Purslane Quesadilla

If you have ever ogled someone’s jade plant, and imagined yanking off one of those succulently fleshy leaves and popping it in your mouth—have I got a weed wild edible for you! It’s purslane, and it may well be growing in your garden, yard, or sidewalk cracks. If you think it might be, just do a Google image search to check—it’s pretty distinctive looking. I have a lovely patch that recurs by our back steps, and the children call purslane “Chapter 1” in the Crazy Shit Our Mother Ate memoir they’re plotting.

I must add here that the person who taught me to eat purslane in the first place was my own mother. So maybe Volume II can be Crazy Shit Our Grandma Ate.

Pretty much every morning in the months of July and August, I dart out the back door to pick a handful for my breakfast quesadilla, and I love it. It’s crunchy and lemony and slippery, like a cross between okra and sorrel and the way you think it would be to bite into one of those juicy-looking seaweed pods you see washed up on the shore. (“Chapter 2” of the kids’ book is Seaweed, which I am always surreptitiously nibbling at the beach—especially those chartreuse ruffles that look like how you would draw lettuce if you were tripping.) 

Birdy with lettuce seaweed, circa 2007. Picture courtesy of Uncle Barbara, aka Michael's lovely step-mother.

I just asked Birdy to describe purslane, and the adjectives she picked were slimy and leafy. Hm. Wikipedia describes it as mucilaginous. Sure. That—and more! Because you should know this: purslane is a superfood. One day, everyone’s going to be eating it for its insane concentrations of Omega 3, vitamins, and minerals—and you’re going to say you knew it when.

There might be a moment when you notice that your quesadilla is covered in little black specks, and you'll think Fuck, it's caterpillar shit. But it's not. It's purslane seeds, and they're really good for you.

This quesadilla is my very favorite way to eat it, although I would like to try putting purslane in potato salad, which I think would be fantastic, and cooking it with pintos, which I’ve heard is good. I have tried pickling it, which was oddly disappointing, and when it’s very large and the stems get thick, I stir-fry it, which is good. It is surprisingly bad in smoothies. A friend in California once made me a fattoush salad of purslane, torn pita bread, and tomatoes, and it was once of the best things I ever tasted. Birdy eats lots of it plain, while she stands contemplatively by the back steps. And we just ordered a lovely salad from the Sunbird fish taco truck in Wellfleet, and I got a high-five for identifying the purslane leaves. Rock on, wild things.

Purslane Quesadilla

Makes 1

I know you don’t need me to tell you how to make a quesadilla. And yet it’s funny that I never have, given that we eat them morning, noon, and night. When purslane is not in season, I use kale, spinach, dandelion greens, or slivered cabbage.

Butter

2 corn tortillas

Sliced or grated cheese (Monterey Jack, pepper Jack, or cheddar)

1 handful purslane stems and leaves, rinsed if necessary

Hot sauce, etc. for topping

Heat a little butter in a small pan over medium heat. When it is hot, lay a tortilla in a pan, then top it with cheese, then lay another tortilla over the top. Now watch. At a certain point, not only will the bottom tortilla be beautifully golden-brown, but you will see the whole little package steam and swell, which means that it will be crisp and puffy, rather than dry and leathery. Flip it and cook the bottom side until brown.

Remove the quesadilla to a plate, open it up to add the purslane and hot sauce, then sandwich it all back together and cut in quarters. Divine.

waterlogged

Great Pond, Race Point, Herring Cove, Head of the Meadow, Marconi, synchronized swimming, cans of lemon-lime seltzer, striped bass crudo with "jalapeno water." Birdy's splash-ball question at the pond: "Can you play monkey in the middle, you know, professionally?" Cape Cod.

Hope you're all cool, damp, and thriving.

xo

Herbed Goat Cheese / car trips

I know that sprinkling goat cheese with herbs and oil does not make me a rocket scientist. But this is in such heavy rotation for us that I am sharing it anyways. Bread and Cheese: brought to you by the Pizza Toast People.

When Michael is working, this is what the kids and I eat for dinner (when what we're eating for dinner isn't fro-yo). We think it's goat-rific! He thinks it's goat-errible. Goat cheese tastes to him like a log of sludge that's been left to marinate on the floor of a barn where various farm animals took turns pissing on it. Fair enough. But to us it tastes like an edible lace valentine that a friendly goat has sealed with a kiss. During the school year, it's what I pack the kids for lunch as often as not. On day 1, I send a piece like this in a short mason jar. And then on day 2, if we haven't finished it, I mash it all up with a fork (picture Boursin) and send a little container of it for spreading. It's great both ways. It's also grand for picnics, for company, and for potlucks.

We get these lovely ginormous Vermont Butter and Cheese logs (log!) from Trader Joe's, where they are $4.99. Just slice it up into rounds. Or thick oblongs. Or whatever.

I typically use a knife, which makes for messy slices, but since I knew you were coming over, I sliced the cheese with dental floss, which worked like magic.

Then smear each slice with a little mashed garlic (you can just stir it into the oil, if you prefer), and sprinkle them with all grated lemon zest, freshly ground black pepper, and herbs. 

Here, I'm using a mix of lemon thyme, marjoram, and rosemary. But you really can't go wrong, herb-wise. Lavender makes it very fancy-seeming, although my kids call that "bubble bath cheese," and not in a good way. Juicy leaves such as mint and basil will go dark and unappealing quickly, so leave them whole or plan to eat it all up immediately. But parsley does well, and all the woody ones too. Then you just glug some olive oil over all of it. Plenty of good-tasting olive oil, because now is not the time to get parsimonious.

If you're not eating this immediately--and it will taste better if you don't--then cover it and leave it at room temperature up to a few hours, or refrigerate it if you must, for as long as you like. Then grab your handy loaf.

Now I'm just showing off.

And feed your people.

A bowlful of cherries or sugar snap peas makes the perfect summer side dish for a perfectly balanced meal.

*

We are heading out to Cape Cod today, and I wanted to leave you with another audio book recommendation: The Star of Kazan, by Eva Ibbotson. We are halfway through it, and just completely on the edge of our seats: it's funny and heartbreaking and suspenseful, but you have to make sure that Patricia Conolly is reading it, because she's just crisply perfect. We also listened to the end of the delightfully vast James Herriot series. I know I always say this, but seriously, if you're looking for a book on tape that everyone will enjoy, he's the man: if there's anything more entertaining than a handsome young English vet up to his armpit in cow vagina, I'd love to know about it.

Have a great week, my lovelies.

Black Cherry Jam

Hello, dear ones! We’ve been all over New England, visiting friends in New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island. Oh, vacation! I love it. Motor boats, sailboats, and ferries. Lakes, oceans, and salt ponds. Lobster, lobster, and ice cream. Heaven on earth. Lobster.

 We came home to so much laundry that I don’t understand how it even fit in the car.

And also, to cherries, so good and so cheap that I had to make jam even before we’d finished unpacking. I’ve never made cherry jam before, even though it’s one of my favorites, because I can’t get sour cherries, and I’ve never really seen the point of Bing cherry jam. But I was wrong. 

My goal every summer is to make enough jam to last us all year. Peach, strawberry, grape, raspberry, plus some weird ones like autumn olive or ornamental quince jelly. And now: cherry! Elegant labels, no?

Because this jam? It is black and sweet, tart and bitter, fruity and almondy and gorgeous. I recommend bothering with the pit kernels, because that’s what will give the jam its incomparable almond flavor, and because it’s fun to crack the pits with a hammer—but if you really have too much laundry, then try adding a half teaspoon of almond extract. And if canning the jam just gives you a total heart attack, make freezer jam instead. Peach here, any-berry here. Those are especially good, because the fruit tastes better if you cook and sweeten it less than you need to for canning. But cherries and grapes lend themselves to long cooking and lots of sugar, I think.

Ours came out a tiny bit runny, which is perfect because we mostly eat it on waffles and pancakes and ice cream.

Black Cherry Jam

Makes 5-6 half-pint jars

Takes forever

Adapted from the beautiful, canningly pornographic The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook. This recipe is crazy involved, but the kids wandered in to help, and we really enjoyed ourselves. I can’t say I fully understand the whole rigmarole with the cooking of some cherries separately and straining out their syrup, but since I’d never made cherry jam before, and since I wasn’t in a hurry and the only extra washing-up it added was a sieve, I did it. I used the spent cherries to make dark and wonderful popsicles, which I recommend.

3 pounds plus 1 pound pitted cherries, pits reserved

1 ¾ pounds (3 ½ cups) plus 7 ounces (1 cup) white sugar

¼ cup water

5 ¾ ounces (2/3 cup) freshly squeezed lemon juice (Optional: stir 2 tablespoons maraschino liqueur into the lemon juice.)

Figure out how you’re going to deal with your jars and lids and set up a clean canning station with a clean dishtowel, a paper towel for wiping jar rims, a clean funnel, and a clean ladle or measuring cup for transferring jam to jars. I sterilize my jars either in the dish washer (leave them in there and pull them out, still hot, when the jam is ready to can) or in a large pot of boiling water for half an hour. However, Rachel Saunders has this really cool method of sterilizing her jars in a hot oven: Place the perfectly clean jars and clean, unused lids on a baking sheet in a preheated 250 oven and leave them for 30 minutes. Remove them when you need them. (If they’re too hot—which you’ll know because the jam will bubble or boil in the jar, let the cool for a few moments before filling.) After you have filled them, leaving a quarter inch of head room wipe the rims with a clean, damp cloth, put the lids on and screw on the rims until just tight, then replace the jars in the oven for 15 minutes to ensure that they’re sterilized. Put them on a cooling rack; don’t jiggle them around; they’ll seal as they cool. If they don’t seal, freeze the jam or store it in the fridge and eat it. Now, that explained, I have never tried this method. I use boiling-hot jars which I pull out one at a time for the pot of boiling water and dry briefly with a super clean dish towel. I fill a jar with the funnel and wipe its rim with the damp paper towel, then I put on the lid (which I put in the boiling water for just a minute, and which I fish out with a magnet stuck to the bottom of a ladle) and screw on the rim. IS THIS TOO SCARY? First of all, it’s not. But second of all, feel free to scoop the jam into clean jars, leaving plenty of headroom, and then freeze it. {note:  You will still need to follow some other instructions, as I do not take this to be a thorough explanation of the canning process, and I don't want you to somehow manage to be the only person on earth to ever get botulism from jam. Also, just because my English mother doesn't process her canned jam doesn't mean you don't have to.}

Now make the actual jam. Put a handful of cherry pits inside a clean dish towel on the floor. Use a dish towel you’re happy to stain! Now tap them gently with a hammer, through the cloth, until you hear them crack. This is oddly satisfying. Open up the dish towel and remove the plump almond-like kernel from inside each pit and reserve; discard any shriveled ones and shake out the shell fragments. Do this in batches until you have 1 ½ tablespoons of kernels, then tie them up in a small piece of cheesecloth or put them in a fine-mesh stainless-steel tea strainer and set aside. (Note: in lieu of all this pit-cracking hoo-ha, you could stir a half a teaspoon of almond extract into the finished jam after you take it off the heat.)

Put a saucer with five metal teaspoons on flat place inside your freezer for testing the jam later.

Combine 3 pounds of the cherries with the larger amount of sugar in a large heatproof mixing bowl.

Put the remaining cherries and sugar, along with the water, in a very large heavy-bottomed non-reactive pot. It will boil up, so the pot really does need to be larger than you might think. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a heatproof rubber spatula (or a wooden spoon!) and inching the heat gradually up to medium, until the mixture boils, then cook 7 minutes more until the liquid has become thick and syrupy and the cherries look greatly the worse for wear. Immediately pour the cherries through a metal strainer so that the syrup drains into the bowl with the raw cherries. Press down on the cooked fruit to extract all of the juice. “Discard the cooked cherries” if you are clinically insane!  Otherwise, blend them with 1 cup of limeade, then freeze to make popsicles.

Add half the lemon juice to the cherry mixture, stir well, then scrape it all back into your pot, and add the pit-kernel bag.

Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat, gradually increasing the heat to high. Boil rapidly, stirring every minute or two, for “10 to 15 minutes.” How will you know which? I didn’t, so I went for 12 ½ minutes, sensible girl that I am. Monitor the heat closely as you stir, and turn it down a little if the jam feels like it’s sticking. Between stirrings, use a stainless-steel spoon to skim the foam carefully off the top of the mixture. Again, maybe I don’t get out enough, but I find this oddly satisfying. Also, I always eat all the foam.

After 10-15 minutes, turn the heat off and let the mixture rest for a minute without stirring. Scrape all the rest of the foam off of it, then stir in the rest of the lemon juice.

Return the jam to medium-high heat and continue to cook, stirring frequently. Lower the heat as needed to prevent scorching. After 5 more minutes, you should start to test the jam for doneness. To do this, turn the heat off and fill one of your frozen teaspoons half full of jam liquid. Return it to the freezer for 3 minutes, then test it: tilt the spoon vertically to see whether the jam runs; if it is reluctant to run, then it is done. If it runs very quickly, cook it for another few minutes, stirring, then test again. Repeat until it’s done (mine took another 5 minutes), then turn off the heat and remove the pit-kernel bag.

Pour the jam into sterilized jars and process as above and according to the manufacturer’s directions.

We still have black fingernails from the cherry juice.

Pit Boss Birdy. Smashing pits is so much fun! Better even than punching an inflated clown.

The pit kernels in a bag. Please don't mention in the comments about how they have cyanide in them and we're all going to die.

Lemon juice.

Boiling jam, pre scum-skimming.

Our very huge canning pot.

Spoons in the freezer.

Panzanella

It is the cusp season. Our countertops sound the alarm of tomatoes: "They're red! They're ripe! Something needs to happen with them! The fruit flies are coming!"; the summer perfume of basil lingers in the kitchen; our freezer and shelves are filling with salsa, sauce, and jam; our Anni housemate is like the tomatillos overflowing their quart baskets, each one so ripely full that it's splitting its husk. Her baby is due this week, and she is like an icon of the season, drifting through the house with her enormous peach of a belly--part now, part future.

And that's what it's like, because it's fall too, now. We drive past field after field embroidered with rows of butternut squash, and Michael, not a lover of squash, is incredulous. "Do they feed those to the cattle or something?" He is serious. "I mean, surely it's not people who are eating all of those." Oh, but it is! Soon it will be us too, with our warming and warm-hued soups, with our candles on the table as the evenings grow short. Birdy and I are reading Little House on the Praire, which always feels like the perfect Autumn book, since they are always harvesting this and that before some bad thing happens ("Is Pa still making bullets?" Michael asks, passing through the room. It is true that Pa melts many spoonfuls of pewter by the fire every night.) Here in the modern world, we go to bed with the ceiling fans spinning away the last of the muggy air, and then wake chilly-nosed under our down comforters. It is neither one thing nor yet the other.

It is also, if I may speak less romantically for a moment, allergy season. Ragweed? Sunflowers? Whatever it is, it's dreadful. Ben, practicing his recorder on my bed last night, stopped and sniffed into its mouthpiece with that delighted revulsion that comes from smelling the strange accumulation of your own spit. "Smell my recorder hole!" he said, holding it out to me. "Weirdly, it smells like lobster!" But I couldn't. Because I had a Kleenex wedged into each nostril. I want him to remember me as beautiful and elegant, canning tomatoes in the kitchen with my hair up. Instead of sprawled out beside him on the bed and stuffed with tissues, rasping and hawking to try and scratch my allergic throat.

Still, I did make a beautiful dinner in an effort to get as many tomatoes off of the counter and into our bodies as was possible in a single sitting. I go through tomato-season phases where I make this Italian bread salad nearly every day--I love it so much. The bread gets all soggy and addictively garlicky, and the basil is so bright and pungent, and the tomatoes are just perfect in every way. Unless you're Ben, who will eat this salad, bless him, but only after he picks out the tomatoes. Make it because you've got a baguette staling on your countertop or because you've got tomatoes ripening everywhere or because it will be just such a perfect summer-fall meal. Which it is. You'll see.

Panzanella

Serves 4

Active time: 10 minutes; total time: 40 minutes

Crusty bread, tomatoes, basil, and vinaigrette are constants here, and then there are the variables: a bit of chopped red onion and white beans (both of which I add here) or cucumbers or fresh mozzarella, which is my favorite thing to add, but which I was too cheap to buy yesterday. Still, the beans make it a complete meal, albeit a nice, light one.

Part of a large crusty baguette or other good loaf of bread, cut into 3/4-inch cubes (enough to make 4-6 cups) 


2 pounds perfectly ripe tomatoes (about 4 to 6), cored and cut into chunks


1/2 cup basil leaves, stacked and slivered  


1 15-ounce can cannellini beans, drained

1/2 a small red onion, finely chopped

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar


1/2 cup olive oil


1 large garlic clove, pressed


1 teaspoon kosher salt (or half as much table salt)

Put bread, tomatoes, basil, beans, and onion into a large bowl. Whisk together remaining ingredients. Pour enough dressing over the salad to moisten it, tossing it together with your hands, then let it sit for around half an hour to get soggy. Taste, and add more dressing if it needs it (although the tomatoes will have given off a lot of juice by now, so it may simply need a bit of salt.

Gingery Napa Slaw

It's one of those days when this column is unfolding in real time. Super-real time. Surreal time? Because even as I'm writing this, my children are sitting at the table, munching through giant bowls of this salad for lunch. It is hot-hot-hot today, and the salad is cool and crunchy, tart and sweet, and they are loving it. "Can you make this again soon?" Birdy asked, and I said, "I think there'll be plenty leftover for dinner," instead of saying, "Um, I just made it last night too." But I did. We were heading out to a July-Fourth potluck, and I tossed together a huge bowl of this slaw, and it was so utterly good and so utterly gone that I had to make it again pronto. Do you recognize the dressing? It's the same as the soba noodle bowl dressing from last week. I am kind of obsessed with it. So far, it appears to be good on just about everything: on an arugula salad, on brown rice, as a dip for sugar snap peas, as a marinade for tofu. . . I can't get enough.

And then the slaw is just crazy good. It's so addictive that if you bring it to a potluck, nobody will say, "Cabbage? Well isn't that just the cheapest thing!" Or "Yes, we also got a giant head of Napa from our farm share but were too generous to try and foist it off as an actual potluck dish." One friend, for instance, brought a trayful of lovely Vietnamese summer rolls that were stuffed with herbs and noodles and wrapped in translucent rice paper, each one like a perfectly wrapped present, with two dipping sauces {drool}. There were dishes with avocadoes, with artichoke hearts, with berries, with sunny sweet corn sliced from the cob. And me? I cut up a gimongous head of cabbage, dressed it, tossed it with some toasted almonds, and it was like I'd carried the torah around for everyone to kiss (bar mitzvah joke). Everybody loved it. So, if you need a getting-away-with-something dish in your repertoire, I really recommend this one. Plus, there's something about the balance of sweet, tangy, and salty, something about the Asian flavors or the crunch slivers of almonds, that makes it so that kids love this coleslaw, even if the mayonnaise kind leaves them cold (even as I say this, I am thinking of all the mayonnaisey cold slaws I have known and loved: like that finely-chopped one at KFC, which I haven't eaten in the years since swearing off of fast food but which I would very nearly sell my soul for). I don't always understand children, but they do like this, and I am learning to let the mystery be.

Gingery Napa Slaw

Serves 8

Total time: 20 minutes

I love Napa cabbage--the way it simultaneously wilts and stays crunchy in a dish like this. Also, we have tons of it. But I'm guessing a regular head--or half head--of green cabbage would work too, though I might let it sit a bit before serving. You will have dressing left over, and you will not be sorry. Oh, also: feel free to use roasted salted peanuts instead of the home-fried almonds. I go back and forth.

2/3 cup peanut or vegetable oil, divided use

3 fat scallions, white and healthy green, sliced (around 1/2 cup)

1/2 cup sliced almonds

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh ginger

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt (or half as much table salt)

2 teaspoons sugar

1 teaspoon sesame oil

1/3 cup balsamic vinegar

1 large head of Napa cabbage, slivered (I just cut through the whole head)

Heat a tablespoon of the oil in a small pan over medium-low heat and sauté the scallions until wilted and fragrant, around 3 or 4 minutes. In a food processor or with a hand blender, whir together the scallions with the remaining ingredients until the dressing is thick and emulsified. Taste for salt, sugar, acid, and overall balance, and re-season as necessary.

In the unwashed scallion pan over medium heat, fry the almonds until golden, around 2-3 minutes. Remove to a small bowl so they don't burn in the hot pan. (Or go ahead and burn them!)

In a large bowl, toss the cabbage with half the dressing and taste, then add more dressing if the slaw needs it, tossing and tasting as you go. Top with the almonds and serve.

Strawberry Cheesecake Smoothie

Michael and I picked a flat of strawberries at the u-pick place. I made 8 pints of jam; we sliced and froze loads; we ate some plain and with ice cream, alone and with friends. Then we picked another flat of strawberries.

I am like the chipmunks with the bulging cheeks, on their endless quests for seeds, seeds, more seeds! Because it is June, but just barely, and winter is coming.

That said, here's one of my carpe diem strawberry recipes (although you can make this in the winter with the berries you were smart enough to freeze). It's tangy and pink, lush and protein-packed. Also, despite the cottage cheese, it falls into the children's category of "not weird" smoothies--which means that I have not, at the last second, added a large handful of weeds. If you were ever thinking of serving smoothies for dinner--and you know I'd encourage you to--this is a good one.

Happy weekend.

xo

Birdy has pajamas to match every smoothie!

Strawberry Cheesecake Smoothie
Serves 2-4, depending on whether it's the whole meal

The cottage cheese turns completely smooth, I promise, and really makes this taste like cheesecake. There are no discernible curds.

1 1/2 cups sliced fresh or frozen strawberries
1/2 cup vanilla yogurt (or plain or strawberry yogurt)
1/2 cup cottage cheese
1/2 cup milk
3 ice cubes
1 teaspoon vanilla
Agave syrup or another sweetener, to taste (optional, but I use about a tablespoon)

Whir everything together in a blender until smooth.

. . . and the livin' is easy

Ben graduated from 6th grade.

I'm so happy the kids are done with school. I've been missing them terribly during the day. I see folks out grocery-shopping with their toddlers, and I say, "Oooh, you're so lucky!" and they look at me like I have an arrow sticking out of my head, which I totally understand. But I had to talk my friend Emily into having lunch with me the other day, and when she said, about her preschooler, "You know I'll have Lena with me," I acted all casual-like and said, "Oh sure, that's fine." And then spent the entire lunch hour flirting with her.

Can you see the Garfield tie that he bought on ebay? 

And now it's those lazy first few weeks of summer, which are my absolute favorite. You know, in spite of the fact that I have tons of work that I'm trying to do while the children moon around seductively, getting out board games and other things I love to do.

I've mentioned Agricola, right? Someone here first recommended it to us, and it is my all-time favorite game. If the summer loosens up for you at all, this might be the time to try to learn it. I may have mentioned that Ben sat with the rules for hours and hours, predigesting them for us, and it was still challenging. That said, it is the most edgy edge-of-your-seat strategy game ever and, seriously, two hours of your life will whiz by in a blur of delightful anxiety.

We've also become completely devoted to Bohnanza, which, again, someone here first recommended to us. (Thank you!) At first you'll think it's really stupid. It says something on the box like, "The fun bean-trading game!" and you'll wonder if I only like it because of my weird obsession with pinto beans. But the strategy kind of creeps up on you in a great way. Plus, it's super-easy to learn and not that expensive. I don't love the art (I'm kind of picky that way), but it is nonetheless our current go-to birthday present.

We borrowed the Cities and Knights expansion to Settlers of Catan, and have been LOVING it. Again, it is about as easy to learn as Organic Chemistry, and it makes Michael and me want to choke each other to death in competitive homicidal rage, but it is really worth it. Just to add a weird gamer's caveat: this is an expansion, and you need to have the original Settlers of Catan game as well or you won't be able to play it.

The folks at Blue Orange Games kindly sent me this Pocket Yamslam game, and it's our new keep-in-Mama's-bag at all times game, which means it's what we play when we're waiting for our chicken wings. It's like Yahtzee, but much quicker. And it takes about 1 second to learn. It is currently replacing

Pocket Farkel, which had been the game in my bag, and which is another simple, quick, awesome one. In truth, we just had our dice from Yahtzee and a Farkel scoresheet, but I think the actual game is adorable. It's less about strategy than gambling--and just be sure to play with the "piggy" rules to maximize your fun. (Google them if they're not included in your set.)

But we're not just gaming.

We're whittling (again).

We're eating strawberries. (I'm sure you need a gadget like another hole in your butt, but this really is a fun one for kids.)

We're crafting. Those are the matching cupcake shirts we made for our friend Noe and her doll Julia. We made the cutest pattern for it--does anyone know how to post a pdf of a pattern? I'd happily share it! (Julia's shirt is made from the cut-off top of a newborn onesie, and it's the perfect size for an American Girl type of doll.)

And crafting. That's the frog sock puppet Birdy made for her doll Nadia. Have I mentioned this book before?

It's so sweet and simple, and Birdy's been making stuff out of it for ages (here you can see Nadia's red wing blackbird sock puppet). I see that it's out of print, but Amazon still seems to have lots of inexpensive copies for sale, and your library might have it. (Birdy wastes no time: she's already written a letter to the president of the American Girl company, complaining about the lack of short-haired girls in their My American Girl collection. You go, my bad-ass daughter.)

It's not all fun and games, of course. We're also working a ton (Michael and me) and barfing (Ben) and "dying from heatstroke" (Ben again). The cat lies around like a whale who was clinically depressed even before the beaching.

Oh, but have you read The Art of Fielding? "You were wrong," I complained to Michael, 20 pages in. "You said that even though it was about baseball I'd love it. And it's really, really about baseball, and I'm dying of boredom." Only then I turned out to love it completely; it has the most perfect final paragraph of, perhaps, any book I've ever read. Also, you've probably already read this or had a million people recommend it to you, so let me be a million and one. Totally harrowing and lovely.

Stay cool, my chicks, and have fun. And please, please share books, games, fun summery things with us!

xo

Potato Salad with Chipotle-Lime Vinaigrette

It only occurs to run this recipe today because you were so mad that I’d withheld the vinegar egg for so long—and this potato salad? I have been making it for almost 20 years. I happen to know that, because I made it the first time for a picnic we took to this concert. No wonder I’m so old! It’s on account of the oldness.

Birdy's first not-home haircut! Which she loves, loves, loves. Sorry, I had to sneak it in here.

It is one of my signature potluck dishes. In fact, a friend of mine requests it so often that we mostly refer to it as “Becky’s potato salad” as in, “Do you want me to bring the bacon potato salad or Becky’s potato salad?” Like the mandatory green sauce I serve with salmon, it is one of the most transformative dishes I have ever made. It changed the way I thought about flavor, lo those 18 years ago, when I had to scour the entire Bay Area to find the tinned chipotles. (I ended up buying them from the Mexican grocer at the Ashby flea market.)

The potato salad is tangy and smoky and sweet and, oh, perfect in every way. Unless you’re a child, in which case it is unperfect in every way: spicy and sour, and filled with such slithery horribleness as peppers and onions. I can tell Ben is really growing up because yesterday he said, devouringly, “I can’t believe I used to not like this,” and I feel for him, for all those wasted years. We were eating it as part of our picnic lunch at Six Flags, where I went for the first time ever. I loved it! I will never, ever go back even if I live to be a hundred, which I won't, now that the Bizarro took 20 years off my life.

Raise your hand if you look like your normal self (Michael). I was so scared that I kept my eyes squinched shut the entire time except for when I squinched them open for a nanosecond to make sure the kids hadn't fallen out. "I can't believe you're buying the photo!" Ben said. "That's so not like you." So true. But it's the best ten dollars I ever spent.

Potato Salad with Chipotle-Lime Vinaigrette

Serves 8-10

This takes a surprisingly long time to make.

Adapted from the marvelous Fields of Greens cookbook. I always roast the peppers, but over the years I have done different things with the potatoes, depending on my mood. You can absolutely boil them in salted water and then dice them, and this is a classic and good way to make the salad, and it’s easier. Likewise, you can leave the onion raw if you like, but then I’d use only one, and I’d dice it. Annie Somerville roasts and then grills the potato, which sounds great. If spiciness is an issue, you could try making this with smoked paprika instead of the chipotle. If you want to add crunch, you can top the whole thing with roasted pepitas. All that said, this here is my favorite way to make it.

2 red bell peppers, halved and seeded

3 pounds Yukon gold potatoes, diced into 1-inch cubes (or tiny potatoes, halved or quartered as appropriate)

4 tablespoons olive oil

Kosher salt

2 red onions, halved and sliced ¼-inch thick, slices kept more or less intact.

Chipotle Vinaigrette (below)

1/3 cup or so of chopped cilantro

Heat the broiler and cover a small baking sheet with foil. Lay the peppers cut-side-down on the foil and broil them close to the flame until they are entirely black, around 10 minutes or so. Wrap them loosely in the foil and leave them to cool while you deal with other stuff. Turn the oven down to 450.

In a large bowl, toss with potatoes with 3 tablespoons of the oil and a teaspoon of salt. Spread them on a very large baking sheet that is either completely reliably nonstick, or that you’ve covered with parchment. They’ll be super-crowded, even a little heaped, and this is fine because by the time they’ve cooked through they’ll have gotten as brown as they need to, given that they’re getting tossed with dressing, not served as is. However, if this is too alarming for you, spread them over 2 sheets, and plan for them to roast shorter. Put them in the oven and roast them until they are completely tender and browning in spots or on one side or something, depending on whether or not you’ve turned them with a spatula in the middle of roasting them (I make a point of stirring them around once or twice). This will take around 45 minutes, but check them at 30 to get a sense of what they’re doing.

Meanwhile, cover that small baking sheet with foil again, oil it heavily with the remaining tablespoon of oil. Lay the onion slices on it carefully, then flip them so that both sides are covered in oil. If you have cooking spray, you can spray their tops if that’s easier. Pop them in to roast alongside the potatoes, and take them out when they’re browning but before they’re black, after 15 or 20 minutes or so.

Peel and rub the black skins off of the cooled peppers, then cut the peppers lengthwise into skinny strips and then crosswise into thirds so that you end up with 1-or 2-inch strips.

Now you’re an old, old woman. Put all the cooked potatoes, onions, and peppers in a large bowl, and add half the dressing. Fold it all together with a rubber spatula and then taste it. Add more dressing and/or salt until it tastes really good, then cover it and leave it on the counter until you’re ready to serve it. (Try really hard not to refrigerate it, because it is so much better unrefrigerated.) Now taste it again and re-season with salt and/or vinaigrette and/or chipotle puree, as needed. Stir in the cilantro, top with extra cilantro, and serve.

Chipotle-Lime Vinaigrette

Makes about 1 cup

2 tablespoons white wine or Champagne or sherry vinegar

4 tablespoons fresh lime juice (from, say, 2 small but very juicy limes) (Note: It is atypical for me to use the juice from a lime but not its zest. I think the zest would be good here—but there’s so much else going on, flavorwise, that I’ve never included it.)

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

* 2 teaspoons chipotle puree

2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced or put through a garlic press

2 teaspoons Kosher salt (or half as much table salt)

½ cup light olive oil (I use half olive oil and half canola oil)

Whisk together everything but the oil, then slowly whisk in the oil to emulsify.

* To make the chipotle puree, scrape an entire 7-ounce tin of Chipotle in adobo (brands to look for include Embasa, San Marcos, Herdes, and La Costena) into the blender and puree it. Store it in your fridge in an impeccably clean glass jar where it will keep indefinitely—unless it doesn’t, which is what sometime happens. A thin layer of oil over the top seems to prevent mold from forming.

There are so many process shots that would have been helpful, but I didn't take any. I'm sorry!