I realize that apricot season is almost over—I just whirled the last few golden orbs into a smoothie for the kids’ lunch yesterday—but then I saw them in the grocery store so I know they’re still somewhat relevant. And anyway, I keep doing this silly thing called Forgetting That The World’s A Big Place. Our apricots may be done, but yours might just be starting. Amazing, that.

Actually, I do this all the time. Think egocentrically, I mean. I’m not being selfish, really, just chronically oblivious to the fact that other people have realities that are different from mine. For example, I’ll read something fascinating but then won’t bother to write about it or link to it because I assume that, since I know it, everyone else must already know it, too. If we have fresh tomatoes (!) and no apricots, then such is the state of the world. If my children hit a rough developmental patch between the ages of nine and eleven, then all children must do the same. This probably also explains why I’m repeatedly caught off-guard when people ask me questions about things that seem so normal to me, such as homeschooling. It comes as such a shock that my perceptions are not theirs.

All this to say: perhaps you have apricots, yes?

I skimmed through a bunch of apricot pie recipes before coming up with my version. Many of the recipes called for the addition of cinnamon or another fruit such as red raspberries. I’m sure they would all be delicious, but I wanted a straight-up apricot pie, no bells and whistles. This did the trick.

Apricot Pie 

1 recipe butter pastry
5 ample cups thickly-sliced apricots, pitted and unpeeled
2/3 cup sugar
¼ cup thermflo (or cornstarch)
half-and-half and more sugar, for the topping

In a large bowl, gently toss the apricots with the sugar and thermflo. Line a 9-inch pie pan with one of the rolled-out pastries. Tumble in the sugar-covered ‘cots. Roll out the second pastry, cut a few air vents in the center with a table knife, and lay it over the fruit. Cut off the extra pastry and crimp the edges together. Brush the top pastry lid with half-and-half and sprinkle liberally with sugar. (I want to try this method next time.)

Bake the pie at 450 degrees on the bottom oven rack for about 20 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 degrees and continue to bake for another 20-30 minutes. If the edges start to burn, cover them with some foil. If the juices start to bubble over, slip a piece of foil under the pie plate to catch the drips. 

Cool completely. Serve plain, or with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.16.12), roasted beet salad with cumin and mint, Jeni’s best ever vanilla ice cream, pasta with roasted tomatoes and summer squash, bacon-wrapped breadsticks, counting chicks, what’s it worth?, and chit-chat.    

Our rescue squad raises money by sending local residents information about the squad along with a donation request. Their most recent mailing included a shiny pamphlet with one whopper of a Freudian slip.

My raucous hilarity has an edge to it. I want to point and make fun—and I do—but it’s a glass house-and-stones thing for me. I’ve played the fool more times than I even know (and please, don’t tell me). I’m all too familiar with the shame of looking (alright, being) the idiot. It stings.

And yet, I can’t stop laughing. Seriously, severing?

PS. BEWARE OF NEIGHBORS. THEY’RE DANGEROUS.

This same time, years previous: win-win, splash, zucchini pasta salad, in the pits, tangential thoughts, and cooked oatmeal.  

I went a little crazy when I planted zucchini. Eight plants—or is it nine?—might be considered going overboard, yes? But I had a rationale, I promise! I like to do all my work in one fell swoop. None of this a-couple-pints-here-four-quarts-there manner of preserving. If I’m going to be miserable standing over a boiling hot stove all day long, then I want it to be worth my while. As in, then I’m done and I don’t need to do that again for another year. Also, sometimes my zucchini plants commit random mass suicide. I can never be sure how long they’ll produce, so I figure a lot of plants guarantees at least a few days of pickings.

Well. It’s been at least two weeks since the first picking and the plants still have not died. This means we are officially weathering an epic zucchini attack. So far, we’re handling it pretty well. I made a double batch of my family’s beloved zucchini relish and the whole wheat zucchini bread. I’ve grilled it a couple times. I’ve handed out large bags of zucchinis to various appreciative family members. The one who is suffering most from this onslaught is my older daughter since she’s the one most frequently tasked with the daily pickings. “You want me to pick the patch again, Mom? Are you serious?”

Unfortunately, my family is not overly fond of zucchini. If I had my druthers, I’d pop it in all sorts of dishes—stir-fries, soups, spaghetti sauce—but knowing that my efforts will be unappreciated puts the breaks on my enthusiasm. I do think I’ve been a little lax, though. I should probably up my game, really dedicate myself to winning over the masses.

The other night I made zucchini fritters for supper. Half the family was not impressed, but the other half raved. Raved, I tell you! This, my friends, signifies a huge success. See, the fritter lovers didn’t just compliantly masticate their food like obedient (and slightly traumatized because they are terrified of incurring my wrath) people. Oh no. Instead they prolifically praised my efforts and vigorously vied with each other to get their fair portion.

These fritters are a snap to make. The only slow(-ish) steps are the salting and draining of the zucchini (getting out all the moisture makes crispier fritters) and the frying process, but they’re really no more complicated than basic pancakes. They’d make an excellent snack or hors d’oeuvres, but I served them as the main course, along with other veggies and applesauce.

Zucchini Fritters
Adapted from Simply Recipes.

The sour cream dipping sauce is an absolute must.

The fritters were a bit on the salty side, so I dialed back the salt a little (my changes are reflected in the recipe).

I used the herbs I had on hand—feel free to swap them for whatever you have. Fresh dill, with some feta thrown in, would be nice, I’m sure.

A double batch fed three hungry big people, plus three small and hesitant tasters.

1 pound zucchini, grated
2 teaspoons salt, divided
1 egg, beaten
½ cup flour
2-3 tablespoons finely minced onion
1 tablespoon fresh basil, chopped
1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped
1 tablespoon chives, chopped
½ teaspoon lemon zest
¼ teaspoon black pepper
several generous glugs of olive oil
lemon sour cream dipping sauce (see below)

Put the grated zucchini in a colander over a bowl and sprinkle it with 1 teaspoon salt. Let rest for 20 minutes. Dump the zucchini into an old cheesecloth and squeeze out all the liquid.

Mix the drained zucchini with the remaining ingredients (but not the oil and dipping sauce).

Pour the olive oil into a sided pan and set over medium high heat. When the oil is hot, drop in a scoop of batter and then press in flat with the back of the spoon. Repeat, fitting in as many fritters as you can. Let the fritters fry until golden brown on one side—about three minutes maybe—before flipping to fry on the second side. Place the fritters on a napkin-lined (or, old towel-lined) plate to drain. Serve warm with generous dollops of dipping sauce.

lemon sour cream dipping sauce:
½ cup sour cream
1 clove garlic, minced
½ teaspoon lemon zest
1 teaspoon lemon juice
pinch of salt

Mix together all the ingredients and serve with the fritters.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.14.14), Saturday nights, in the woods, zucchini skillet with tomatoes and feta, soft and chewy breadsticks, roasted cherry vanilla ice cream with dark chocolate, peas with prosciutto, and tempero.