1. I love my bowls. I have lots of them, a whole stack of metal ones, and some plastic and glass ones as well.

I use them every day, but they get extra heavy usage in the summer. I grab two or three before heading out to the garden and fill them up with whatever it was I was going out to the garden for: asparagus, strawberries, lettuce, spinach, peas, chard, red raspberries, you name it.

I don’t have any real point to my tale except to say that the value of a good stack of bowls can not be underestimated.

2. What do you see when you look at this picture?

Peas, you say?

Ha! If only! You want to know what I see? I see long rows and little yield. I see marital strife (Grrrr). I see a burned back and sore leg muscles. I see an insane amount of weeding.

Peas, my foot.

(They do taste delicious, though.)

3. Recently, Yo-Yo read Holes to Miss Beccaboo.

Every chance they got, they’d disappear for loooong stretches of time. I didn’t blame them; it’s such a fabulous read aloud. If you haven’t read it yet, do so. Please.

4. Miss Beccaboo still isn’t reading. I have lots of things to say about this state of affairs, but I’m not sure what they are or how to say them so you’ll have to wait.

5. Our new book-club read is Interpreter of Maladies. I’ve heard such good things about it that I bypassed the library entirely and ordered it straight from Amazon. The group just finished reading The Lacuna, except that I didn’t finish reading it because I didn’t like it. But then I listened to the women discuss the book, realized that I had already (back in my MCC days, perhaps?) read a book about Frida, and decided that I’ll finish it after all, maybe even starting over from the very beginning.

See? Book clubs are good things! They push you to finish what you started (at least this time around).

6. Lemon Ice Cream with Red Raspberries, oh yes.

I got this recipe from a friend from church. She recommends serving it with gingerbread and red raspberries, but I just went with the berries and it was superb.

The lemon stands out in a big way, and since it’s made with half-and-half instead of cream, it’s lighter, like how lemon feels.

Because of the lemon zest, pulverized though it is, the ice cream is not creamy smooth. This bothers me when I eat the ice cream plain (and could be solved by straining the mix after letting the cream steep with the zest for a day in the fridge), but when mixed with red raspberries, the problem disappears completely, thanks to the berry seedy (ha!) distraction.

Lemon Ice Cream with Red Raspberries
Adapted from my friend Jodi’s recipe, and before her (according to her) from the China Moon cookbook, whatever that is.

½ cup, slightly overflowing (in other words, 9 tablespoons) fresh lemon juice (2-3 large lemons)
the zest from those lemons
2 cups half-and-half
1 cup sugar
pinch of salt
1-2 cups red raspberries

Wash the lemons, pat dry, and zest them.

Put the zest and sugar into a food processor and process for several minutes (set the timer for three minutes and go from there) till the juice starts to liquify. Add the lemon juice and pulse to blend.

Pour the mix into a glass bowl and add the half-and-half and the salt. Stir to combine. Let the mix rest at room temperature for about twenty minutes. It will thicken and curdle a little. Don’t worry about it—it’s all good.

At this point you can refrigerate (or even freeze) the mix until you’re ready to churn it. (If you choose to strain it to remove the zest, first refrigerate it for 6-24 hours in order to obtain optimal lemony-ness.)

Pour the mixture into your ice cream freezer and churn for 25-30 minutes.

This is good right off the bat, but it freezes well (cover the ice cream with a piece of plastic wrap) and scoops great even when frozen solid.

Scoop into dainty glasses and top with fresh red raspberries.

Yield: about a quart

About one year ago: Nothing, so go read this post: Groundhog Quiche. It pretty much sums up my little brother.

The girls were gone this past weekend, drastically reducing the amount of hullabaloo that goes on around these parts and allowing for the boys to get more of our attention and/or get away with a bunch of stuff they don’t normally get away with, like using the machete and driving the truck.

Yep, Yo-Yo got his very first driving lesson! He did a pretty darn good job, too.

Though he could hardly see over the steering wheel.

He always likes to tell me about how he’s going to drive 120 miles per hour as soon as he can drive, how he’s going to race cars, how he’s going to take corners on two wheels. In one attempt to give him a lesson in reality, Mr. Handsome has wibble-wobbled the car all over the road, demonstrating how new drivers typically drive. But the questions and bragging don’t stop. I pretty much ignore him, figuring he’s all bluster (though his papa has some hair-raising driving stories to tell about back in the day when he was a bloomin’ 17-year-old fool so I suspect Yo-Yo will rack up some of his own tales someday, but I don’t like to think about it so I don’t).

The driving lesson came about like this:

Mr. Handsome and I were sitting at the kitchen table shelling peas when Yo-Yo approached us and asked, “Can I have a driving lesson?” Mr. Handsome, without missing a beat, said Sure, and Yo-Yo’s eyes about popped. Then he quickly ducked his head and attempted to suppress the grin that was threatening to split his face in half. He finally gave up, threw back his head, and half-yelled, half-crowed to the heavens, “I CAN’T STOP SMILING!”

We just sat there, shelling away, placidly watching as he valiantly struggled to regain composure.“You have to clean the bathtubs and do some other jobs first,” I said, in an effort to help him out. It worked for a minute. He steadied himself, took a slow, deep breath … and then resumed smiling.

Later that afternoon after he did his jobs (and he did them well, too!), the boys all piled into the truck. Mr. Handsome and The Baby Nickel sat in the passenger seat and Yo-Yo manned the controls. He drove down through the field, behind the chicken coop, and back up to the barn. Twice.

When the kid got out of the truck he was two inches taller and had a deep voice.

Pretty impressive driving lesson, that.

Actually, he walked around with his hands in his pockets, kicking at some rocks with the toe of his sneaker, trying to pretend it was no big deal and failing miserably.

About one year ago: A public service announcement that was then quickly followed with There’s a red beet where my head used to be. I have no excuse.

Back in May (or was it April?), I phoned our local orchard and signed up for eight gallons of pick-your-own sour cherries. The call came last Wednesday: “We like to let the cherries ripen a little longer, but people are taking them so you better come get yours now.”

Okaaaay. Um, “Thanks! I’ll be out in the next day or two.”

“Well, don’t wait too long or else there won’t be any left.”

Huh? I hung up the phone and then shook my head several times, hard. The people who run this orchard, dear folks that they are (and kinder towards the fruit and more honest in their dealings than another local orchard), strike me as rather odd. They say things sideways, appear surprisingly clueless, and are all-around unhelpful. All except for the informed, accommodating man who runs the show, bless his heart; the rest of them, well—I just shake my head a lot and move on.

So the next evening, we loaded about eight 5-gallon buckets into the back of the car (not that we were planning to fill them—we just didn’t want to pack the cherries too high and risk smashing them) and drove to the orchard. The woman weighed our buckets and then said, almost reproachfully, as though she were scolding us, “I hope you get your eight gallons.”

Once in the orchard, we pulled up alongside the thickly-laden trees and commenced to picking. In an hour and a half, we had eight gallons, and we had only made a small dent in the trees we were picking from.

Whatever, lady.

Back home that night, I called up my friend and asked to borrow her cherry pitter. I had never before in my life used a cherry pitter, but I figured that 49 pounds of cherries deserved something higher-tech than my thumb. Let me tell you, was it ever worth it! Mr. Handsome started pitting at 9 pm and worked straight through for an hour and a half and did them all. I bustled around, washing cherries, cutting them up to dry (½ a dryer load yielded two pints), packing them into quart boxes to freeze (8), and canning 9 quarts. We had a big bowl left over that I, over the course of the next couple days, turned into jam and assorted pastries and cakes. By 11 pm we were washing up, the cherries done, done, done. Never before have cherries jumped into jars so quickly.

(Now, to be completely honest, the cherry pitter left behind more pits than I’m used to, but it was perhaps Mr. Handsome’s fault more than the pitter’s—he was moving like greased lightening. But I’ve learned that a couple pits here and there is not all that terrible. A hawk’s eye catches the odd pit fairly easily enough, and as long as you don’t chew too lustily, your teeth probably won’t get too bunged up.)

Some of the sour cherries got turned into these crostatas, mini free-form tarts.

I learned about crostatas from Joy the Baker—she recently did a little tutorial on how to make apricot crostatas. I thought the crostatas enchanting, dainty yet rustic, and a blessedly unadulterated way to showcase seasonal fruits.

For the sour cherry version, I thickened the cherries with some Therm Flo and sugar and a bit of almond extract. And for a variation, I mashed up some creamy goat cheese with lemon zest and spread it directly on the pastries before piling the cherries on top. While the crostatas were still warm, the goat cheese appeared curdled (and yucky-looking), but once they cooled completely, it was simply a nice layer of cheesiness. Mr. Handsome surprised me by preferring the goat cheese version (and he says he doesn’t like goat cheese).

These can be eaten out of hand (and then you can de-fancify them, calling them hand pies instead of crostatas), or served on a plate with a blop of whipped cream. (I plan to try a goat cheese cream variation in place of regular whipped cream: 1 ½ cups whipping cream, 3 ounces goat cheese, 1/4 cup powdered sugar, ½ teaspoon vanilla, whipped together till soft peaks form.)

Sour Cherry Crostatas
With thanks to Joy the Baker for the inspiration

Keep in mind that the crostatas will need to be refrigerated for an hour before baking, so make sure you have sufficient room in your fridge before starting.

This calls for only half of a butter pastry recipe, but I recommend you make the full amount and then freeze (or refrigerate) the remaining disk for later; fruit comes into season thick and fast now, and I’m sure you’ll find a way to use it up in no time at all.

½ recipe rich butter pastry
3 cups pitted sour cherries and their juice
½ cup white sugar
1 tablespoon Therm Flo or cornstarch
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice, optional
½ teaspoon almond or vanilla extract, optional
1 egg, beaten
2 teaspoons milk or cream
1-2 tablespoon demerara sugar

Stir together the Therm Flo and white sugar and add it to the cherries. Cook the mixture over medium high heat till it just begins to bubble and has thickened a bit. Remove from the heat and add the extracts, if desired. Cool completely.

Mix together the egg and cream and set aside.

Lightly dust a work surface with flour, divide the butter pastry into eight pieces, and roll the pieces into circles, about four inches in diameter. Brush the circles with some of the egg mixture, spoon some of the cherries into the center, and fold the pastry up and over the filling. Brush more egg mixture over the sides and tops of the pastry, and sprinkle liberally with Demerara sugar. Repeat till you’ve filled all eight circles of pastry (you will probably have some cherry filling leftover).

Slip the tray of crostatas (it might be a good idea to use a rimmed tray as the crostatas do ooze juices) into the fridge to chill for an hour. Bake at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes. (Mine could’ve used another five minutes in the cooker; yours should be a little darker than the ones in the photos.)

Yield: eight beauties that disappear in no time flat.