I finally got my hands onto some good stuff a few weeks ago. It was tall and red and green and full of subtle musty tartness that pleases me to no end. I searched high and low for this good stuff, patiently waiting for the good local version to hit the fruit stands. I live for this time of year.

The moment I found it, I chopped a pound of it into one inch pieces and stuffed them into my largest resealable glass jar. On top, I poured piles of organic sugar. With a little shake, the mixture was ready for the final ingredient.

I gently poured one liter of good vodka into the jar, and gave it all another shake, a bit more vigorous this time. The jar is now promptly stowed away in the back of my pantry. Every few days, I shake shake shake the jar, and dream of the moment when the stewing and shaking and sitting and waiting will pay off.

This cordial-making ritual has become an annual affair. I wish I could sell this stuff to you because it’s just so good. It sits for a month or two, as is, and then after a good strain, sits even longer. I’ve been known to keep it tucked away for up to four more months. Patience does pay off because there’s no other cordial that makes me smile like Rhubarb Liquor!

This stuff is definitely an acquired taste. It isn’t pure candy. It’s totally tart and sweet and mellow and divine. Pictures soon, people! Lest you think I don’t indulge in one of my favorite stalks immediately, take a peek below. Rhubarb preserves graces my morning yogurt, with berries, on a regular basis. It’s my daily reminder of some good stuff stewing in the back of my pantry, waiting to please my guests right around late summer or early fall, depending on how patient I can truly be.

Photo by Pink Scarf

“- comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.” — Song of Solomon 2:5.

Apples are so much more reliable, but beware; if we don’t start protecting the ancient apple forests of Kazakhstan, love might be all we’ve got left. And what’s better? A few text messages or a sweet, crisp, thin-skinned McCoun? Puleeeeze.

There is nothing American about the apple. The proverbial symbol of our fallen selves traveled to us with turmeric and cinnamon via the Silk Road from Central Asia, specifically Kazakhstan, where apples, plum, cherry, pears, apricots, and walnuts all grow wild, ancient forests of them.

Nowhere else in the world do apples grow in forests, and for that reason the famous plant scientist Nikolay Vavilov in 1927 declared Kazakhstan the apple’s most likely hometown. If there ever was a first apple that was too lovely to resist, it came from a tree in Kazakhstan, where genetic diversity was helped along by gigantic mountain ranges that fragmented and isolated the land. Pollen, and therefore the species, didn’t get all mixed up with any other; pure wild apples, pure species. All the domestic apples cultivated today trace back to these forests, which – here’s the tragic part – are disappearing.

Henry David Thoreau, who was a great admirer of wild apples, wrote about their decline in this country in the late 19th century, mourning over his memories of wild apples piling up two feet deep against a stone wall at the bottom of a field. He says wild apples “must be eaten…when your system is all aglow with exercise, when the frosty weather nips your fingers, the wind rattles the bare boughs or rustles the few remaining leaves, and the jay is heard screaming. What is sour in the house a bracing walk makes sweet. Some of these apples might be labeled, ‘To be eaten in the wind.’”

In the last four hundred years, there were 16,000 varieties of apples identified as growing in North America, all having traveled here from you know where. In 1904, North America was down to 7,098. Now? There are about 300 varieties left in cultivation.

But, hey, no worries, because supposedly all those lost species in this country have continued thriving, unblemished by civilization, in that apple-gene warehouse, the forests of Kazakhstan. If there’s a blight pandemic that wipes out the apples of North America, can’t we go apple-seed shopping on the hillsides of Alma-Ata? Not so much anymore. Scientists have drawn up a “Red List” of forty-four species of Central Asian fruit trees that could soon disappear, including ‘Malus sieversii 3,’ the species most of our grocery store apples call “Mom.”

Almost 90 percent of the fruit and nut forests of Central Asia have been destroyed in the last fifty years, by development, excess logging, fires, and war. (In world war II, Russian soldiers burned acres of apple forests.)

But there is hope; The Global Trees Campaign, a partnership between Fauna & Flora International, Botanic Gardens Conservation International and many other organizations around the world, aims to save threatened tree species through provision of information, conservation action and support for sustainable use. Go to The Global Tree campaign. In fact, become their fan on Facebook, and check out their cool “Tree of the Week” images. Better yet, become of fan of apples, of trees, of Kazakhstan!

Guess what else Henry David Thoreau says? “It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple-tree is connected with that of man.”

This fig was served in a little paper cupcake shell in a gourmet grocery store on the Maine coastline. After a three-hour drive, with two more to go, we needed a little pick me up. While the husband hit the coffee, I was about to grab a fancy chocolate bar when I noticed these syrupy ripe figs nestled on a platter amidst all the candy. They were perfect, bright green, soft and glistened far more than any old chocolate bar.

I grabbed two, remembering my husband’s fondness for figs. We sat in the store’s garden and bit into the figs, a big bite, the type we’d endow to apples. It was in that instant that we both slipped into vacation mode. We spent a full five minutes enjoying the tiny, juicy fruit and resolved to (1) eat figs every day during fig season and (2) slow down, enjoy and savor our time away. Thanks, little, sweet fig!

When we left New England yesterday, the chill in the air suggested Fall had settled in and soon apples, pumpkins and gourds would flood local markets and tabletops, begging to be thrown into stews, casseroles and pies, anything to comfort us as the temperatures drop.

We decided to wise up this year and extend the warm weather for as long as possible. So yesterday, we escaped the encroaching reminders of Fall, landing in San Francisco around midnight. Feeling the same chill we had left behind, the husband and I both bore very hesitant, curious looks, at each other and all around us, wondering if we had missed the boat. It was cold and raining.

This morning, at the Healdsburg Farmer’s Market, the locals assured us that Summer was still with us and that we’d have a week of sun. If they’re personal assurances weren’t enough, I merely had to stand amidst the stalls of tomato piles, take in the final Summer aroma, and snap as many photos as possible to hold on to those long, sweet days.

There were about 30 varieties of the plump fruit on display and though the husband and I do not have a kitchen this week, we were suckered into buying two perfect specimens for our afternoon wine tastings. Every afternoon, beneath the olive trees behind our cottage, we sip a few glasses and taste whatever we’ve found. Today’s market trip gave us two gorgeous tomatoes, a pile of just ripe figs, a small round of local goat cheese and little curds of a local fresh cheese injected with garlic shards.

We’ve got one short week to enjoy the last of Summer – tomatoes, sun and all. So we’re going to soak it up because we know how short Fall is in New England, and that by the time we finish up our little foodie trip up and down the west coast, Massachusetts snow will bear down hard.

Enjoy the tomato shots below.

Today is unofficial Ground Cherry Day. I had so many ground cherries, husked, cleaned and sitting in my fridge. Today was the day that I needed to make use of all this time stuffed into my home, watching the rain fall. Today, I decided to cook every last yellow, glistening gem.

Last week, I quickly pickled ground cherries. They were delicious on each bite of smoked-and-grilled pork loin. But a quick pickle can only satiate so much for so long.

This quick recipe for ground cherry chutney would do right by any pork or chicken sandwich. I may even dress up those pre-packaged bags of Indian food my husband insists on picking up from our local Trader Joe’s with this sweet and tangy delight.

On the stove, I caramelized a cup of sugar with two tablespoons of water. After a few minutes, the sugar got gooey, sticky and golden. I added 1/2 cup of minced white onion and 1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar. That caused the mixture to boil up and bubble. After a few stirs, the golden sweet and sour onion concoction subsided and I tumbled in a cup of golden cherries. I let the fruit cook through, added salt and pepper, and pulled it off the stove to cool.

This ground cherry chutney is reminiscent of a mango relish, just a little looser and fresher tasting, as I had just made it. If I had found canning jars at my local housewares store earlier today, my first ever chutney would have found a home in pretty glassware. I’ll keep this batch in my fridge and aim to use it all up within the next two to three weeks.

Last weekend, I found a new fruit. Yes, I discovered a new fruit buried beneath a flurry of entwined leaves, leaves that looked like they belonged to some sort of squash. I was picking from the last crop of cherry tomatoes at our organic farm and practically fell into a maze of low, thick, slightly furry branches that truly resembled squash plants. Underneath, I found a new fruit.

Yellow and shiny, the ground cherry looked new to me. I’d seen those brown husks before, years ago, but never bothered to peel back and explore the insides. Right out there in the meadow, I peeled, wiped extra dirt off the tiny, firm fruit and popped it into my mouth. If you’ve had a ground cherry before, you know that they taste familiar, like a tropical kiwi merged with a mild cherry, but also brand new with a slight fresh tang.

We horded all we could pile into our shirts and pockets. Once home, I headed to my computer for potential recipes. My chef friend, who was with me on this little farm discovery, didn’t need a recipe. He had picked out a beautiful pork loin roast for our dinner party and knew a sweetly pickled fruit would be quite tasty with each bite. While I husked the quart of yellow gems, he got the pickle mix ready.

Three parts red wine vinegar, one part sugar and one part water began simmering on the range. (I was tempted to recommend lavender honey instead of sugar, but wanted to let him do his thing.) I adore pickled food – vegetables, fruit, shrimp – and with such an easy formula, I wonder why I don’t pickle more often.

We dry-rubbed and slow-grilled the pork loin, serving it thickly sliced with roasted potatoes, these pickled ground cherries, and a sweet arugula and apple mint leaf salad (for garnish and general yumminess.) The dinner made us, and our guests, so happy that we rushed up to the farm the next morning to scour for more ground cherries. We brought home all we could carry, dreaming of more pickles, pies and pretty breakfasts of granola, yogurt and these plump, yellow gems.

Up next this weekend: Ground Cherry Jam!

Forget orange, lime or even pomegranate juices. I’ve been head-over-heels for watermelon juice since the season started and found a glorious way to integrate it into my weekend cocktail hour.

You could buy a large melon, scoop out its meat and mash the juice from it. I opt for the easy path. My local farmer’s market has sweetly carved up the melon, packing the fruit in easy plastic containers to take-away. I grab a few tubs each week, as this fruit juice is quite refreshing during our hot summers in the northeast.

Tonight, I popped the fruit into a blender and kept my little finger on purify until there were no lumps to be seen. Next, fill a cocktail shaker with ice and all the ingredients below. Shake and pour, with ice, into a hefty glass, and decorate with a chunk of melon. Sure, I could strain out the ice and serve it straight up in a martini glass. But I wanted my husband to feel at home with a large, hefty glass, so I kept the ice

Watermelon Margarita

Ingredients:

• 2 parts, watermelon juice
• 1 part, orange liquor
• 1 part, tequila
• 1/2 lime, squeezed into shaker

You could also choose to garnish with lime wedges, but I’m a design freak who believes in the power of the monochromatic, so it had to be a watermelon chunk. You may opt to make these super strong or fairly light; play around with the measurements to get a drink that suits your event. Today, I wanted something tasty but light. On an evening when one needs a little more punch to ease the nerves, you could certainly up the liquor ratio.

Food forms community. A few burgers on a grill can lure family and friends to a backyard. Piles of smoked beef and pork call an entire neighborhood to attention. And a medley of barbecued meats and grilled oysters pulled some friends to our garden a few weeks ago.

The menu was plentiful and presented a lot of variety, as you never know which dish will speak to which friend. We served a small smoked brisket, pork and beef ribs, citrus-marinated shellfish and a pile of oysters tossed on the grill with melted dill-butter. It was all fun and delicious, and our guests sampled a little bit of this and that while taking in the late Spring sun, a certain sun that always seems to be accompanied by a slight breeze.

The best part of the afternoon wasn’t the formal menu, though we did indeed have a nice meal. My favorite moment was when we placed a large white platter of fresh fruit in the center of the table. Everyone quickly returned to their seats, lunging for soft apricots and popping sweet strawberries. The multiple conversations ceased. We all were joined in one large monologue as we tugged on cherry stems and refilled our glasses with wine or beer.

Most of the dishes required hours of preparation, especially the meats that demanded dry rub the night before. But the dish that required virtually no work – a simple fresh fruit platter – pulled us all together, joined our conversations, and, in essence, brought us back to center. Food forms community. Instead of further food photos, how about photos of the community that formed around that meal?

I had quite an interesting exchange this evening. We had run out of vegetables from our farm share so I popped into the local fruit stand to pick up some salad greens and fruit. Calareso’s Fruit Stand is located in Reading, Massachusetts, and sells fresh vegetables, fruit, plants, flowers and baked goods. (During the winter, they sell Christmas trees and  evergreen wreaths.) The stand is a fairly hot spot during the early evening hours, especially with folks picking up last minute additions to their dinner table.

I picked up some cherry tomatoes, noticed they were from Mexico and returned them to their spot. Just not worth the increasing my carbon footprint, let alone the unknown pesticides. I pondered a package of strawberries from California, and decided to let my hunger for strawberries overtake my desire to buy local or organic, and shoved them into my cart (of course, quietly looking around for the “local” and “organic” police, who were no where to be found).

I added several greens to my cart, including bags of arugula, basil and mixed salad greens marked solely with the Calareso’s label. I began to wonder where all these greens were born. Calareso’s didn’t have a farm per se, so they likely purchased all these items at some wholesale market. But beyond that, where the heck did these greens come from? If I wasn’t going to eat organic, I could at the very least focus on supporting farmers in New England, or at least the east coast, and do my little part to reduce my carbon footprint. I really, really wanted to know where these greens came from, so decided to broach the subject at the checkout. And, despite a young 20-something gal at the register, I decided to give my “local” speech a shot.

I told the young woman that I had a notion for her to float up the corporate chain. It went something like: “Wouldn’t it be awesome if you labeled the origin of all your produce so I could choose to support local farmers?”

She said something like: “Well, we buy from the produce market daily and the growers change daily, so that’d be impossible to maintain.”

So I was like: “Well, you could have laminated signs that you wipe clean and re-write on each morning.”

And she was all: “Well, that’s a lot of work.”

So I was like: “Well, I guess, but it’s worth it for your customers. I want to know and I’m sure lots of others would appreciate knowing they were supporting local farmers.”

As her eyes glazed over, she said: “Well, that’s an interesting an idea.”

I realized I was speeching to deaf ears and decided to move on with my non-local groceries. Once home, my husband giggled at my attempt to wise up some 20-something. I insisted that kids these days were allegedly far more eco-aware than us old folks, and that my fruit stand clerk was an anomaly. Or, at least, I hoped.

As I assembled the above salad, I worried for all those 20-somethings who didn’t care where their food was born. Sure, the salad is pretty and was quite tasty, but I grieved for my hard-earned dollars potentially going to corporate farmers. I grieved for the carbon release I had supported. I grieved for all those 20-somethings who simply don’t know better yet… but knew, one day, they would.