I’m soooo ready for summer to be over already. I want to start fresh with a brand-spanking-new summer, now.

We had that drought and it was so bad that Virginia declared a state of emergency for our county. So I’m not making it up when I say things were bad. They were.

And then it rained. It rained three nice, heavy downpours, to be exact (more or less). Things started greening up. We were lighthearted and carefree. The kids even got to use the sprinkler since we didn’t have to be so scrooge-y with our well water.

And then it stopped raining and began browning down, big time. I’m peeved with this turn of events. Seriously peeved.

We aren’t getting hardly anything from our garden. Think 28 tomato plants are a lot? Yes? Well, I did, too. But we’re getting such a piddly-little amount that I’ve had to outline a plan of action: salsa first, canned tomatoes second, and pizza sauce third. I doubt I’ll get to the third.

The corn is thigh-high and bearing skinny little sticks of nothing.

Carrots? Bitter.

Cukes? Bitter, and then dead.

Zucchinis? Small, wormy, wilted, dead.

Chard? Eaten. (By bugs.)

Beets? Small, puny, eaten. (By me. In one sitting.)

Green beans? Twenty-six quarts from a whole stinkin’ pound of seed.

Red Raspberries? Dry, small, bug-infested, rotten.

I was thinking of doing a fall crop of green beans as that’s our major winter vegetable, but seeing as it’s so dry, it’d be pointless.

I’m trying to stay positive. This winter I have the marvelous opportunity to use up everything in my freezers and on my canning shelves! There’s still some corn, tomatoes, pickles, red beets, and a few jars of green beans, and once I use it all up, I’ll have an excuse to buy green veggies in winter!

Yay me.

My disgust, irritation, and frustration—or, my irrifrustugation—is really not that big of a deal, all things considered. We have an abundance of food despite the few shortages, plus lots of money to buy whatever we want to eat. In fact, just the other day I was wailing happily about all the good food there is to eat and too little time to do it in. I get in a tizzy over the silliest things.

That very evening I had a meeting at church. It was the same night that our church’s fellowship hall and kitchen get transformed into a food pantry. When I walked in the door, the hall was lined with people waiting their turn to get their brown bags of day-old bread, dried beans, and tins of fruit. The line stretched the whole way to the end of the hall and up the steps. As I stepped over and around people to climb the stairs to our meeting room, I was struck by the irony of my too-much-food complaint—whining about my good fortune! the nerve!—and the realization that, on the turn of a dime, it could be me waiting in some airless church hallway for some free food. Not that this one dry summer is That Dime, of course, but, when it comes right down to it, there really isn’t much dividing me from them.

There’s no great lesson here. I’m still peeved at the cloudless sky, still overwhelmed by all my fun cooking projects, still ready for a summer redo. But the fresh perspective was momentarily profound. End of story.

Now, for a recipe. I have so many up my sleeve. The hard part is deciding which to write about, but seeing as I’m an immediate person, I’ll go with what we had for dinner tonight.

It’s both a winter dish (uses the oven, rice and legumes) and a summer dish (fresh mint, cilantro, green chili). But considering that it’s Indian (kick alert!) and India is a hot country, I’d say it fits into this hot, dry summer just about perfect.

Indian Pilaf of Rice and Split Peas
Adapted from A Taste of India by Madhur Jaffrey

This dish is both light and filling, slightly spicy from the chili, nutty from the split peas, and sweet from the caramelized onions. I can’t get enough of it and am already looking forward to feasting on the leftovers.

Although I found it fairly mild, my kids fussed about the heat. (It wasn’t too hot, technically speaking, so I was able to enforce the eat-it-or-no-dessert rule.) Even so, if making this with hopes of pleasing the little ones, I suggest omitting the green chili and using black pepper in place of the cayenne.

The onion was my favorite part; I’ll double it the next time around.

½ cup yellow split peas
2 cups Basmati rice
½ teaspoon turmeric, divided
1/4 cup canola oil
1 large onion, peeled, halved, and sliced into thin half rings
2 teaspoons minced, fresh ginger
1 clove garlic, minced
5 tablespoons plain yogurt, divided
1 tablespoon and ½ teaspoon salt, divided
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons butter, melted
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons milk
1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro
1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint
1 green chili (I used a jalapeno), minced
½ teaspoon garam masala

The Soaking Part:
Pick over the split peas and then wash them in several changes of water. Let them soak in enough water to cover them by 3 inches for 1 ½ hours.

Wash the rice several times till the water runs clear. Let it soak in enough water to cover it by an inch for 30 minutes. Drain.

The Pre-cooking Part:
Put the split peas in their soaking water in a saucepan, add 1/4 teaspoon turmeric and simmer on the stove, leaving the lid slightly ajar, for about 30 minutes, or until the peas are tender but not mushy. Drain.

Bring 12 cups of water to boil in a large kettle. Add 1 tablespoon salt. Add the drained rice and boil for 3-5 minutes, or until the rice is 3/4 of the way cooked (but still has a slim, hard, inner core). Drain.

The Actual Cooking Part:
Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat. Have a lid nearby in case of splatters (par for the course with Indian food, I’m learning—can’t really expect anything different when you add yogurt to hot oil). Add the onions and stir gently till they are dark brown and crispy. Scoop the onions out of the oil and set aside.

Reduce the heat to medium and add the ginger and garlic. Stir briefly. When they are light brown, add 1 tablespoon of yogurt and 1/4 teaspoon turmeric and stir. The liquid will evaporate and the yogurt will curdle a bit (no worries). Add the remaining 4 tablespoons of yogurt, a spoonful at a time, stirring in between additions. Add the drained split peas, the salt, and the cayenne pepper. Cook for one minute. Remove from the heat.

The Assembling Part:
Put half of the rice in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan. Layer on the split pea mixture. Top with the remaining rice. Drizzle the butter, lemon juice, and milk over the pilaf. Sprinkle with the mint and cilantro and garam masala. Cover tightly with foil and bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

The Eating Part:
All by its lonesome or with a cucumber-tomato-onion salad or with green peas or with a lettuce salad or with a meat or with a yogurt chutney or, or, or—the options are endless and delicious.

Yield: 6 servings

This same time, years previous: Chocolate Beet Cake

I cooked all day Saturday in preparation for the Birthday Brothers’ Indian feast. Sunday afternoon I assembled and reheated, as well as made the rice, a chicken dish, and the pooris. It was quite a juggling act to find enough serving bowls and stove space, but finally the table was spread and we dug in. (Of course I forgot to take a picture of the groaning table in all its spicy glory. You’ll have to use your imagination.)

This is what we ate:

*shrimp in coconut milk
*pureed vegetables
*yogurt chutney
*dal
*chicken in a green sauce
*pooris
*rice with spinach and tomatoes
*stuffed okra
*spicy potatoes
*hard-boiled eggs in a tomato sauce
*mango lassi

The okra was no good (could be the okra was too old/tough/big), the pureed veggies were blah, and the chicken in a green sauce was a dud, but the rest of the dishes passed muster quite nicely. My two favorites were the eggs in a tomato sauce and the spicy potatoes, both which I made for book club last week.

Re the book club: apparently I wasn’t the only one who got hungry reading Interpreter of Maladies. Normally we just drink tea and discuss, but last week we sat down to a table of chapatis and naan, spicy potatoes, and rice with eggs in tomato sauce (my other contribution). The meal over, we lingered, sipping water and talking about whether or not Shoba left Shukumar. Or at least everyone else talked about it. I asked for the potatoes to be passed and then hugged the bowl to my chest while I quietly and methodically finished off what was left.

When I get on a kick, it’s for real. Our newest netflix arrived a couple days ago—The Namesake, an Indian movie. When I told Mr. Handsome what it was, he groaned and rolled his eyes. He rolls his eyes at me a lot these days, but then he smiles, too, so it’s okay.

Today on the way home from swimming lessons, the following conversation ensued between her and me.

Her: Can I make my own peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch? You put in too much peanut butter.

Me (vaguely, mind elsewhere): We’ll see…

Her: Mom. I need to learn how to cook for if you die or get shot or something. Then I can know how to make myself something to eat while I try to stay calm and look for the phone.

We didn’t have PB&J for lunch, but if we had, I would’ve let her make her own.

Back to the potatoes.

These chunky potatoes are packed with flavor, tender, and slightly creamy around the edges. And spicy, of course. The kids don’t like them—no surprise there—but I don’t mind. More for me!

Spicy Indian Potatoes
Adapted from A Taste of India by Madhur Jaffrey

For last night’s dinner, I made a double batch and had only a few leftovers. I’m giving you the single recipe, but if you’re cooking for a spice-n-spud loving crowd, you’ll want to double it for sure.

Before turning on the stove, measure all the spices into little cups and bowls and line them up according to when they’ll get added. Once this prep work is done (and the potatoes have been cooked, peeled, and broken into bits), it only takes about five minutes to assemble the dish. The spicy potatoes can also be made ahead, refrigerated, and reheated in the microwave.

1 ½ pounds (about five) waxy potatoes
3/4-inch cube of fresh ginger, peeled and minced
5 tablespoons canola oil
1 teaspoon black mustard seeds
½ teaspoon cumin seeds
1 fresh, hot green chili, minced (I used serranos)
1 ½ teaspoons ground coriander
1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric
1/4-½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
½ cup water
1 ½ teaspoons lemon juice
1 ½ teaspoons salt
3/4 teaspoon garam masala

Wash the potatoes, put them in a kettle, and cover with water. Bring them to a boil and simmer till fork-tender. Drain, cool a little, and then peel. Using your fingers, break the potatoes apart into 1-inch pieces. There will be a bunch of small, crumbled bits, too, but as Jaffrey says, “that is as it should be.”

Put the oil in a heavy-bottomed kettle and heat it over medium-high heat. Once the oil is hot, add the mustard seeds. When they begin to pop, add the cumin seeds. Add the ginger and green chili. Stir for a few seconds until the ginger is lightly browned. Add the coriander, turmeric and cayenne pepper. Stir once and add the broken potatoes. Stir and fry for 1 minute. Add the water, lower the heat and stir gently for ½ minute. Add the lemon juice, salt, and garam masala. Stir gently for another minute. Serve hot.

Yield: 4 servings

About one year ago: Little bits of smile in a cup of sad
About two years ago: Blackberry Cobbler

So I came upstairs to write, but I’m whupped. The heat, the pool, the kitchen, the peaches—they have all conspired against me. My brain is shot. My feet are shot (and swollen). My drive is shot. I thought it was supposed to be cooler tomorrow, but I just clicked on the weather and the heat index is to be 105. I wanna cry.

Really, though, it wasn’t all that bad today. There was a giant breeze, and I had fun playing in the kitchen. Tomorrow I’m cooking a birthday dinner for my brothers et al. It’s an Indian meal. There are three entrees, plus sides. Plus bread.

Indian bread stumps me. The naan turned out so-so—passable, but nothing like the naan from a tandoor oven. The rotis have me in a snit. I’ve made them four times. The last round was the best yet, but even so, I only got a half puff. Look at how Manjula does it, but don’t you dare believe it’s as easy as she makes it out to be. She’s lying through her teeth. (I’ve watched several of her videos and I’m in love with her. Her accent makes me smile all the way down to my toasty, sticky, swollen, tired toes.)

The pooris, however, turned out perfectly. Just look at them!

This means we will be having pooris and, perhaps, naan.

But if it’s as hot as they say it’ll be, I don’t know if I can bear to crank my oven up to 500 degrees. Then again, I’ll do most anything for food.

We got the four bushels of peaches done in a little over 24 hours. I have no idea how people do factory line work—the standing, the repetitive motions, for hours on end. No matter how I arranged myself—in a chair, on a stool, standing at the sink—I was in paaaaain. My back cramped up, my feet burned, my thumb stung, and my tongue tasted like metal. The metallic ailment is a new one. Very odd.

In any case, we peeled and sliced, sliced and peeled, and peeled and sliced some more. Peach pits skittered across the floor, juice got dribbled everywhere, but only one (!) of the 57 jars didn’t seal. To celebrate a fresh peach-free house, I soaked in a cold bath, read a magazine, and drank a spiked limeade while Mr. Handsome scrubbed the entire kitchen floor with a brillo pad.

This limeade is responsible for keeping me hydrated and energized (all things considered) throughout the peach marathon. It’s some sweet stuff—just a little of the concentrate stirred into a tall glass of ice and water is all that’s needed to make you feel indulgent. To put it over the top, replace the water with seltzer and add a splash of tequila.

Limeade Concentrate
Adapted from Margo of Thrift At Home

Note: The boiled, sugared lime zest is supposed to be junk, but I ate a pinch and found it delectable. Next time I’m saving it. I’m thinking it might be good stirred into some melted dark chocolate…

2 cups sugar
1 cup water
pinch of salt
6 limes (3 zested, all 6 juiced)

Combine the zest, sugar, salt, and water in a sauce pan. Bring to a boil and simmer for 5 minutes. Strain. Stir in the lime juice. Chill.

To serve, measure 1 or 2 tablespoons of syrup into a tall glass before filling with cold water and ice. For an adult version, use seltzer water and add 1 to 2 tablespoons of tequila.

Yield: many glasses of pleasure

About one year ago: Brown Sugar Granola
About two years ago: Dutch Puff