Wednesday: seated uncomfortably on a small wooden chair, still damp from the thunderstorms, under a tent hastily erected on the Water Taxi Beach. The sun is out again after the deluge, but low in the sky, pink clouds threading through the skyscrapers as it sets. The sand crunches underneath and we eat toasted bread soaked in olive oil, watch Umbrian olive pickers work through their harvest.

Saturday: asleep on the beach at Asbury Park, the shrieks of children and the pounding surf quieting my mind. Around me the sleeping bodies of my friends, lulled by the sun so bright overhead. The sour scent of pickles, leftover from our picnic lunch, drifts up, mingles with the smell of the ocean and sunscreen.

Tuesday: legs curled up under me, threatening to tingle, on a blanket spread out in Central Park. People all around me, the hum of midsummer chatter almost drowning out the music from the Philharmonic ensconced in their shell in front of us. Fireworks end the evening; as I walk out of the park, a mournful bagpiper plays for a crowd of guests silenced by the explosions.

Wednesday: cheering with strangers, eyes red from their flight, on a leather banquette as our team makes it through to the finals. Iced tea, brewed too heavily, makes my teeth chatter and my palms sweat, but on second thought it could just be the game.

Yesterday morning: standing at the kitchen counter, dicing rhubarb and mincing grapefruit peel. The fruit macerates in sugar and juice all day. At night, jars and labels are washed, sterilized in the oven. The jam comes to boil, foam is tediously skimmed. The mixture thickens, grows glossy then dull, pockmarked by bubbles. A mind long distracted finds focus. Jars are filled, sealed tightly; gentle pops come from the kitchen.

***

Rhubarb is everywhere these days. We've eaten a glut of it, stewed with tiny, fragrant strawberries into yielding submission, sometimes with yogurt, sometimes without. But, tiring of tradition, I've been meaning to do something else with it lately.

This recipe, which combines tiny bits of grapefruit peel and juice with diced rhubarb, is like a citrus marmalade, but gentler and softer somehow. The rhubarb tames the grapefruit, surprisingly; pillows out the bitter edge. The preserves have a languid set, perfect for toast eaten on humid morning, just before it gets too hot. I love the color, somewhere between pink and red, and the way it moves under the knife.

Rhubarb Grapefruit Preserves
Makes 5 cups
Note: If you'd like a somewhat more rhubarby jam, use the peel of only one grapefruit. Still juice both of the fruits, though.

2 pounds rhubarb
2 grapefruit (organic, please, and well-washed)
4 cups sugar

1. Wash and dry the rhubarb and cut it into 1/2-inch dice. Peel the zest off the grapefruit and chop it very fine. Put the rhubarb, chopped zest, and sugar in a large heavy-bottomed stainless steel pot. Juice the grapefruits into the pot. Let the mixture stand for 30 minutes (or overnight) to allow the sugar to dissolve and the rhubarb to release its juice.

2. Prepare five 8-ounce canning jars and self-sealing lids in boiling water, following the manufacturer’s instructions. Put a small plate in the freezer to be used later to test the consistency of the jam. Bring the pot of fruit to a boil over high heat, stirring occasionally to make sure it is not sticking to the bottom. The mixture will bubble high up the sides of the pot. Skim off any light-colored foam collecting on the edges. Soon the jam will subside, still bubbling thickly. Stir frequently and start testing for consistency by putting small spoonful of jam on the cold plate. This cools the samples quickly so you can tell what the finished texture will be.

3. When the jam has cooked to the thickness you want, turn off the heat and carefully ladle the jam into the prepared canning jars, allowing at least 1/4 inch of headroom. Seal with the lids according to the manufacturer’s instructions. The preserves will keep for 1 year.

I thought I didn't like granola, but it turns out I simply don't like cinnamon in my breakfast cereal! Give me cinnamon in apple pancake, stewed prunes, even coconut bread, but leave my cereal be. I'm so glad to have figured that out - your collective concern about my dislike of granola was touching.

Oh, and also, chocolate in cereal is fantastic. Who knows what I was thinking when I said I couldn't eat that for breakfast on a regular basis. Chocolate is great for breakfast! Essential, even.

I made this the way Molly did, and it was perfect. Then it was gone, about two days later. Ben had one bowl, I foolishly gave some to my upstairs neighbor and the rest, erm, was eaten by me. Yes. So I had to make another batch, of course. Of course!

In the second batch, I thought I'd tone down the sugar and the chocolate a little. I'm supposed to be in a bathing suit in four (4!) days! Doubling all the ingredients but the sugar and chocolate left me with a nicely balanced, delicately sweet granola. Is it as good as the original? No, it's not. But it's still pretty tasty, plus it makes me feel somewhat virtuous.

Overrated, I know, that feeling is.

(The first time I made this, I used Valrhona Manjari. The second time I used Lindt's Bittersweet. The Manjari was better. Was that even a surprise?)

French Chocolate Granola
Makes approximately 10 cups

6 cups rolled oats
1 cup raw almonds, chopped
1 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
Pinch of salt
12 tablespoons mild honey
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
½ cup finely chopped bittersweet chocolate (containing around 56% cocoa solids)

1. Preheat the oven to 300°F.

2. In a large bowl, combine the oats, almonds, coconut, sugar, and salt.  Stir well to blend.

3. In a small saucepan, warm the honey and oil over low heat, stirring gently, until the honey is loose. Pour over the dry ingredients, and stir to combine well.

4. Spread the mixture evenly on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until golden. Set a timer to go off halfway through the baking time, so that you can give the granola a good stir; this helps it to cook evenly. When it’s ready, remove the pan from the oven, stir well – this will keep it from cooling into a hard, solid sheet – and cool completely.

5. When cool, transfer the granola to a large bowl, storage jar, or zipper-lock plastic bag. Add the chocolate, and stir (or shake, if using a jar or bag) to mix. Store in an airtight container.

It's time for another Role Reversal post, courtesy of Moriah of Where I'm Cooking From. Despite the pedigree of the recipe's creator and the fact that her other recipe went over so fantastically well over here, I had high hopes for this dessert, alluringly named Caramel Coulant. Unfortunately, well, I'll just let you keep reading:

"Last weekend I dusted off my email archives, bought cream and flour, and set to work making Caramel Coulant as written. I read the instructions first, then followed all steps to the letter. I'm actually proud of myself for doing that, because I have a habit of always tweaking a recipe before I've made a control group. 

It's a nice change of pace to follow exact instructions and see what happens rather than my usual method of cooking by instinct (ie, the seat of my pants). I would not, however, make this recipe again. It sounded for all the world like the tawny cousin of the molten chocolate cake - a delicate egg-risen puff with liquid gold oozing from the center. But it turned out to be just an under-baked cupcake.

The half-baked cake concept works flawlessly in almost all molten chocolate cake recipes, but without the flavor-power of chocolate, the flowing center of batter ends up tasting like cake batter. That can be good in small doses, but when there's about an ounce of liquid batter in each 4 ounce cakelet, it's too much. Of course, this may appeal to some people -- I understand that. But I'm very particular about being able to taste raw egg and flour, even in custards, so this grossed me out a little bit. I baked them according to the recipe, tasted one and took some photos, then put them back into a 300 degree oven until the centers were firm. My roommates quite enjoyed the fully-baked cakes and they saved me the trouble of having to eat more than one, though I entertained thoughts of spreading slices of dense cake toast with marmalade. 

On the upper-most-upside, the 3/4-cup of leftover caramel sauce made an excellent ice cream when mixed with 3 cups of milk and run through the ice cream maker.

Overall, I'm glad I tried this recipe, at least for the experience.  It was pretty obvious to me that it was scaled down from a huge restaurant-sized batch (it's from Nicole Kaplan, during her reign as pastry chef at Eleven Madison Park), because there was so much extra caramel sauce and no instruction on how to use it, and it produced a slightly-awkward number (5) of cakes. When quadrupled, it would use all the sauce and make a nice even 20 cakes. I didn't try it with salted caramel ice cream as suggested, but I don't think that would make a difference in my enjoyment of the dessert. What I should do is check out the dessert in its native environment at Eleven Madison Park, if it's still on the menu. You know, for research."

Caramel Coulant
Serves 5

For the caramel sauce:
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1/3 cup cream
1 ½ tablespoons butter
¼ cup milk

For the coulant:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
Pinch of fleur de sel
¼ cup plus 1 ½ teaspoons sugar
2/3 cup cake flour.
2 eggs

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Combine the sugar and ¼ cup water in a pot. Do not stir. Cook over medium-high heat to a dark caramel, swirling as it begins to brown to distribute the sugar. Reduce the heat to low and deglaze with the cream, standing back to avoid bubbling caramel. Add the butter and milk. (It will bubble again.) Stir until well incorporated. Let cool. (The sauce can be made ahead and refrigerated.)

2. Spray 5, 4-ounce ramekins with cooking spray; cover the inside of the ramekin with sugar and remove excess. Place on a sheet pan.

3. Make the coulant by warming 1/3 cup caramel sauce in a medium saucepan; then stir in the butter and fleur de sel. Off the heat, stir in the sugar, then flour, then eggs, adding the next just after the prior has been combined. Pour the mixture two-thirds of the way into each ramekin. Bake 8 to 10 minutes, turning the sheet pan halfway through, until the shell is cakelike but the center is flowing. Let cool. When ready to serve, rewarm the cakes in the ramekins for a few minutes. Place a serving plate over the ramekin and flip it to release the coulant. Serve with salted caramel ice cream.

Phew. There now, that's a lot better. A relatively cool 71 degrees brushing against my skin this morning, marking a 27-point drop in temperature from yesterday afternoon. Why, it's enough to make you drag out the pizza stone and heat up the oven, isn't it?

On a day so hot that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk or at least on the roof of a black car parked in the sun, it felt pretty silly to be posting about pizza. In heat like that, I like to eat cool slices of kohlrabi, fresh from the fridge, or chilled cherries, the dark, juicy orbs cooling me down from the inside out. A salad will do, and maybe a puddle of cold plain yogurt, but pizza? That requires an oven? And preheating? And then eating the food while it's still piping hot? Good lord, my brow requires a delicate mop just thinking about it.

But that was yesterday. And today's a whole new day. The kind of day that can stand a little bit of action in the kitchen. And after four days of cold meals, maybe you're ready for something warm for dinner again. I know I am. Last Friday, the day before the heat descended, I dragged out the pizza stone from its closet and heaved it into the oven. We were having our upstairs friends over for dinner and I'd been gripped with the urge to make pizza. You can't turn your back on that kind of urge, can you?

I had Amy Scattergood's recipe for pizza dough at the ready, a recipe that has you make the dough and then let it proof overnight in the fridge, ensuring flavor and structure. Being lazy and last-minute and happy to cut corners, I made the dough the same day as dinner, so my dough's fridge time was just a few hours. And still the pizza was quite delicious! Well, you know, as delicious as pizza made in a regular gas oven as opposed to a wood-burning oven that gets all the way up to 900 degrees is going to be.

Though I adore a good pizza made in a wood-burning oven, I am definitely not the kind of person who tries to replicate that quality at home. I'm fine with the fact that some things must be eaten in a restaurant to be really, really good. Like pizza with blistered crusts and airy holes. Or perfectly crisp French fries. You know? Pizza at home has different charms. You have complete control over what goes on it and it's quite a lot cheaper. Two good reasons right there to make this a regular occurrence in our kitchen.

Amy's pizza toppings are unorthodox for someone who only eats pizza topped with tomato sauce, mozzarella, and a few judicious basil leaves (I make an exception for the occasional scattering of mushrooms because Ben is so cute), but one in particular is totally delectable. Roasted radicchio and browned sausage are evenly distributed over the dough, while fennel seeds add a pop of flavor and milky mozzarella (or if you're lucky enough to get your hands on burrata) tops it all off. What's best about it this pizza is that it's not groaning with toppings. Everything's distributed perfectly and the crust-to-topping ratio is just right.

The second pizza, arugula - from our first CSA haul of the year -  with walnuts and goat cheese was less to my liking. Too timid, or perhaps I just don't like goat cheese on pizza. I also admit I entirely forgot the vinegar. Maybe that's what it needed to shine. No matter, I'm so smitten with the sausage and radicchio that I'll be making it again and again.

Tell me, readers, what's your favorite homemade pizza like? What are the toppings that you love so much you'll even make pizza in the dog days of summer?

Basic Pizza Dough
Makes 2 pizzas, about 10 inches in diameter

1 cup warm water
1 packet (1/4 ounce) active dry yeast
Generous pinch of sugar
1 tablespoon best-quality olive oil
About 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1. In a large bowl, combine water, yeast and sugar, and set aside for 5 minutes, until it begins to foam. (If it doesn't, discard and start over with new yeast.) Stir in the olive oil and 1 cup of flour and mix until incorporated. Then add the salt and the second cup of flour, stirring with a spoon or spatula.

2. Turn out the dough onto a floured board or, if your bowl is large and shallow enough, just knead it in the bowl. Knead the dough, incorporating the rest of the flour as needed, until it's smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes.

3. Put the dough into a clean, well-oiled bowl, turning to lightly coat the top of the dough with oil. Cover with plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator overnight.

4. The next day, about 1 1/2 hours before you want your pizza, take the dough out of the refrigerator, punch it down and divide it into two balls. Lightly coat the dough with olive oil, cover with plastic and let it rest on the counter for an hour.

5. After an hour, using your fingers, spread each ball of dough into a 10-inch disc on a piece of parchment paper. The edges should be 1/2 inch thick, and the centers should be about 1/4 inch thick. Assemble your pizzas.

Sausage, Radicchio and Mozzarella Pizza

3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1/3 pound mild Italian sausage, removed from casing
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
1 head radicchio
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 recipe pizza dough
Freshly ground black pepper
4 ounces fresh burrata or fresh mozzarella, sliced

1. Place a cast-iron pizza pan or pizza stone on the middle rack of the oven and heat to 350 degrees.

2. In a sauté pan over medium heat, add 1 tablespoon olive oil. Sauté sausage and fennel seeds, breaking apart the sausage as it cooks. Cook until browned, about 8 to 10 minutes. Set aside.

3. Trim the radicchio and cut it into 3/4-inch slices. Toss in a bowl with 1 tablespoon olive oil and 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt. Mound the radicchio on the pizza pan in the oven and roast, stirring and turning with a spatula, until it just begins to caramelize, about 10 minutes. Take the pan out, remove the radicchio and set it aside and return the pan to the oven. Turn the oven up to 450 degrees.

4. Brush the prepared pizza dough with the remaining olive oil. Spread the sausage, then the radicchio, evenly over the pizza. Grind a little black pepper over the top.

5. Slide the parchment paper with the pizza onto an inverted cookie sheet, then transfer both parchment and pizza to the hot pizza pan or stone. Cook until golden and crispy, about 12 to 16 minutes, rotating once halfway through (use the parchment to do so). One minute before the pizza is done, add the burrata to the pizza in the oven, so that it gets just melted. If using mozzarella, add about 5 minutes before the pizza is done.

6. Remove the pizza from the oven either by pulling out the parchment paper and sliding the pizza back onto the cookie sheet or by taking out the hot pizza pan and placing it on a trivet. Slice and serve hot.

I crossed a life goal off my list this weekend: making cheese. It was so easy it felt like cheating. A pot full of hot milk and buttermilk was transformed into a firm bundle of cheese in about 30 minutes. It took me longer to half-heartedly scrub a few lines of grout in my bathroom than it did to make cheese, which, you know, can come as a bit of a surprise. Now, granted, we're talking about fresh cheese, but still. Even creme fraiche takes longer than this!

Here's the thing, though. Ricotta made with cow's milk basically just tastes like cottage cheese or farmer cheese. I followed the article's lead and loosened the block of it with some milk before sprinkling it with herbs, salt and olive oil for a nice little pre-dinner snack spread of toasted bread gently rubbed with garlic. And it was just fine - everyone seemed quite happy with it (I think the pink Champagne we served might have helped). But unless you're using sheep's milk, you can forget about this tasting like real Italian ricotta.

Still, it's a great alternative for American recipes calling for ricotta - you'll be far better off using homemade than the stuff that comes in a tub at the grocery store. If anyone knows how to get their hands on some fresh sheep's milk, though, let me know. I'm finding it surprisingly difficult to track down, but I'd like to attempt this again.

I've been wallowing in a swamp of homesickness for Europe lately, the ache lodged in my chest like an unchewed piece of bread. We booked our annual flight to Italy last week, so I now find myself in the strange position of hoping to savor summer's hot days while simultaneously wishing desperately that the weeks fly by so that the last week of August gets here just as soon as it can. I'll be mixing the leftover ricotta into a plain tomato sauce with pasta tonight and eating it, hopefully without crying, to remind me of all the good things to come.

Fresh Ricotta
Yields approximately 2 cups

2 quarts whole milk
2 cups buttermilk

1. Line a wide sieve or colander with cheesecloth, folded so that it is at least 4 layers thick. Place in sink. 

2. Pour milk and buttermilk into a heavy-bottomed pot. Cook over high heat, stirring frequently; scrape bottom of pot occasionally to prevent scorching. As milk heats, curds will begin to rise and clump on surface. Once mixture is steaming hot, stop stirring.

3. When mixture reaches 175 to 180 degrees on a candy thermometer, curds and whey will separate. (Whey will look like cloudy gray water underneath a mass of thick white curds.) Immediately turn off heat and gently ladle curds into sieve.

4. When all curds are in sieve and dripping has slowed (about 5 minutes), gently gather edges of cloth and twist to bring curds together; do not squeeze. Let drain 15 minutes more. Discard the whey.

5. Untie cloth and pack ricotta into airtight containers. Refrigerate and use within one week. 

Ricotta Crostini with Fresh Thyme and Dried Oregano
Serves 6 to 8

About 8 slices (about  3/4-inch thick) crusty bread such as ciabatta or levain, chewy and substantial but     not very sour
Extra-virgin olive oil to taste
Kosher or table salt, to taste
2 cups fresh ricotta, at cool room temperature
1 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 peeled garlic clove

1. Heat a grill or broiler to very hot. If bread slices are very large, cut in half or thirds. Brush bread slices on both sides with olive oil and sprinkle with table or kosher salt.

2. In a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment or in a bowl, whisk ricotta and milk together until light and fluffy. Add 1 teaspoon kosher or table salt and mix well. Transfer to a shallow serving bowl and sprinkle with sea salt, pepper, thyme and oregano. Drizzle more olive oil on top, about 2 to 3 tablespoons.

3. Grill or broil the bread until toasted all over and lightly charred in places. Lightly rub each slice on one side with the garlic clove. Serve hot, with ricotta mixture on the side.

I was planning on writing a post about granola today - about how I didn't think I'd like it, how I prefer my un-sugared flakes, how I was converted by this recipe, how I'd seen the light and now you could tooooo, except that it was a total disaster. Over-salted, burnt, cringe-worthy even when doused in yogurt and studded with blueberries. And it left me with nothing to write about, to boot. Oh, I hate hate hate it when that happens.

I guess it's a lesson. Don't mess with breakfast? Just keep eating your plain old flakes with milk and leave granola to the others. Sigh. Do you think I should try again? Molly's chocolate granola sounds dreamy, though I fear for my energy levels if I start having chocolate for breakfast. (I used to eat this treacly German cereal called Crunchy Nut when I was in high school - sugary corn flakes bedazzled with little pieces of peanuts, man, that stuff was heaven in a bowl and furthermore, much like crack for the delicate bloodlines of this girl who would eat a bowl for breakfast and proceed to practically hum with zany energy until lunchtime. Unless that was just because I was fifteen. Fifteen! Oh, come back, would you?)

And maybe it's also a kick in the pants to tell you about this rice salad I've been sitting on (well, not the salad, but you know) for a few weeks now. Upon first impression, there's not all that much special about this salad at all. I mean, there's rice, and some tender edamame (or favas, as the original recipe calls for but which are far too difficult to track down in this city and, in any case, to deal with once they are tracked down) and a few crunchy bits of red pepper and fennel, some nice bright herbs and a sprightly dressing. But it's not exactly rocket science, right? In fact, it seems mostly like a kitchen-sink type of dish, you know, the kind that you cobble together out of all the odd bits and bobs lying around your pantry and your fridge.

So, you know, not all that special, though certainly delicious and filling and different - for God's sakes - from all the pots of plain boiled rice we seem to eat around these parts. And goodness, but suddenly that recipe seems a little scant for two people, let alone four, let's double it next time. And there was the strange fact that I kept making versions of this salad with whatever I could find lying around the house. Sauteed ramps and peas with mint and some lemon juice instead of the edamame and peppers and fines herbes. Or toasty Indian spices and canned lima beans. Suddenly room-temperature rice spruced up with all sorts of delicious things feels elemental, like we'll be eating it all summer long and with gusto.

It's hardly rocket science, no, but it's creeping its way into my permanent repertoire and that's chemistry, at least.

Edamame and Rice Salad with Fines Herbes Vinaigrette
Serves 2 to 3

1/3 cup sliced almonds
Salt
1 1/2 cups frozen edamame
1/2 cup long-grain rice, preferably basmati or jasmine
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon tarragon vinegar
3 tablespoons peanut or canola oil
2 teaspoons chopped chives
1 teaspoon finely chopped oregano (technically this is meant to be chervil, but oregano is what I've got on my balcony)
1 teaspoon finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 teaspoon finely chopped tarragon
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
1/4 cup finely diced red pepper
1/4 cup finely diced fennel

1. Heat the oven to 300 degrees. Toast the almonds in the oven on a baking sheet until fragrant, about 10 minutes, and set aside.

2. Fill a medium saucepan with water and add about a teaspoon of salt. Bring to a boil and cook the frozen edamame for 4 to 5 minutes, just until tender. Using a slotted spoon, transfer them to a shallow bowl to cool. Bring the pot of water back to a low boil.

3. Rinse the rice in a small strainer, then add the rice to the boiling water. Cook, stirring occasionally, just until tender, 8 to 10 minutes.

4. While the rice is cooking, whisk together the mustard and vinegar in a small bowl, then whisk in the oil until the dressing emulsifies. Whisk in the chives, oregano, parsley and tarragon. Season with one-fourth teaspoon salt and a pinch of pepper, or to taste.

5. Strain the cooked rice and add it to the edamame. Pour half the vinaigrette over the mixture. Add the red pepper and fennel and toss until coated. Add more vinaigrette, salt and pepper to taste.

6. If you are serving the salad right away, sprinkle the toasted almonds over the top. If you want to chill it, cover the salad and refrigerate until needed. Just before serving, stir the salad again and add more vinaigrette if needed, then sprinkle with the toasted almonds.