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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
This time of year I become insufferable. Moodiness and impatience start right after Memorial Day, making way for slight giddiness two weeks later, and followed by a slow, seeping depression around the third week of the month. By July 4th acceptance and resignation have taken over and then I turn a corner and am back to my old(er), chipper self. Six weeks is a long time to suffer from birthday-syndrome.
I’ve mentioned before how ambivalent I am about my birthday. Of course aging is awful and who wants to do that? But the real issue is the taking stock, reckoning, and assessing that comes with marking the day you entered the world. How’d I do this year? Where was I last year? Where am I headed? It’s exhausting. And it would be one thing if I tortured only myself every June. But I don’t. I let all my nearests and dearests in on my psychic torment—indicating my expectations for support and/or celebration, yet trying to control any efforts on their part to help assuage my all-encompassing grumpiness.
I’m not sure what it is I expect or think will make me feel better. I hate surprises, so it’s not like I want to unexpectedly open my apartment door and see 40 people (make that 20, the place is pretty small) wearing party hats and screaming “surprise!” I’d hate that for so many reasons. What if the party planners didn’t realize who all my friends are and left out a bff? What if someone made a hummus-crudite platter? I hate hummus. What if my roots were showing or my good jeans were in the wash? There is just too much risk.
So, if I don’t want a party what on earth is it that I do want? I’ll let you know when I figure it out. In the meantime, one way I have found to cope is to bake my own cake every year. And no, I don’t make it just for me and no, I don’t sit there with a nine inch layer cake on my lap clawing at it with my hands. Although that might be kind of fun. I make it for my friends and family. I do it partly because usually someone else is making me dinner and expecting a cake too is asking a lot. But really it’s because I know I’ll make exactly what I want: a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
The history of this cake goes back to Ethel, my maternal grandmother’s housekeeper who kept us in cake whenever we visited. Ethel was one of those women who could be both warm and terrifying at the same time. That might have had something to do with the fact that Nana, for whom Ethel worked for close to 40 years, often dumped, I mean entrusted, the care of her grandchildren onto her devoted housekeeper while she played cards for eight hours at the club. During those long days Ethel might take us to run errands or to Friendly’s for lunch, all the while warning us not to stick our heads out of the back seat windows because she knew a little boy who did that and his head slammed into a mailbox and he was decapitated. That was Scary Ethel. But Nice Ethel baked an amazing cake.
Traditionally we ate the cake with the whole family and my sister, the biggest chocolate fan, would first eat just the cake, saving the F shape of frosting for last. This caused Grandpa Jim to lunge towards her with a fork and say “You done with that?” while she screamed “NOOO” and hurled her body across her plate. (As you can see from her plate last weekend, her cake eating style hasn't changed.)
The first time I attempted a facsimile of the cake I had just turned 10 and was finally allowed to walk to the corner store myself. Having already celebrated my birthday with my friends and a bakery cake weeks earlier (before school let out and everyone scattered) my actual birthday arrived and nothing seemed to be happening. So, I took matters into my own hand and, donning my bandana shorts and my “Don’t Bug Me” iron-on transfer ladybug tee-shirt, walked to the Sloan’s on 84th and Columbus. I bought a cake mix (I was young and foolish) with a photo on the box that looked like an Ethel cake and a tub of matching chocolate frosting. By the time my mother realized what was going on the layers were out of the oven and a craggy fault line ran across one of them. I was devastated but learned that’s why God invented frosting: it fills all the holes. Luckily, Mom saved me from the can of what amounts to cocoa Crisco and together we made Ethel's signature “Elegant Frosting” from a recipe then found on the back of the box of Baker’s unsweetened chocolate.
So, after years of searching for a perfect yellow cake I have settled on this one from Food and Wine. You may notice it is the same cake I made for my father on his birthday a few weeks ago except here I use regular, not coconut, milk. It is simple and perfect. The stunner is the frosting. It is no longer found on the Baker’s chocolate box so you owe me one for sharing it with you. It combines the best of both ganache and butter cream and is worth the tiny bit of extra effort for those of you who usually make the confectioner’s sugar, butter, melted chocolate chip stuff (not good ) or open a tub (very bad). I will say, baking this cake always puts me in a better mood and of course eating it doesn’t hurt. Happy Birthday to Me! Until next year.
Happy Birthday to Me Yellow Cake with Chocolate Frosting
Adapted from Food and Wine, June 2007
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients-Cake
3 cups sifted all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
1 tablespoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup whole milk, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened
2 cups granulated sugar
4 large eggs, at room temperature
Directions-Cake
Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter two 9-by-2-inch round cake pans and line with parchment paper; butter and dust with flour.
In a bowl, mix the 3 cups of flour, baking powder and salt. In a cup, mix the milk with the vanilla. Set aside.
In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the butter at medium speed until light and creamy. Add the sugar and beat until fluffy, 4 minutes. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, scraping down the bowl.
Beat in the dry ingredients in 3 batches, alternating with the milk mixture and scraping down the bowl.
Scrape the batter into the pans. 
Bake in the lower third of the oven for about 35 minutes, until springy. Let cool for 15 minutes, then run a knife around the edges and invert onto a rack. Peel off the paper, turn the cakes upright and cool completely.
Elegant Frosting
From the back of the Baker's Unsweetened Chocolate Box, circa 1975
Ingredients
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 cup heavy cream
5 one ounce squares of unsweetened chocolate
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter cut into 8 pieces
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Directions
Combine sugar and cream in heavy saucepan and bring to a boil over medium heat. When mixture begins to boil stir it constantly for 6 minutes.
Take pan off heat and add chocolate, stirring until melted and blended.
Stir in butter until melted 
and add vanilla.
Pour mixture into either a large bowl (if you will be using a hand mixer) or the bowl of your standing mixer.
Chill for 30 minutes.
Beat until thick, frosting will go from darker to lighter.
Chill for another 30 minutes or so, beat to aerate again and frost the cake.
Directions-Frosting Cake
Place several pieces of wax paper strips in sunburst pattern on serving platter or frosting turn-table.
Place one cake layer on top of wax paper strips.
Place one cup of frosting on top of cake layer and spread with a spatula (offset is best).
Place second cake layer on top of first layer and frost top and sides with remaining frosting.
Carefully remove wax paper strips and serve. Feel free to chill for a bit but cake is best served at room temperature.
Yield: one 9 inch layer cake (16 slices)
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 
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
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.
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
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