Yesterday afternoon I was working from home — in this case, my parents’ house — when my mom knocked on the door.

Hot corn muffins, right out of the oven! she called.

Luckily I had reached a decent stopping point and could take a wee break because when someone, especially your mother, tells you she’s just made corn muffins you do exactly what I did which was to jump up and bolt straight for the table, the lavender honey, and that pile of golden corn bread.

Corn is a little bit of America to me every time I eat it — at least, it seems like something you’d want to eat on the day to celebrate that country’s liberation from England so long ago (and I am not saying anything but today Andy Roddick, a Yank, beat Andy Murray, a Scot, to advance to the Wimbledon final on the day most Americans have off to commemorate the holiday — I mean, surely it’s just a coincidence, right?). Dried and pounded into flour it invokes the days of the early Americans who ate it both out of necessity and economy.

These days corn distilled into syrup is slipped into so much of our processed foods these days (as per Michael Pollan’s “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” which is long but really will blow your mind a bit and is worth the read) and there’s unfortunately much to criticize.

But corn in its natural state is a thing of beauty and, I’d argue, something to be celebrated. It grows tall and straight and hardy and if you were lucky enough to grow up as I did you might be sent out back into the garden to gather ears for dinner. Corn on the cob still is summer to me, and when it appears in the farmers’ markets I know no matter how persistent the San Francisco fog my favorite season has arrived at last. When the heirlooms come in I make great bowls of fresh corn and tomato salad, seasoned just with salt and a little balsamic vinegar (and, if I’m feeling really decadent — or hungry — and avocado). I’ll eat it straight of the cob dripping in salted butter or I’ll toss kernels into frying pans along with green beans and garlic.

It’s all delicious — and this is not even getting into things like polenta, or upside-down apricot cakes baked with cornmeal instead of flour, or or or.

Today, the day before the day to celebrate American independence, it’s sort of reasonable to be thinking about this most American of crops. Native to the Americas, corn has been around since even before the days of the great Revolution (as a kid when I read all those biographies of Paul Revere and his ilk — of course noticing and remembering the food — it seemed they were always dining on corn porridge, corn pudding, corn cake, etc.). People throw around the the saying “American as apple pie” but shouldn’t it be instead “American as corn bread”?

Either way, whatever your plans are tomorrow I’d entreat you to consider making a batch of corn bread or muffins. This is a recipe I’ve been making for awhile and calls for buttermilk, which saves the bread from being too dry as it can tend to do. In the winter I made it a lot along with pots of lentil and spinach soup, and it was the perfect complement. But I bet a plate of grilled vegetables or even a veggie dog or two would go along just fine.

I can’t promise I’ll get up at 7a tomorrow morning to watch two Americans (and sisters at that) fight it out at the women’s Wimbledon final, but if there’s a corn muffin and a cup of tea (of course; I need to have both that American and British influence to properly celebrate the fourth) when the alarm goes off I’ll be much more likely to do so.

Maybe you will, too.

Cornbread
Alas I can’t remember from where exactly I adapted this, but most likely it was epicurious.com or williams-sonoma.com. If you can manage the buttermilk, do — it really makes it. But regular milk will also work if necessary.

1 cup yellow cornmeal
1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup buttermilk
1 large egg
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, cooled slightly

Preheat oven to 375°F. Butter 12 regular (1/3-cup) muffin cups. Sift cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt into medium bowl. Whisk buttermilk and egg in another medium bowl; whisk in melted butter. Add buttermilk mixture to dry ingredients; stir just until incorporated (do not overmix). Divide batter equally among prepared muffin cups. Bake muffins until tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 15 minutes (muffins will be pale). Cool on rack 10 minutes.

[Afternoon drinks, Inverness, June 2009.]

Saturday night I was in the kitchen chopping an onion and thinking about August. The dog was sprawled on the rug near the front door sighing softly in his sleep as I plotted and dreamed a little. As I scrubbed a squash the cat leaped up on a chair and eyed me suspiciously (he’d earlier realized his sweet meows wouldn’t make me feed him and so gave up in disgust); too bad for him. While I peeled a knobbly carrot and sipped at my gin and orange (the tonic unfortunately having all been drunk), I thought about the homegrown lemons glowing on the counter before me and what I could make with them: granita, lavender-citrus syrup, madeleines.

As I swirled mushrooms into olive oil on the stove and added a splash of red wine to make the pan sizzle and spit, I smelled more than just the frying garlic; underneath those comfortable scents was the one singing of outside — bay leaves, sea breeze, eucalypt standing tall and straight against a darkening sky. I thought about Australia and wondered if my bit of wanderlust will ever be ‘cured’ (and if I want it to), imagined Jack London’s last days, wished for sun the next day.

I pulled out the dish of roasting cauliflower to check (not yet) and shredded cucumber for salad, mentally putting together packages to send to far-flung locales. I thought a bit about Greece and swimming in a warm ocean, searched the cupboards in vain for pine nuts, contemplated figuring out if it’s possible to make feta from scratch.

Cooking does tend to make the mind wander.

[In the fields, Pt. Reyes National Seashore, June 2009.]

I was out of town again this weekend. I think that’s my summer pattern; though I’m quite happy here in my cozy blue-and-white San Francisco apartment with its bare and gleaming hardwood floors I truly love a weekend Away. If I can’t manage a backpacking trip I aim for the next best thing: a few days in the ‘country’, either in Sonoma County or Inverness/Pt. Reyes.

But I have to, I think. I need the quiet stillness of a long twilight without the clatter of street noise. I need to hear the wind in the trees absolutely knowing it’s not the cars rushing past instead. I need to have drinks and lunch outside on a deck, even if the mosquitoes descend and force me back inside.

I need to have home, even if only for a few days.

So my weekend, of course, was just lovely. I know I say that a lot: oh, lovely California with its lovely light and lovely blue hour and lovely blackberries just beginning and lovely, lovely golden hills. But really, my weekend was entirely lovely and beautiful in its simplicity. I adored every minute. I’m wistful for that brief stretch already, in fact. I also wish you’d been there — you would’ve loved it. No, really. It was absolutely, infinitely lovely through and through.

[Sally's jam, June 2009.]

It started, as the very best weekends do, with a sunny ferry to Marin that churned through a bay flocked with sailboats white and tense against all that afternoon dazzle. I was picked up and whisked over Mt. Tam and down by Stinson, sunny and bright the whole way — a much-appreciated experience as I’m still getting used to this whole sun concept after those few weeks of persistent fog. There was a g&t in the living room and pesto and salad for dinner, lights out by 10.30. I will admit that’s pretty much one of my favorite ways to spend a Friday.

Saturday morning I woke up early to sun, flinging open the curtains and resting my elbows on the sill the better to see the water shimmering out in front of me. I had coffee and (whole-wheat walnut) toast spread well with butter and homemade rhubarb jam, a bit of Wimbledon-watching, and poking at the dog with my feet. Later we drove out past Tomales Bay before 9 a.m.,the water unrippled and calm as a sheet of glass, through the fields almost to Drake’s Beach. It was hot and still and clear — a perfect day. That night I cooked dinner and we sat long around the table to finish with slices of plum pound cake for dessert.

Sunday was more of the same, although it was switched up a little with drinking coffee from Toby’s in town and then an incident where I lay on the green couch for at least two hours reading the New York Times Sunday paper (and yes, I had another cup of coffee and no, I never lay around for two hours like that, especially when it’s nice out. It was marvelous. I may have to try it again some time.).

[Oysters, Pt. Reyes, June 2009.]

The other thing about my weekend was that I ate an oyster.

(I’ll just let that sentence hang out there a little bit with no comment.)

No wait: I ate an oyster this weekend! Me! Not only am I a vegetarian but I’ve never liked seafood even! Did I lose my mind for a minute there? Tempted by des fruits du mer? Wanted to try something new (I’d never had an oyster before, a near-travesty for a native Californian)? Enticed by that briny, salty odor so indicative to things pulled from the Pacific? Unable to resist the lure of the barbecue? Hit with heat exhaustion?

Well it’s a long story, how I came to eat that oyster. It includes unforeseen circumstances involving an early morning wake-up to sun and birds whistling across the trees, lots of tea, a 4-mile hike through a cow field out to an empty beach, white pelicans, water-blasting said crustaceans, a beer at noon — anyway, I tried one. I had to. I debated sharing this because it was a bit strange (not to mention out of character) for me — I haven’t consumed meat or fish in twelve years and yes I’m feeling the tiniest bit guilty about said consumption — but sometimes things happen, right?

I didn’t like it, though. My dad says oysters are an acquired taste and maybe that’s true; at any rate it was too salty (but not in that good feta-cheese way) and I had to chew the darn thing. I pretty much horrified myself that I even put it in my mouth and I doubt I ever will again.

I think I’ll blame the beer.

[Near Drake's, June 2009.]

In June the light is beautiful, soft and smoky in the sunlight. Dogs patter all over and maybe (though not on this weekend) there will be a fire in the fire place. There are drinks on the deck as the sun slips down over the ridge, night falling cool and still. The sky is like velvet and the stars fade in if it’s not too foggy. Mornings by the sea the water can be that deep, impossible blue that happens sometimes when it’s hot; the trees droop and drop and the grass stirs slightly. The air smells like bay leaves and salt and damp earth pressed together, sometimes laced with a mild breeze, and you have to just thank the great universe for places like this.

West Marin has my heart, part and parcel. This is not a new revelation but still it bears repeating every so often. Driving to the ferry this early morning the mist was rising off the fields and the light almost could break your heart it was so clear and pure. I wish so I could live there, truly. One day?

Well, back here in the real world there are Monday nights of roasted cauliflower, beet and cucumber salad, a few tiny baked potatoes, and the first corn of summer melting and sweet — and really, these are very nice nights when you think about it. After a few days of gorgeously hot weather the wind is tossing around the branches outside my window as a reminder that Yeah, it may be nearly July but this is San Francisco, lady, and don’t you dare forget it but for once I don’t much mind.

I had my weekend, you see, and it was just lovely.

p.s.: Me and the oyster? Let’s just keep it between us.

What’s in the Fridge Pasta

In the spirit of Kim O’Donnel’s Eating Down the Fridge challenge on her great Washington Post blog A Mighty Appetite, this is a loose recipe that uses up whatever veggies are kicking around the fridge and a variation of which I always seem to end up making when I’m visiting my friends and I’m rummaging through the shelves for produce. I used linguine pasta on Saturday night but again, any pasta you have in the pantry will work just fine.

1 onion, chopped
or 3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 red pepper, de-seeded and chopped
mushrooms, sliced
chopped spinach
zucchini or yellow squash, sliced
dried basil and/or oregano
salt and pepper
red wine
olive oil

Cook the pasta. Meanwhile, saute the vegetables in the olive oil, beginning with the onion or garlic. Add the mushrooms. Add the red wine. Add the squash and red pepper and cook for about 10 minutes until soft. Add a bit of cooking water, more red wine if you like, the herbs, and salt and pepper.

Drain the pasta and put in a large bowl. Add the vegetables, a bit more olive oil if necessary, and toss well to combine.

[Apricots from Lisa, June 2009.]

This morning, my apartment, 6:30 a.m.

I meant to bake last night — a vanilla pound cake filled with thinly-sliced plums and an apricot-upside down cake, both from “The Art and Soul of Baking” — but it was a long day and when I actually had time to do so last night I just couldn’t. You know how that happens? Even the best of intentions fall by the wayside in the face of tucking oneself into delicious and comfortable bed — so I gave in and promised I’d wake up early.

And I did.

As I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I turned on the oven and consulted the cookbook — the butter (so much of it!) was soft and pliant because I’d remembered to leave it out overnight (both in preparation as as a little spurring-along — if the butter was ready I’d really have to get up and use it, no excuses). I whirled it with sugar and eggs to the irritation of my neighbor (really, though, it was only for a few minutes), sifted flour and baking powder, measured out vanilla. I sliced the fruit given me by a generous friend and arranged them not-so-neatly. My apartment filled up with the scent of baking: melted butter, sweet plums, cornmeal. I drank my tea and wished the fog away. Friday.

An hour later, another scene which will live only in imagination because it could not be photographed:

Me, on the Geary bus desperately in need of coffee and running late, lugging still steaming-hot baked goods in to my office. (I have to wonder what what the other commuters thought of my battered paper bag that smelled like it’d just come from a bakery.) Luckily all — including myself — arrived relatively unscathed.

[Pesto made from the market, June 2009.]

Last night, my apartment, around 8 p.m.

Summer, I think, means pesto. Oh sure it also means heirloom tomatoes and stone fruit, blueberries small and sweet, crisp lettuce and tiny cucumbers. It means rumors of a heat wave descending on the Bay Area and wistful thoughts of vacation and soft-serve ice cream and more baseball games.

Still, summer is pesto, at least to me. It’s mostly basil pesto, though of course there are so many other options including but not limited to swapping radicchio for the greens to create sharp and spicy spread for toast or using walnuts instead of pine nuts. But that classic paste of garlic, pine nuts, olive oil, a bit of salt and lemon juice (which I’ve just learned is crucial), parmesan, and basil somehow sums up an entire season’s-worth of meals.

At the Saturday market I had picked up two bunches of basil and so made pesto earlier this week — perfect fare for dinner with an old friend last night. While he very properly poured the wine (showing me the label with a flourish), I put together a small salad (just some greens, chopped cucumber, curls of carrots, half of an avocado, roasted beets for me) and boiled water for spaghetti (I like spaghetti for pesto best; angel hair will do in a pinch). I tossed the pesto with the pasta slippery and perfect, and we ate and talked and sipped wine and it was simply marvelous.

[Dinner, May 2009.]

In the car, somewhere near Sonoma, a few weeks ago.

Look at these green beans! I said to the friend crammed next to me in the back seat after an afternoon of wine tasting and sun. I showed her the image on my camera, because I do things like that. Aren’t they so … sexy?

Now, I don’t know if that was exactly the right word to describe them but man did they clean up nice for their close-up. The taste lived up to the expectation, too (bright, snapping, clean). I know I’ve mentioned this before, but my guy at my market has seriously some of the most beautiful and perfect produce going and I await Saturday mornings with even more eagerness because of him.

So do this: buy a bunch of the prettiest, greenest French green beans at the farmers’ market. Trim the ends (note: this is not absolutely necessary but even though it’s a bit more work I find I prefer to remove them) and melt a tablespoon of butter in a frying pan. Toss in the beans and a sprinkling of sea salt and cook quickly — you want them to cook, of course, but you want to retain their integrity (i.e. not get too soft). I ate my helping greedily along with a baked potato and wished for more.

I don’t usually cook with too much butter — baking, yes, almost always though there are exceptions — but in my regular meals I go first for the olive oil or vegetable broth. For some, reason — maybe because it was chilly? — I just really felt like these little guys needed something to smarten them up and thus doused them in Clover salted butter, melted until almost brown and foaming.

Oh, it was so right.

Later I wrote my friend, It’s OK that I’m sauteing some skinny, spindly green beans *in butter* as part of my dinner because I ran so much yesterday, right? Right?! Oh sigh. But I really think they are too perfect to not be treated to some butter and sea salt.

and received as a reply: You’ll probably kill me for asking (so I’ll whisper it): (what is wrong with cooking green beans in butter again? I forgot.)

Well, rather. Silly me. (I knew it too, but a bit of validation is never under appreciated. However — after I work my way through those previously mentioned cakes I think I’ll be logging a few extra miles in the park next week.) I have a feeling I’ll be eating these green beans, along with big plates of pesto and slices of sweet heirloom tomatoes, all summer long.

It’s only right, really.

[In the backyard, June 2009.]

[Eggs with feta, spinach, and shiitake mushrooms.]