Sharing stories of food stories we love.
Strictly speaking, it's not quite peach season. It's that odd, in-between month where stone fruit spills over the stands at the grocery store, but hasn't shown up at the farmers' market yet.
But once you start thinking about peach pie, it's really hard to go back. We're already down that path. So we're going to make some pie. Except, the early days of June make 8 ripe peaches hard to come by, so we're going to throw some strawberries in to make up the extra volume!
Read more
Lunchtime was rough for a few years of lower school. I brought sensible lunches from home; my friends ate strawberry Pop-Tarts and Pringles and crustless PB&Js in little individual packages. My second grade teacher once caught me sneaking a plate of French fries in the cafeteria. She pulled me aside and sternly asked if my mother knew I was having those, and would she approve? Instead of meekly answering (no, of course she doesn’t, sorry), I gave a sassy "yup!", hurried to my table, and savored each salty bite.
Read more
Strawberries have reached peak perfection at the farmer's market. The red Tristar berries are tiny and deep red, stems still attached. Pale green cardboard pints of them crowd the tables, jostling for view. They win out for me over more sensible purchases: zucchini, snap peas, radishes. You know you don't need 2 pints -- strictly speaking -- but they're juicy and voluptuous and enticing. Everyone oohs and aahs over them, like wedding guests seeing the bride for the first time.
Read more
I spent the spring semester of my junior year in Maine, at a tiny school for environmental studies run by the Chewonki Foundation. Thirty students live in cabins on a peninsula jutting into the Sheepscot River. We studied, did farm chores, mucked about in salt flats, and adventured a lot. We also ate some of the best granola I ever tasted. I don’t know what it’s called, or where to by it. But I’ve tried to recreate it.
Read more
I’m not really a doughnut person. Given an array, I’d choose an old-fashioned cake doughnut every time, which really says nothing except that I like cake. Not doughnuts. The Krispy Kreme phase was lost on me: one bite and your doughnut is finished, compacted into a sugar-laden square inch.
I can get behind an apple cider doughnut. I’d eat a cruller. But soft, airy, yeasted doughnuts don’t sway me: too squishy, too shellacked with glaze, all sugar and puff and no heft.
Read more