I realized on Saturday that it was really the last weekend in August. Where did it all go? August is such a sweet and fleeting month. It is the final taste of summer before fall begins to creep into the air, cooling the mornings and making you pull the blankets up just a little bit closer.
But there are still great moments of summer left to enjoy. The days are still warm, the sunlight still the perfect place to sit for the afternoon. And there's ice cream. August seems to be The Month for ice cream. Why its more particularly well suited to August than July, or June, or even the warm days of September, I'm not sure. But I will say this: my August was punctuated by large scoops of Tillamook Chocolate Mocha Fudge ice cream eaten at the beach, salted caramel ice cream eaten after a particularly good reading at Powell's books, and cantaloupe sorbetto on a Tuesday afternoon when I couldn't stand for my vacation to end.
So, it seemed time to pull out the ice cream machine and make some of my own summer goodness. I took my inspiration from another Pacific NW writer, Molly from www.orangette.com and made my own riff on blackberry yogurt.
I picked a plump basket of large blackberries from the farmer's market, took them home to macerate in sugar before mixing the deep purple strained sludge with pure, plain milk yogurt. The flavor was rich, intense, floral, intoxicating. This is a recipe to keep. It is not one to share -- it is so stunningly simple and yet so beautiful, that unless you spill the beans no one will ever know how easy it is to make.
And yet, in the name of friendship, I share it with you:
Anne's Version of Molly's Blackberry Frozen Yogurt
1 pound fresh blackberries (about one full pint)
3/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons pure vanilla
6 oz. plain whole milk yogurt
2 teaspoons lime juice
Toss blackberries with sugar and vanilla and let stand on counter top for one hour.
With a blender, process softened blackberries with yogurt and lime juice until smooth.
Pour mix through strainer to remove seeds.
Refrigerate mix for one hour and freeze in an ice cream maker according to instructions.
Sit and enjoy.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
And then there was rain
On Sunday it was in the upper 90s. Today, not even 48 hours later, and we are in the 70s. I am so much more comfortable. The breeze blows through my bedroom and I sleep blissfully. I listen to the rain fall outside and marvel at how nice the clean air smells. I can think and move without feeling as if my brain and body is being compressed by a thick wave of heat. And I can turn the oven on.
Tomatoes are at their height of beauty and passion and there are so many ways to prepare them. Caramelized Roasted Tomatoes are a recent favorite. I think I've made them three times in only two weeks! I know, there are loads of things to do with fresh tomatoes besides stick them in the oven. But imagine tuna on crackers with sweet sour roasted tomatoes while sitting by the side of a beautiful, quiet river. Imagine eating pesto on crackers and roasted tomatoes, cold and saucy from the fridge when it is too hot to cook. The tomatoes seemed to compliment everything I love right now, and so I make them, again and again. You should too.
Caramelized Roasted Tomatoes
16 small (roma or salad sized) tomatoes, or a basket of baby or cherry tomatoes
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon sugar
salt and pepper to taste
fresh torn basil
Preheat oven to 400
Cut the tops off of the tomatoes, or make a slit in the baby tomatoes
Put the tomatoes in a ovenproof skillet that has been brushed with olive oil. Tomatoes should fill the pan -- it is ok if they are close together.
Evenly sprinkle the oil, sugar, salt, and pepper over the tomatoes.
Bake for about an hour, checking every 15 minutes after the first 45 until the tomatoes have broken down, there is a lot of juice in the pan, and the tomatoes are browned and caramelized.
Remove the pan from the oven and place on stove top. Cook on medium-high heat to reduce the accumulated liquid until reduces and forms a glaze. Sprinkle tomatoes with torn fresh basil leaves.
Serve or store.
Tomatoes are at their height of beauty and passion and there are so many ways to prepare them. Caramelized Roasted Tomatoes are a recent favorite. I think I've made them three times in only two weeks! I know, there are loads of things to do with fresh tomatoes besides stick them in the oven. But imagine tuna on crackers with sweet sour roasted tomatoes while sitting by the side of a beautiful, quiet river. Imagine eating pesto on crackers and roasted tomatoes, cold and saucy from the fridge when it is too hot to cook. The tomatoes seemed to compliment everything I love right now, and so I make them, again and again. You should too.
Caramelized Roasted Tomatoes
16 small (roma or salad sized) tomatoes, or a basket of baby or cherry tomatoes
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon sugar
salt and pepper to taste
fresh torn basil
Preheat oven to 400
Cut the tops off of the tomatoes, or make a slit in the baby tomatoes
Put the tomatoes in a ovenproof skillet that has been brushed with olive oil. Tomatoes should fill the pan -- it is ok if they are close together.
Evenly sprinkle the oil, sugar, salt, and pepper over the tomatoes.
Bake for about an hour, checking every 15 minutes after the first 45 until the tomatoes have broken down, there is a lot of juice in the pan, and the tomatoes are browned and caramelized.
Remove the pan from the oven and place on stove top. Cook on medium-high heat to reduce the accumulated liquid until reduces and forms a glaze. Sprinkle tomatoes with torn fresh basil leaves.
Serve or store.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Too Hot to Eat
It is August and it is hot. Extremely hot. So hot that when I went to bed, the handy thermometer on my alarm clock read 90 degrees. When I woke up eight hours later it read 83. I sincerely hope my thermometer is wrong.
For most of my life I've heard women talk about how summer is great because they lose weight. They eat only fruit, and salad. They forget to eat sometimes because it is too hot. They bask in the sun and do sporty, outdoor activities. They feel healthy and fabulous.
I was never one of those women. I don't like being too hot. It makes me anxious, and when I'm anxious I think about doing things like eating way too much cold, milky ice cream. I prefer to be comfortable. Just a few weeks ago we hit a spat of perfect, 83 degree July weather. The produce was glorious, the colors in the sky and the gardens was glorious, and I was nearly completely happy.
Those days are over. Now I am hot and I am cranky. I can't sleep, and when I can, it isn't restful. I watch the seven day forecast on the tv and fume. There is only more hotness to come. Still, it is August -- late summer and beautiful. I bought a box of coconut popsicles that I pull from the freezer and eat slowly after dinner. Life is ok. Steamy and sweaty and melty, but ok.
And then yesterday, it happened -- it was too hot to eat. It was over 100 degrees, a rare feat in a town temperate enough that you can survive without air conditioning. Nothing sounded right or good, not even the sinfully rich cold stuff. My body wanted fluids and seemed to focus only on keeping cool and not expending too much energy. "Wait," it seemed to say, "go slow."
I ate a perfectly ripe peach for breakfast and coffee with milk. Lunch came... and went with few handfuls of blueberries. I made a batch of pesto and ate a spoonful or two before heading off to the movies for the hottest part of the day.
When I got home I ate corn, bean, and tomato salad, icy cold from the fridge. A hunk of blue cheese for savory richness and water, lots and lots of cold water. That was it. That was enough.
So really, it wasn't too hot to eat. But it was hot enough, and slow enough that I was able to feel my body responding to the weather. And instead of making me nervous, it felt good.
For most of my life I've heard women talk about how summer is great because they lose weight. They eat only fruit, and salad. They forget to eat sometimes because it is too hot. They bask in the sun and do sporty, outdoor activities. They feel healthy and fabulous.
I was never one of those women. I don't like being too hot. It makes me anxious, and when I'm anxious I think about doing things like eating way too much cold, milky ice cream. I prefer to be comfortable. Just a few weeks ago we hit a spat of perfect, 83 degree July weather. The produce was glorious, the colors in the sky and the gardens was glorious, and I was nearly completely happy.
Those days are over. Now I am hot and I am cranky. I can't sleep, and when I can, it isn't restful. I watch the seven day forecast on the tv and fume. There is only more hotness to come. Still, it is August -- late summer and beautiful. I bought a box of coconut popsicles that I pull from the freezer and eat slowly after dinner. Life is ok. Steamy and sweaty and melty, but ok.
And then yesterday, it happened -- it was too hot to eat. It was over 100 degrees, a rare feat in a town temperate enough that you can survive without air conditioning. Nothing sounded right or good, not even the sinfully rich cold stuff. My body wanted fluids and seemed to focus only on keeping cool and not expending too much energy. "Wait," it seemed to say, "go slow."
I ate a perfectly ripe peach for breakfast and coffee with milk. Lunch came... and went with few handfuls of blueberries. I made a batch of pesto and ate a spoonful or two before heading off to the movies for the hottest part of the day.
When I got home I ate corn, bean, and tomato salad, icy cold from the fridge. A hunk of blue cheese for savory richness and water, lots and lots of cold water. That was it. That was enough.
So really, it wasn't too hot to eat. But it was hot enough, and slow enough that I was able to feel my body responding to the weather. And instead of making me nervous, it felt good.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Seattle Photos
Oh the wonders of Pike Place Market in August: colors and foods to vibrant and ripe for words. The meals you could make, the snacks you could eat. There's almost too much. I settle on a bag full of Lapine organic cherries to start -- a bright, tart reminder of summer's sweetest days.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Vacation Bliss
August: the perfect month for vacation. There's even something about the name August that suggests sunshine and laziness. It is a month of days off, packing the car, and stocking the cooler. We visit the farmer's market near home to gather small, ripe orange colored tomatoes, buoyant blueberries, and the perfect Maryhill peach. We visit the markets further from home to marvel over the tiny, just baked fruit pies, loganberries and gooseberries that were just picked, crabs and oysters from the waters just outside our view.
We sleep in and drink coffee on the porch. We eat walnut bread toast with homemade cherry jam alongside diced donut peaches. We read the New Yorker in our pyjamas and drink another cup of coffee. We walk on the beach, stare at the water and the birds, and ride our bikes. We paddle through smooth waters and wonder, later, why our shoulders don't seem to hurt at all. We eat mocha almond fudge ice cream under the hot summer sun. We take naps and showers in the middle of the day. We toast. We toast again.
I smooth my wet hair back into a perfect ponytail and dress quickly, anxious only to make it to town in time to drink a glass of bubbly outside as the sun sets and a brisk wind begins to blow. I buy a sun hat and wear only lip gloss and brown mascara underneath its wide black brim. I scrape sand from between my toes, eat handfuls of salted nuts before dinner, and drink rose. I browse creaky bookstore shelves and dream of the books I could read if I never had to return to work.
I want more and more. I want to live at the beach, I don't want to ever have to return to real life. It's the sign of a great month and a perfect vacation to desire like this. To want more time so badly it hurts. To be so relaxed and happy it seems it just might be possible to stay here, forever, just like this.
We sleep in and drink coffee on the porch. We eat walnut bread toast with homemade cherry jam alongside diced donut peaches. We read the New Yorker in our pyjamas and drink another cup of coffee. We walk on the beach, stare at the water and the birds, and ride our bikes. We paddle through smooth waters and wonder, later, why our shoulders don't seem to hurt at all. We eat mocha almond fudge ice cream under the hot summer sun. We take naps and showers in the middle of the day. We toast. We toast again.
I smooth my wet hair back into a perfect ponytail and dress quickly, anxious only to make it to town in time to drink a glass of bubbly outside as the sun sets and a brisk wind begins to blow. I buy a sun hat and wear only lip gloss and brown mascara underneath its wide black brim. I scrape sand from between my toes, eat handfuls of salted nuts before dinner, and drink rose. I browse creaky bookstore shelves and dream of the books I could read if I never had to return to work.
I want more and more. I want to live at the beach, I don't want to ever have to return to real life. It's the sign of a great month and a perfect vacation to desire like this. To want more time so badly it hurts. To be so relaxed and happy it seems it just might be possible to stay here, forever, just like this.
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