when we're tuckered out from a cross-country ski jaunt. I've always slow-roasted our Sungolds, but I saw where Sylvie at Laughing Duck Farm adds sugar to her slow-roasted paste tomatoes. I used thyme, not rosemary. Heaven on a crusty loaf, I tell you. Pure heaven.

Don't forget to scrape the tomato caramel off the pans and into your jars—or straight into your mouth as a reward for your work.

My two girls have been at my side for all the work of the harvest. They rarely waver in their enthusiasm. But one late night, when each of us would rather have been upstairs in bed reading, Blossom sighed at the sight of more tomatoes. I did too. Thankfully, Blossom quickly rallied and revived us all with one observation: "Just think how happy we will be to see them again this winter."

How true, Blossom. How very true. It may be slow-going now. But in January, fast food will be just the twist of a lid away.

Savoring the harvest: Sungold tomato jam

by June

Even if Sungolds weren't the sweetest tomato, they would be growing in our garden. To my eye, they are the most beautiful object ever to sprout from a seed (at least by my hand). They are eye candy even before they make it to the taste buds. And when they do reach the taste buds...oooooh-la-la!

Sungolds are always the first tomato to ripen here.

We eat the earliest ones sliced and sprinkled with crystals of Malden Sea Salt—a perfect marriage.

With abundance, we do a tomato sauce that is basically Sungolds split then tossed with red wine vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper. That sits for an hour or so. Basil leaves are torn into confetti by little helpers. Day-old homemade bread is pulled apart and scattered into a skillet with olive oil until toasted a nice gold. The basil adds a flavor spike and the croutons a crunch. Tossed with piping hot noodles, the Sungolds melt a little at the edges but hold onto a sweet, fresh burst of juice.

As the season rolls on, we begin hoarding that sweetness for the winter. Nothing has ever come as close to perfection as our tomato nuggets. Slow-roasting in the oven, the tomatoes fill our home with a perfume that is the essence of late-summer. Then, they fill the freezer with little summery taste sensations. But...they're, well, not so beautiful anymore. They're wizened to yumminess, but that gorgeous color is muted.

Then came tomato jam.

I've tried other tomato jams. They were always more like marmalades, lots of citrus and ginger. The spices ended up overwhelming the part that I most wanted to taste: the tomato. So I experimented. Last year, I took the mixture all the way to set point (222 degrees Fahrenheit). It turned out too stiff for my liking. This year, I dialed back to a softer set, more of a preserve.

Sungold Tomato Jam

2 pounds of Sungold cherry tomatoes
2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh basil, torn into small bits

—Peel the tomatoes. Cut an X in the end opposite the stem. Douse in a pot of boiling water for about thirty seconds. The skins should pinch right off.

—Put the peeled tomatoes into a heavy enamel pot with the sugar. Stir well.

—Stir over medium-high heat until the sugar dissolves. Then stir occasionally until a drop beads up on a cold dish (or if you want to take it all the way to jam, until 222 degrees F).

—Take it off the heat and stir in the lemon juice and the basil.

I freeze mine in jars.

Adding sugar to Sungolds might seem like overkill. But, somehow, it creates an alchemy with the sharp basil that reaches perfection when dolloped on a salty or sharp cheese. We love it all winter on grilled-cheese sandwiches with cheddar or goat cheese. It may be best, though, with aged gouda. We have taste-tested with several wedges of cheese so far. We cannot yet make the claim for what's best. We must eat a little more.

Savoring the harvest: Heirloom-tomato elixir

by June

Here I go with the heat again. But, forgive me, please. It's September, and it is ninety-seven degrees. In Maine. Where we moved to escape the heat and the humidity and...

It is unnerving.

Fortunately, the sizzling, sunny weather has kept late blight at bay in the garden, and our ripening heirloom tomatoes provide just the thing for my nerves—a beautiful tomato elixir. It's a soup that Jamie Oliver calls tomato consomme. Jamie is one of my heroes. I've always loved his slap-dash, flavorful style in the kitchen. And he endeared himself to me forever when he took on the battle to give school kids a healthy start in life. Did you see where test scores went up in science and English while absences for sickness went down? Woohoo! If you don't own his Jamie at Home cookbook, oh, do get it. Now. It is a feast of a cookbook, part gardening how-to and part kitchen magic. The photos—with the exception of a dead bunny—are almost as sensuous as the food itself: Delicious!

But back to the soup... This lovely, light tomato broth required only our energy and a blender's. Blossom, Fern, and I adapted Jamie's recipe a little, mostly because we were too hot to fuss with a butcher's hook. 

Pink Brandywine tomato

Ruby Gold tomato

Persimmon tomato

Here's how you can do it too:

Strip down to your dainties. Really. This is why there are no photos of the process. We were practically all natural. If there's one thing I learned from my mother, the less you wear in the kitchen during harvest-time, the longer you'll be able to bear being in the kitchen during harvest-time.

Clear out a space in your fridge that will hold your largest pot. This is both a good way to feed the chickens and cool off at the same time.

Then get out your largest pot—we use our enamel canning pot—and fit a crockery bowl down inside it. Around the rim of the bowl, secure at least a double layer of cheesecloth with clothespins.

Roughly chop up four-and-a-half pounds of burstingly juicy heirloom (or any truly flavorful vine-ripened) tomatoes.

Throw them in batches into a blender with:

—a large bunch of fresh basil leaves

—one two-inch nob of horseradish (or three teaspoons of horseradish); don't scrimp unless you've got a thing against zing

—a nick of garlic

—two tablespoons red wine vinegar

—a slice of beet (or if you can't stand not to use the whole beet, the whole beet)

—sea salt

—six-ish whole black peppercorns

Pulse everything until it's a bright mush then pour it slowly and carefully into your cheesecloth sling. Tent some clear wrap over it all.

Slide the pot and its precious load into the fridge.

Go swimming for five or six hours. Or seven.

When you come back, lift out the cheesecloth sling (with a whole new batch of delight for the chickens).

Pour the tomato elixir into chilled cups. Sip.

You may feel as though you are swimming all over again.

We used an entire beet (smallish), and it definitely verged on cranberry-punch color

Note: We have found that the chilled mush, if left overnight in the fridge, will give off another clear and delicious helping large enough to serve the whole family again. Also, Jamie uses vodka in his. And I'm thinking that there's a cocktail just waiting to be made with this elixir. If you discover what it is, will you please let us know?

Next up in our festival of tomatoes: Sungold tomato jam!

Hot, hot, hot: Time to wash the rugs!

by June

Seems summer in Maine is not quite so short after all. Usually the temperature pokes into the nineties for a day or so in mid-summer. By the end of August we're feeling the nip of autumn on the breeze. But this year the thermometer seems stuck on HOT.

Yesterday, it was so so SO hot that we had no choice but to wash the rugs.

Washing the rugs is a family tradition shared with us by a dear friend who has been doing it since she was little. It involves trekking to a secret spot in the woods, a breathtaking spot with clear water rushing over polished stone. The water sings and shimmers with sunlight.

There's a little scrubbing...

...a little jumping on stubborn dirt...

a little sunning...

...and a lot of swimming in water as bubbly as champagne.

When we aren't washing the rugs, we're having a festival of tomatoes. Look for us to be back soon with recipes. Oh, how we love the work of summer when it involves tomatoes warm from the sun — and cold, clear, bubbly water too.

Being the grasshopper and the ant

by June

Summer is short in Maine. And it's glorious.

I feel an urgency all season to keep it somehow, which is why preserving the harvest appeals to me so much. It's not just food. It's memories.

Don't get me wrong: I adore snowy nights by the fire. But I love them all the more if we have a nice tomato jam to spread on toast with a melting goat cheese. We taste the jam and remember when the tomatoes were ripe—back when we were swimming and sleeping under the shooting stars and reading in the grass.

It's a tug between the two impulses all summer, of course. To play and sing like Aesop's grasshopper? Or, like the ants, to put away some of the summer bounty for when the snow flies? I wish that I were able to transform the whole season into one long stretch of gardening and swimming and harvesting and hiking and preserving and walking on the beach. But I can't. That's not the life I have. And when I have time to spare, I'm going to choose to play with my daughters. Their childhoods are more fleeting than summer. (Did I mention they turned eleven this summer? Eleven!)

But what I can manage—with Blossom's and Fern's help—is to play a little and preserve a little bit each day. We've learned to measure out our energy, to keep it simple. We don't have the garden or the humanpower  to put away a harvest that will see us through the seasons ahead. No pressure cookers and huge vats of boiling water for us. Our scale is small. But we are able to freeze and pickle and dry and jar enough treats to bring the sparkle of summer to almost every winter meal: blackberries for cobbler and strawberry jam for toast and half-sour pickles for bagel brunch and cherries for pie and chutneys to spike up the heat on an Indian feast.

We're not letting go of summer yet. But we are pickling it while we can.