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The other day a story on the front page of the Times caught my attention. No, it wasn’t about BP’s history of being horribly irresponsible or Spain’s World Cup triumph or the spread of the Shabab; it was about the release of Grease: Sing-A-Long, a karaoke version of the 1978 smash film. “That sounds like so much fun!” I thought.
I was surprised by my reaction because historically I hate audience participation, probably a result of having suffered through it too many times. Once at a lame a capella concert in college some creepy little boy/man from the visiting school sat on my lap and serenaded me with a coy, warble-y rendition of “I Only Have Eyes for You” as his fellow choristers stifled their own laughter behind their harmonic “oohs” and “aahs.” I wanted to crawl under my chair. But that was nothing compared to last year’s experience at the recent Broadway production of Hair in which the performers spent way too much time off the stage and in the audience. I knew I was in trouble when I noticed an “X” of masking tape on the carpet next to my aisle seat (bad seating choice when participation is a threat) and generously offered to trade places with my sister so she could have a better view. “Nice try,” she said looking down at the “X.” I guess it wasn’t enough that one of the “hippie” girls embraced me when she danced through the theater (as anyone who knows me knows, I rarely hug my friends, much less patchouli scented strangers) but then during the big “Hair” number a truly hairy, raggedy guy stopped at my seat, planted one foot on each armrest, squatted in front of me, and began to give me a head massage. Clearly he didn’t know my (and Tony Manero’s) rule # 1: Don’t Touch the Hair.
But who doesn’t like to belt out a tune when no one is looking and everyone else is doing it? I took a pass on The Sound of Music Sing-Along (the idea of an audience made up of grown men in nuns’ habits was too campy even for me) but I may have to give in and break into a group duet of “Summer Lovin’.” For anyone of a certain age Grease was huge. I saw it at Loew’s Orpheum on 86th and 3rd on a hot June afternoon. My mother, who was fed-up with her three kids complaining of boredom during those two weeks between the end of school and the beginning of camp, left me $10 with orders to take my younger siblings to the movies and leave her alone at the office. I will never forget the sight of my six year-old brother standing up in the middle of the theater and combing his non-existent ducktail, a la Danny Zuko, (with the comb he'd tucked into his jeans after seeing a commercial for the film) while the other kids in the audience screamed at him to sit down.
The music became the soundtrack to that entire summer at camp and Olivia Newton-John’s transformation into a spandex-clad, Candies-shod bad girl was endlessly fascinating to those of us forced to wear white tennis shirts, blue gym shorts with white trim and Topsiders every day. I had a friend who joined me for my first camp summer and to this day compares it to being at a Siberian labor camp. According to her we were forced to swim in a mucky lake when it was pouring and freezing, only allowed to shower once a week, and starved—slightly hyperbolic with the exception of the starvation. Unlike all of my other friends spending their summers at more humane camps, we were not allowed to receive care packages containing food. We were however allowed to chew gum. I don’t know what’s worse, a few mice skittering around a bunk at night in search of a stray Dorito or the sound of 250 girls chomping on wads of Grape Bubble Yum. Needless to say, I lost weight every summer, something I really didn’t need at the time, and in fact looked a bit like I had indeed spent the summer breaking rocks with a pick-axe in the Gulag.
Apparently today, according to my completely unscientific survey of five female friends whose daughters are all away at camp, by and large camps strictly prohibit care packages of food and gum is always forbidden. The kids get into big trouble if they’re found hoarding a smuggled stash of Hershey’s miniatures under their pillows or even a stray Tic-Tac mixed in with the lint in their shorts’ pocket. “What about visiting day?” I asked. Back in 1978 parents really weren’t supposed to bring food but most of them broke that rule and arrived in Sweden, Maine bearing shopping bags of their daughter’s favorite something from the neighborhood bakery or the candy aisle at the market. There was one legendary family who had four girls at our camp and whose arrival was like a scene out of Fiddler on the Roof, only they were coming not fleeing. You have never seen so much food in your life; whole salamis poked out of paper bags, loaves of bread, boxes of cookies, bags of candy. It was insane. Then you had my rule-following parents who brought me nothing my first summer because that’s what the guide book instructed. After seeing how scrawny I’d become they broke the rule the next summer but oops, left what they bought at their hotel. The third they came with a dozen cider donuts for my sister and me to share. I suppose I should be grateful for my six donuts because I have one friend whose parents brought her fruit. That is just cruel.
This weekend marks the beginning of the parents’ visiting weekend portion of the summer season and so I have camp treats on my mind. The legend of cooking s’mores over the campfire has remained just that for me; we didn’t roast marshmallows once and I’m still resentful. I’ve made them as an adult and in their authentic state they are shockingly sweet. They must be if I can barely make it through one in its entirety. So I’ve been investigating other forms of chocolate, graham and toasty marshmallows and have settled on this bar cookie interpretation. I’m not going to lie, even with the dark chocolate and the salty-ish crumbs they are still sweet and gooey but not nearly as tooth-rotting. The good news is that they are packable so if you want to do any smuggling to your rapidly shrinking child, you can. Yes, they are sticky and a little messy but a lot yummy. I may sneak one into the movie theater; the sing-a-long starts at 7pm.
Summer Lovin' S'mores Bars
adapted from Gourmet Magazine, July 1990
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
15 graham cracker sheets
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
10 Tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
16 ounces dark chocolate chips (like Ghiradelli 60% Cacao)
4 cups mini-marshmallows
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Place graham crackers in food processor and process until crackers become small, uniform crumbs. OR place the crackers in a Ziploc plastic bag, seal and roll over with rolling pin until the crackers become small, uniform crumbs. You should have 2 cups of crumbs.
In a bowl large bowl combine crumbs, sugar, salt, and butter making sure until crumbs are completely moistened.
Scoop out 1 cup of mixture and set aside.
Press remaining graham cracker mixture into the bottom of a 13 x 2 inch baking dish.
Bake crust for 12 minutes, or until it is golden. Remove from oven and set on rack to cool.
Place chocolate in microwave proof bowl and nuke on medium for 30 seconds, stir and continue nuking for 30 second intervals and stirring until chocolate is melted and liquid.
Pour chocolate over crust and smooth with and a spatula (offset works well).
Sprinkle marshmallows over chocolate, pressing gently to adhere.
Sprinkle reserved crumb mixture over marshmallows.
Preheat broiler and place pan 2 inches under heat for 30 seconds or until marshmallows are golden.
PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO MAKE SURE MARSHMALLOWS DO NOT BURN.
Cool pan on rack and then refrigerate for 30 minutes before cutting into 1 1/2"- 2" squares.
Yield: 2-3 dozen squares
NOTE: For travel, pack in an air-tight container layered between wax paper. Keep refrigerated until ready to go.
The other day I was passing by the man I like to call my neighborhood fruitier (or the guy who sells cheap fruit from a cart in front of the post office) when I stopped in my tracks and began to freak out: “Figs $2.00” read the handwritten sign above the stacks of boxed, fresh black figs. I wanted to grab everyone who passed, point and scream, “Look! They’re here, they’re here!!!!” When I was a kid figs equaled the dried fig of a Fig Newton, which I also love. (FYI, the best way to eat a Newton is to stuff an entire cookie in your mouth and then take a big gulp of milk. Perfect.) I only discovered the pleasures of the fresh Black Mission fig within the last few years. I’m not sure how I missed out on the sweet, swollen, black teardrops for so long but I think it could have something to do with the limited time they are available in New York, early summer and again in late summer, usually having traveled from California or other points south or west. If I wasn’t looking for them I may not have noticed them and then missed them completely.
Rarity is a funny thing and leads us to purchases we might not consider otherwise. I knew someone who used to give parties timed to that third Thursday in November when wine stores posted urgent signs announcing that “Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrive!!” What a perfect way to prompt a panic attack in anyone worried they might be missing out on something. Go, run and grab an armful of those pretty Georges Du Boeuf bottles right now! But really, how good is a glass of that stuff? Not very. Let’s give a round of applause to the mastermind behind this truly brilliant marketing ploy. But that’s nothing compared with the toy industry and the annual Christmas Toys R Us stampede provoked by the release of the jouet d’annee—watch wild-eyed mothers snatching Cabbage Patch Kids out of each other's hands, a team of fathers wrestling Tickle Me Elmo to the ground while they squash a poor, defenseless Zhu Zhu Pet. All this so little Dick and Jane can show off their very special present, play with it for less than a year, and begin their campaign for the next must have toy. Sometimes I wonder about other things that become sought after just because of their limited availability. Whether it’s a priceless painting or a flawless diamond or a special edition car or even a shaved truffle, would we value any of these things as much if they were readily available or affordable? Where does status- seeking stop and taste-making begin?
I am not in the position to be doing any art collecting, let’s not discuss diamonds, I don’t drive, and I hate the taste of truffles so thankfully I won’t be attempting to keep up with the Joneses who care about these specific things. However, I do fall prey to summer-produce induced hysteria and I believe my reaction to be completely sane. Think about what we wait for and how we pounce: local strawberries, sweet corn, tomatoes that taste like tomatoes, and juicy peaches. Yes, thanks to modern technology, these warm weather specialties are available during the winter, spring or fall so officially I suppose they aren’t really considered rare, but there is so much wrong with that thinking. I won’t start lecturing, basically because I am guilty of buying bland, steroidal strawberries in December just so my daily cereal medley doesn’t get lonely, but the difference between biting into a peach that may as well be a potato in February and the one I plan on sinking my teeth into next month is so enormous I want to hang my head in shame for buying anything out of season. But, who can blame me, or anyone living on the East coast, for pressuring our fruit to ripen up after having to endure so many months of citrus, apples, and pears? I am tapping my feet until the day when sweet peach juice drips down my chin and vanilla ice cream melts over my nectarine cobbler. It’s never a good idea to wish time away but patience is a virtue I certainly don’t have and I can’t wait.
In the meantime it’s fig time. I haven’t stopped eating them—nestled in a pillow of ricotta and covered with a blanket of prosciutto on crusty bread, thrown into a salad, slicked with good olive oil and better balsamic vinegar or simply sliced and stirred into Greek yogurt. The point is always to contrast their figgy sweetness with something a little sour or salty. This crostata is heaven. The crust is sweet and buttery but the goat cheese and lemon push back just enough to keep the tart from being cloying. Plus, it couldn’t be easier. So, come on! The fig clock is ticking! Shake your tail and buy yourself some figs! Now! And you (er, I), can calm down till peach time. Wow, this fruit frenzy is exhausting.
NOTE: Keep in mind that figs are very perishable, should be soft and heavy and won’t ripen any further if they are picked before their peak. They’ll only stay fresh for two days or so in the fridge and you’ll be sorry if you let them wither away (see below) and go to waste.
Finally Fig and Goat Cheese Lemon Crostata
Pastry recipe adapted from "Giada's Family Dinners", by Giada De Laurentiis, 2006
Filling recipe adapted from "Gale Gand's Short and Sweet" by Gale Gand and Julia Moskin, 2004
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients-Pastry
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1/4 cup sugar
Zest of one lemon
1/2 teaspoon salt
10 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cold and cut into 1/2 inch pieces
3 Tablespoons ice water
Directions-Pastry
Combine flour, sugar, zest, and salt in a food processor and process briefly to blend. Add butter and pulse till mixture looks like coarse meal.
Add ice water a little at at time, pulsing between additions, until mixture forms into moist clumps. 
Dump dough onto large piece of plastic wrap, gather into a ball, flatten into a disk and wrap. Refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour.
Ingredients-Filling
6 ounces mild, fresh goat cheese, crumbled
15 ripe fresh black figs, stems removed and cut in half lengthwise
2 tablespoons honey
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper.
Directions-Crostata
On a large piece of parchment paper, roll the dough out to a rough circle, about 11 inches in diameter. 
Transfer paper/crostata to a large, heavy baking sheet. All around the circle, fold in the outer 1/2-inch of the pastry to form a raised edge all around the tart.
Sprinkle goat cheese over the bottom of the crostata (not the edges).
Arrange the fig halves,cut side up, in concentric circles over the goat cheese and drizzle the figs with honey.
Bake about 25 to 30 minutes, or until the underside of the tart crust is browned. Serve warm or at room temperature.
Yield: 6-8 servings
Listening to people complain about the weather is so annoying, unless they've survived a tsunami, earthquake or tornado. This past week in New York has been like living inside a blast furnace, but what do we expect? It’s hot time summer in the city. And since you are reading this on a computer chances are there is an air conditioner in your vicinity, so let’s have a little perspective. You know how they always report on the historic record breaking temps on the weather forecast? “Today in 1918 it was 104 in Central Park!” I can’t imagine how women in high collars, petticoats, and boots managed without a/c. My grandmother (below left) had the right to gripe and I am so grateful it’s not 1918.
With the big July 4th weekend coming up the goal for most city dwellers is to get out of town. Let the official start of house guest season begin. Actually, I call it House Guest Syndrome because I hate being a guest almost as much as I hate being a host. I feel terrible saying that because I have lovely friends who have attempted to open their homes to me summer after summer and I have always politely refused. Yes, just as I’m lucky to be living in the era of electric air cooling I am also lucky to have parents with digs outside of the asphalt jungle who don’t seem to mind the degree to which I enjoy their hospitality. But having a beautiful place to go where I am totally comfortable isn’t the only reason why I turn down my potential hosts. Being a guest fills me with angst.
Let’s start with the morning. (I won’t touch the whole small children who wake up at 6:30am thing because I’d rather not lose any friends). Because I don’t want to be one of those lazy bones who lolls in bed while the rest of the house has already eaten breakfast, gone to the flea market, and run five miles I wind up waking up way before anyone else does and I spend the early morning hours waiting to hear the house stir. And now we come to coffee. I only drink one cup a day but I want that cup to be really strong and really good. And be ready within five minutes of my waking. I can’t begin to tell you how bad the coffee is in most homes other than mine. So now, with no sleep and my sub-par morning cup of joe, I’m supposed to be cheerful and entertaining, all the while sharing a bathroom with the other house guest (s) whose intimate habits I am now exposed to. This is not good at all and I haven’t even gotten to the compulsion I have to be super helpful, as if I’m earning my keep. I don’t stop doing dishes, running to the store, baking, and walking the dog I don’t like. By the time I get back home I need another weekend to relax.
But House Guest Syndrome works both ways. Not that I have my own weekend house to which I can welcome guests but my parents often encourage me to invite people to their place which I never do. I have a friend, we’ll call her Jane, who is incredibly comfortable inviting her pals to her family’s beach house—she inherited the hospitality gene as her parents couldn’t have been warmer or more welcoming back in the days when I actually accepted their gracious invitations. Before she was married with children Jane communicated her “mi casa es su casa” policy by living her usual weekend life and taking off to play tennis for hours, chatting on the beach in her special chair, and disappearing on her bike to make sure she didn’t miss out on any village news or happenings. Some people might have thought she was being rude but it was the exact opposite. She was communicating her ease with having me there and letting me know I was free to do as I pleased. The only time her house guest policy backfired was when she was too hospitable to someone she didn’t know that well and left the newbie’s objectionable behavior (leaving half sipped cups of tea scattered about the house, complaining of the cold when it was 80 degrees, and generally being a morose hot-house flower) to yours truly.
I envy the ease with which some people can handle interlopers in their personal space but have enough self-awareness to know it’s not how I roll. I seem to think that my guests will be struck mute and unable to express themselves so I need to stress over their every need. I end up feeling it’s up to me to figure out whether they are doing what they want to be doing or whether they’re hungry and if they’re hungry then I have to serve lunch when I wasn’t really planning to for at least another hour and which I have little interest in in the first place since it is my least favorite meal. Or I have to worry that they’re not amused by the adorable antics of my nieces (then they don’t deserve to be my friend and certainly don’t deserve a weekend away). Anyway, it is just too fraught.
In the meantime, most people are not like me and may find themselves hosting or being hosted this coming holiday weekend. On the occasions that my parents do invite those friends whom I consider to also be my friends I try to make something to leave out for breakfast (along with the pre-programmed pot of very strong coffee set to start dripping at 8:30am). These muffins are perfect for July 4th because…they’re red, white and blue! If you're an early bird, you can mix the dry ingredients ahead of time and whip them up first thing in the morning. Bursting with berries and brightened with lemon they are light and fruity and sure to make your guests feel at home. No matter how unwanted they really are. Kidding, I’m sure you like them a lot.
House Guest Syndrome Berry Muffins
Adapted from Art Smith, Oprah.com
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup milk
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
Zest of one large lemon
2 large eggs
2 cups mixed fresh berries (a combination of blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries).
Directions
Preheat oven to 400°F. Fill a standard 12 cup muffin pan with paper muffin liners and set aside.
In a large bowl, whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt to combine and make a well in the center. In a spouted measuring cup, whisk the milk, butter, zest, and eggs thoroughly. Pour into the well. 
Stir until just blended. 
Carefully fold in the berries and do not over-mix.
Using 1/4 cup (standard) ice cream scoop portion out one scoop per muffin cup, filling about 3/4 full.
Bake on center rack of oven until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean, 17 to 20 minutes. Cool in the pan for 5 minutes. 
Remove the muffins and serve warm (the best) or cool on a wire rack (good too).
Yield: 12 muffins
The other day a story on the front page of the Times caught my attention. No, it wasn’t about BP’s history of being horribly irresponsible or Spain’s World Cup triumph or the spread of the Shabab; it was about the release of Grease: Sing-A-Long, a karaoke version of the 1978 smash film. “That sounds like so much fun!” I thought.
I was surprised by my reaction because historically I hate audience participation, probably a result of having suffered through it too many times. Once at a lame a capella concert in college some creepy little boy/man from the visiting school sat on my lap and serenaded me with a coy, warble-y rendition of “I Only Have Eyes for You” as his fellow choristers stifled their own laughter behind their harmonic “oohs” and “aahs.” I wanted to crawl under my chair. But that was nothing compared to last year’s experience at the recent Broadway production of Hair in which the performers spent way too much time off the stage and in the audience. I knew I was in trouble when I noticed an “X” of masking tape on the carpet next to my aisle seat (bad seating choice when participation is a threat) and generously offered to trade places with my sister so she could have a better view. “Nice try,” she said looking down at the “X.” I guess it wasn’t enough that one of the “hippie” girls embraced me when she danced through the theater (as anyone who knows me knows, I rarely hug my friends, much less patchouli scented strangers) but then during the big “Hair” number a truly hairy, raggedy guy stopped at my seat, planted one foot on each armrest, squatted in front of me, and began to give me a head massage. Clearly he didn’t know my (and Tony Manero’s) rule # 1: Don’t Touch the Hair.
But who doesn’t like to belt out a tune when no one is looking and everyone else is doing it? I took a pass on The Sound of Music Sing-Along (the idea of an audience made up of grown men in nuns’ habits was too campy even for me) but I may have to give in and break into a group duet of “Summer Lovin’.” For anyone of a certain age Grease was huge. I saw it at Loew’s Orpheum on 86th and 3rd on a hot June afternoon. My mother, who was fed-up with her three kids complaining of boredom during those two weeks between the end of school and the beginning of camp, left me $10 with orders to take my younger siblings to the movies and leave her alone at the office. I will never forget the sight of my six year-old brother standing up in the middle of the theater and combing his non-existent ducktail, a la Danny Zuko, (with the comb he'd tucked into his jeans after seeing a commercial for the film) while the other kids in the audience screamed at him to sit down.
The music became the soundtrack to that entire summer at camp and Olivia Newton-John’s transformation into a spandex-clad, Candies-shod bad girl was endlessly fascinating to those of us forced to wear white tennis shirts, blue gym shorts with white trim and Topsiders every day. I had a friend who joined me for my first camp summer and to this day compares it to being at a Siberian labor camp. According to her we were forced to swim in a mucky lake when it was pouring and freezing, only allowed to shower once a week, and starved—slightly hyperbolic with the exception of the starvation. Unlike all of my other friends spending their summers at more humane camps, we were not allowed to receive care packages containing food. We were however allowed to chew gum. I don’t know what’s worse, a few mice skittering around a bunk at night in search of a stray Dorito or the sound of 250 girls chomping on wads of Grape Bubble Yum. Needless to say, I lost weight every summer, something I really didn’t need at the time, and in fact looked a bit like I had indeed spent the summer breaking rocks with a pick-axe in the Gulag.
Apparently today, according to my completely unscientific survey of five female friends whose daughters are all away at camp, by and large camps strictly prohibit care packages of food and gum is always forbidden. The kids get into big trouble if they’re found hoarding a smuggled stash of Hershey’s miniatures under their pillows or even a stray Tic-Tac mixed in with the lint in their shorts’ pocket. “What about visiting day?” I asked. Back in 1978 parents really weren’t supposed to bring food but most of them broke that rule and arrived in Sweden, Maine bearing shopping bags of their daughter’s favorite something from the neighborhood bakery or the candy aisle at the market. There was one legendary family who had four girls at our camp and whose arrival was like a scene out of Fiddler on the Roof, only they were coming not fleeing. You have never seen so much food in your life; whole salamis poked out of paper bags, loaves of bread, boxes of cookies, bags of candy. It was insane. Then you had my rule-following parents who brought me nothing my first summer because that’s what the guide book instructed. After seeing how scrawny I’d become they broke the rule the next summer but oops, left what they bought at their hotel. The third they came with a dozen cider donuts for my sister and me to share. I suppose I should be grateful for my six donuts because I have one friend whose parents brought her fruit. That is just cruel.
This weekend marks the beginning of the parents’ visiting weekend portion of the summer season and so I have camp treats on my mind. The legend of cooking s’mores over the campfire has remained just that for me; we didn’t roast marshmallows once and I’m still resentful. I’ve made them as an adult and in their authentic state they are shockingly sweet. They must be if I can barely make it through one in its entirety. So I’ve been investigating other forms of chocolate, graham and toasty marshmallows and have settled on this bar cookie interpretation. I’m not going to lie, even with the dark chocolate and the salty-ish crumbs they are still sweet and gooey but not nearly as tooth-rotting. The good news is that they are packable so if you want to do any smuggling to your rapidly shrinking child, you can. Yes, they are sticky and a little messy but a lot yummy. I may sneak one into the movie theater; the sing-a-long starts at 7pm.
Summer Lovin' S'mores Bars
Scoop out 1 cup of mixture and set aside.
Place chocolate in microwave proof bowl and nuke on medium for 30 seconds, stir and continue nuking for 30 second intervals and stirring until chocolate is melted and liquid.
Sprinkle marshmallows over chocolate, pressing gently to adhere.
Sprinkle reserved crumb mixture over marshmallows.
Preheat broiler and place pan 2 inches under heat for 30 seconds or until marshmallows are golden.
Yield: 2-3 dozen squares
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