stone fruit

Plums are a-plenty at market now. We get them in at the restaurant for plum tarts made with a baked pastry cream, a delicate finish to dinner. In 479 B.C. Confucius spoke reverently of plums in his writings and songs. In 65 B.C. Pompey the Great introduced plums into the orchards of Rome. We are, however, always on the look-out for native wild plums which are now considered an endangered and threatened species in Vermont. The wild plum also appears on the list for SlowFood's The Ark of Taste. It's known by many names: American plum, American wild plum, sandhill plum, Osage plum, river plum, sand cherry, thorn plum, wild yellow plum, red plum, August plum, goose plum, hog plum, sloe.

When the colonists first came to the east coast, the land was rich with wild plum, especially beach plum, which is still a prized treasure in places like Cape Cod. In late summer, foragers go out with pails into the sand dunes, going to old family spots, and favorite picking places to fill their buckets for jellies and preserves. In Vermont, one used to be able to find them on roadsides, riverbanks, woodlands, and at the edges of farmland. In the 19th century, wild plum produced succulent fruit every year. Now, in the 21st century, they produce every other year. Those hardy colonists used to serve the plums with wild game, but over time replaced them with European cultivated plums leaving what remained of the thickets of wild plums to the turkey, black bear, wolves, foxes, black-headed grosbeak, and ring-tailed cats.

We are lucky to have neighbors who have a prized and very old wild plum near their house, probably dating back at least a couple of hundred years. Last year we had a treasure trove of plums for tarts, for poaching, for eating fresh. Stewed plums with fresh whipped cream make a perfect summer dessert, and while we're hopeful to one day make this dish from fruit grown from solid rootstock in our own orchard, the European plum will always do.

Plums for Four

6 plums

butter

sugar

water, or red, white, or rosato wine

fresh whipped cream

Split 6 plums and remove the pits. Melt 1 teaspoon butter and 1 tablespoon sugar in a skillet large enough to hold the plums, and then put in the plum halves, cut-face down. Cook over medium heat for about 2 minutes, then gently turn the plums. If the pan juices are drying out, ad a couple of tablespoons water, or wine--red, white, or rosato--and cook another 5 minutes, or until the plums are tender and moisture is still in the pan. Remove the plums to serving plates or bowls, and reduce the juices to a syrup and pour over the fruit. Chill at the point--if desired, or serve immediately. Dollop with fresh whipped cream.

a fresh batch of anticipation

Last year we made, for the first time, a few litres of nocino, a traditional walnut liquer popular in Italy. And we just began this year's batch, which now sits macerating in the sun in four large jars in our living room. Deirdre began making rosolio several years ago using our currants, or our rose petals, and we have long had a fascination for the great variety of amari one can find throughout Italy, and so last year we finally managed to find the green English Walnuts required for nocino (from a farm in Michigan), and the results of that first effort were so encouraging and surprisingly delicious, we doubled this year's batch.

Having learned a little bit more in the intervening year, we made a few minor changes to the formula, a few additions, taken another one or two small leaps of faith. The returning stars from last year were all on hand: citrus peel, clove, cinnamon, mace, vanilla bean. But to each jar I also added a small quantity of our espresso beans, cacao nibs, some slices of ginger, and anise seed.

Then the green walnuts were cut up into quarters, and divided among the four jars, and the grain alcohol went in, and the jars were closed, and now are resting comfortably in the sun for 40 days. Then we will strain all the ingredients out of the alcohol, and add the four litres of simple syrup, and put everything up in our slowly growing collection of imported amaro bottles, and wait. Until christmas.

(Well, maybe there will be a preliminary taste test around Halloween. Just to be sure everything is proceeding according to plan...)

will and twist

A dog day in summer. Sky heavy with humidity threatening rain, a shard of lightening, thunder rumbling somewhere far away. A visit to the cheese farm where we get a beautiful cow's milk ricotta and superbly aged caciotta from Jody and Luisa Somers at their Dancing Ewe Farm over across the border in New York. Jody learned to make cheese in Tuscany. Luisa is from Tuscany. While they are only making cow's milk cheeses right now, Jody has grown a herd of a hundred or so sheep for milking next year. In New York City, and at farmer's markets, they sell their miraculous cheeses, and delicious lamb.


Jody has two sheep dogs. He is a master with dogs. Think sheep dog trials, national ratings, sheep dog guru. First he had Twist, red and white and clever all over. She was a runt and a wreck with very little going for her as a puppy when he took her on. But within a few years, she was so well trained and so full of heart she was one of the top dogs in her category in the country. Will is the younger of the two and still learning. He's black and white and very handsome. Movie star dogs who will appear soon in an HBO movie based on the Jon Katz book A Dog Year. On this hot summer afternoon, Jody gave us a demonstration with Twist, Will and the sheep. We went out behind the cheese house that he built by hand, another story, and stood at the top of the big field looking out over the most pastoral of views. With a few clicks, whistles, and a very soft voice, he sent the two dogs to work. An incredible choreography of man and dogs: circling, running, herding, doublebacking, returning, calling, answering.

When the work was done, Will and Twist finished their day with a dip in the water trough, lapping water and cooling off. They panted and lolled, relaxed. But their ears were always twitching, waiting for Jody's voice, always ready for the next job.

festiva maxima

Peonies. Lush, artful, the epitome of summer. A bowl full of peonies is one of the ultimate luxuries. In the garden, we have deep, magenta peonies with a splash of yellow in the center. We dug them up from our mortgage officer Tommaso's garden several years ago and planted them in our fledgling perennial garden. He was moving, and wanted all his plants to find a new home. He was hopeful to inhabit his ancestral house in Italy, near Parma in the Emilia-Romagna. He would have roses near Parma. Maybe he would grow peonies there too.

We wait for June patiently. The peonies bloom in Woodstock early, then we have them at home in Barnard. I won't cut our peonies at home; they are too opulent and rare rising above the frill of ladies mantle and alongside the last of the bearded iris. Two years ago we ordered 22 Sarah Bernhardt peonies, the classic old-fashioned blush. We planned to underplant a hedge of Annabelle hydrangea that runs along the northside of our house. We were too late with our order, and we hoped they would arrive this spring instead. We're still waiting. It's time to find another source, so that we can cut them from home and not miss their lolling heads from the flower border because we will be rich in peonies.

In the season, we get several buckets full of peonies for the restaurant and home from a local grower, Hartland Flower Farm, or Harmony Farm as they are now called. They grow countless varieties with delicious names like Raspberry Sunday and Festiva Maxima. These are among our favorites, white petals flecked with candy apple red in the center. The farm holds an annual peony festival with flowers, food, and games for kids. When we still have coral pink blooms in the vases at the restaurant late into July, the patrons are in awe. At the farm they grow late blooming varieties that keep us in peonies longer than most. We show them off, flaunt them even.

At home, clutches of peonies are everywhere for as long as we can have them, and the rooms are fragrant with the blooms. Our two cats, Arlette and Janvier, a matched black pair, like to stick their noses deep into the centers. When the peonies have gone by, they will instead take in the roses.

farm stand

Mid-summer in Vermont is the time of many first harvests: greens, strawberries, sour cherries, broccoli, and now zucchini. We picked beautiful dark green zucchini from Nick and Theresa's garden at Stony Brook Farm Stand. Theresa was outside roasting a pork with rosemary and garlic on her rotisserie, the scent magnificent. Guests were coming for dinner. Theresa not only has a very green thumb, she is also a very good cook. As a young woman she trained in a university hospitality program with a minor in international cooking. In addition to running the big farm when they were younger, she and her husband Nick have travelled all over Europe and owned their own restaurant. Now they garden, and cook for friends and family.

Theresa and I talked of the magic of the rotisserie (we have one in our stove at home) while Caleb cut greens and picked zucchini in the garden before us. We all agreed that a Sunday rotisserie chicken is divine with potatoes cooked in the chicken fat dripping from the rotating meat above. Theresa likes two little game hens side by side and stuffed with lovage on her rotisserie best. What better than roasted zucchini to accompany.

We've been serving a pasta with zucchini at the restaurant to take advantage of our sleek haul, and I've been pairing it with a fresh Falanghina from Campania for a white, or a Sicilian Syrah for a red. Falanghina is a southern Italian varietal that can exhibit Alsatian or more mineral qualities in the nose, but it always has a somewhat tropical profile and bouquet. Things like pineapple, banana peel, citrus, or even lush peach. The finish is usually defined by a pronounced minerality given that Falanghina from Campania is often grown in the shadow of Vesuvius. As for the red, the Sicilian Syrah is lighter and less smoky than many other Syrah. It focuses on a preserved-style red fruit, and a dry, elegant finish. Some revolutionaries say that Syrah is indigenous to Sicily, hailing originally from Syracuse rather than Shiraz in Iran. Only the dna testing will completely tell the tale. In any event, Syrah grown in Sicily has a different personality than Syrah grown anywhere else, and speaks eloquently of place.

Pasta with Zucchini

(For 4 cups of zucchini)

zucchini

1/3 cup olive oil

salt

pepper

grated Parmigiano or Pecorino

This is a simple recipe. Slice the zucchini in 1/4-1/8 rounds. If the zucchini are small, slice down the whole vegetable. If the zucchini are quite large, quarter, then slice. The width of the slices should vary. They are not meant to be uniform. This adds texture. Leave the zucchini slices on cookie sheets or another flat service over night so they give up some of their water. This prevents them from steaming themselves mushy.

When ready to cook the next day, preheat oven to 375. Place the slices in a roasting pan with 1/3 cup of extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper to preference. Roast for at least two hours, or until done, done meaning that some have become golden brown, some crispy, but all very tender.

Toss with a short pasta like penne (we prefer a short pasta with this sauce, but spaghetti will work in a pinch) which has been cooked al dente. Finish with the grated Parmigiano or Pecorino.

roadside two

The White Cottage is a local haunt. You take route 4 through our village of Woodstock and head west. With it's retro facade and red and white awnings, it's the classic roadside burger joint/clam shack, and can't be missed. Or shouldn't be. Open since 1957, its menu is a true expression of mid-century roadfood. Its tables are full from Memorial Day through Labor Day, and often well into September. The current word is that the owner is from Brazil, and several young Brazilians work the kitchen and order windows. A Brazilian flag hangs alongside the American. Because of the foreign exchange flair, you feel like you could be sitting at a breezy seaside spot somewhere else other than deep New England. (Or given all the other elements, you can still be in New England. Whichever you prefer.) They offer succulent burgers and dogs, as well as more modern considerations--a veggie burger, a ceasar salad. There are the classic clams, served fried whole-bellied or strips. To finish there is both soft and hardserve icecream, and banana splits. Take your tray down to the riverside and dine at a picnic table under the shade of a big maple. We often go for the burger. A word of advice: as long as we've lived here, through various short order cooks and owners, the medium burger is always medium-rare, medium-well is medium. On a good day, the fries are crisp and salty.

first harvest

Cherries. This is the first crop of the summer from our two small cherry trees. We planted them two years ago, and this year at least one flowered profusely in May, and now by July, those blossoms are already fruit. For several weeks we talked of getting netting to protect our small take from the birds, but we rallied too late. The birds have already feasted on a good portion. We picked the eight cherries remaining and ate them with some beautiful, fat cherries from a local orchard for lunch.

We are reminded of the cherry tree outside of the house we used to live in Italy. Old, tall, and elegant, come early summer it would be laden with this magical and juicy fruit. We would pick baskets full and become drunk on cherries, eating them by the handful in the afternoon shade of our balcony.

Cherries are delectable in many ways: in a pie, studded in a sugared flatbread, simmered into a sauce for sweet cream icecream. We like them best as they are, served in a bowl over ice to keep them and us cool on a hot day.