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So, here we are again; the end of another summer where I just never quite got the hang of it. I’m not sure if it was the endless crashing of heat waves or the crushing reality of stepping up a job search but whatever it was, the show is over people. I’m cranky because traditionally summer is my favorite season—which is a little like saying New Year’s Eve is my favorite eve (it isn’t), because in addition to warm nights and peaches summer brings lots of expectation. Are you happy and carefree? Have you had your fill of lobster rolls, blueberry pie, and mint chocolate chip ice cream? Taken any long walks on the beach with a special someone? Spread out your blanket and picnic basket while taking in the Philharmonic under the stars? Do you look like a cross between Malibu Barbie and Gidget? No? Sorry, you’ve failed Summer 101.
I know it’s immature to think that summer has magical properties and that’s really where the potential for disappointment is born. One of my closest friends (who was my beachiest pal growing up) recently said she was sick of people asking her, “How’s your summer going?” as if the season was any different than fall, winter or spring to this self-employed, single mother. She’s still multi-tasking herself into stretched too thin, all while trying to keep her school’s-out-for-summer daughter busy every day.
Maybe it’s time I look at June, July and August as three months of the year when it just happens to be hot and the produce just happens to be better. I’m kind of ready for a new season, a bit of a fresh start. If you ever saw the movie Mother with Debbie Reynolds playing Albert Brooks’ well, mother, you’ll remember a brilliant scene when he is sitting in her kitchen and she offers him a scoop from a long suffering ½ gallon of sherbet, revealing its layer of frost. “Look under the protective ice!” she says in her defense (the scene is 43 seconds into the trailer). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accused my mother of letting freezer burn grow all over the battered, half-eaten containers of Breyer’s waiting patiently for a warm piece of pie or a warmer day. So, to avoid the unpleasant exchange that will happen over Thanksgiving weekend when I open the freezer and think Mom has bought a new carton of vanilla to go with my pecan pie only to learn it is six months old, I cleaned out her freezer. Purging is so satisfying when you’re craving a clean slate.
This terrine is an excellent way to use up all the ice cream you’ve collected this summer and it’s especially great if you have been renting a house and will be trashing all the leftovers before you head home anyway.
To call it a recipe is absurd, as you will see, but the result is delicious and the bit of cookie crunch beats the taste of ice crystals any day. The point is to use what you have and clearly I wasn't after a perfect look. We had some Oreos left over from a visit from nieces but anything sweet and crunchy would be great.
I’m keeping this short and, of course, sweet so you can get out there and enjoy this last summer weekend. And who am I kidding? I need to work on my Malibu Barbie tan.
End of Summer Ice Cream Terrine
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
3 pints (6 cups) ice cream, of 3 assorted left-over flavors, slightly softened
1 cup favorite cookie crumbs, divided (I used 8 Oreos and buzzed them in the processor)
Directions
Line a standard 6 cup loaf pan (9 ½”x4”x3”) with 2 criss-crossed pieces of plastic wrap, leaving several inches of overhang on all sides.
Spread first pint of ice cream evenly across the bottom of the pan.
Sprinkle ½ cup cookie crumbs evenly across ice cream. Press crumbs gently into ice cream and place pan in freezer for about 1 hour until firm.
Spread second pint of ice cream over cookie crumbs and top with second ½ cup of cookie crumbs. 
Freeze again for another hour until firm.
Spread third pint of ice cream over second layer of cookies crumbs, fold plastic wrap over exposed ice cream and freeze overnight.
To unmold, peel plastic wrap off of top of pan and let hang.
Place serving platter over top of pan and invert.
Place a warm, wet kitchen towel over pan for 30 seconds, 
lift off pan, peel off plastic wrap, slice and serve with leftover anything else…extra cookies, hot fudge sauce brought by a generous house guest, etc.
Yield: 12 servings.
Note: During the intervals when the layers of the terrine are freezing keep the waiting ice creams in the freezer until about 10-15 minutes before you take out the terrine. That will be enough time for them to soften to a spreadable consistency.
I spent last Saturday channeling Gladys Kravitz. Remember her? She was the annoying neighbor on Bewitched who was the thorn in Samantha’s side, always just about to catch her doing something witchy. The day had started promisingly enough. I reprised my role as freeloading Frieda, lured Friday to my parents weekend house by the good news delivered by Al Roker; it was going to be a beautiful Saturday. I went running, felt virtuous and planned on sitting outside with a pile of magazines and my new book, and should I happen to get a little color, so much the better.
What is it they say about the best laid plans? I settled into the chaise longue with Vanity Fair to learn why I should care about Lady Gaga when the dulcet tones of Van Halen from the house to my left almost blasted me off my chair. So I went back inside, found the window with the best vantage point and stuck my head out trying to assess what the hell was going on over there. Pool party! The teenagers were very busy cannonballing, pushing giggling girls into the water and cooking hamburgers at 10:30am.
The thing was that I started the day with my ears pricked up, waiting for the noise to begin. I knew our neighbors in the house behind us were giving a Cuban themed party that evening and had invited my parents as a sign of good-will. However, I once overheard their pre-teen son say to his pal, referring to my father and our house, “That’s where the mean man lives.” This is probably because of Dad’s tendency to blast Beethoven’s 9th in an attempt to drown out the sounds of the roughhousing produced by that kid and his brother in their pool. As a rule, I hate roughhousing. When I was a child we were always told never to scream in a pool—someone could think you were drowning, a lesson these neighbor children have not been taught.
I went back to my chair accepting that this is what happens with neighbors and tried to tune the mayhem out (which kind of worked when they switched to some old Peter Gabriel, U2, and other hits from the 80’s and 90’s that a woman of my age might better appreciate). Back to Gaga.
That was until I heard an idling car and some muffled voices coming from the street that borders the house on the other side. It sounded like an FBI stake-out so I went to investigate, carrying an empty recycling bag to the driveway, to make it look like I really needed to be there, only to find two Jersey Shore cast-offs (wrong state, boys) just yakking away in their Saab. Windows down, motor on, a/c blowing, clearly they were committed environmentalists. I stared at the car with a telepathic “May I help you? Keep it moving!” They got the hint and moved it along. Okay, just a few feet down the street. I took my empty bag back to the house.
I returned to my chair in time for the sun to decide it was going to take the rest of the day off, thus inflicting another week of pallor onto my sallow face. But it was still warm and I wasn’t going to let the clouds dampen my reading plans.
Except then I heard the familiar racket and “Whoa, dude!” of the village skateboarders who seem to favor the flat, quiet street my parents chose to live on, quietly. I hate skateboarders. I hate the whooshing sound of the wheels, the sound of the silence when the skater takes the board skyward, and the sound of the two of them crashing back to earth. Back out to the street I went, armed with my best nasty lady glare, and the team of 12 year old boys scattered.
I’m beginning to feel a lot like Paul Lynde in Bye Bye Birdie and for some reason I keep muttering, “Kids! I don’t know what’s wrong with these kids today!” And, bringing it full circle, I just remembered that Mr. Lynde played “Uncle Arthur” on Bewitched!
To quote my mother, I was just “not having the kind of day I want to have.” I decided to fully embrace my crabbiness by making myself a dinner of pasta with crab, chili, and lemon (bonus recipe!). It was delicious and certainly put me in a better mood as did the accompanying glass of rosé and the most recent episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. And you know, when the Cuban music started it was actually really good. Loud, but good. I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.
I vowed that Sunday would be better than Saturday and when I woke up to dreary clouds I refused to let them phase me. The end of summer is always kind of strange weather-wise; you have that first flirtation with fall followed by 90 degree temps a few days later. Because I was a little jealous of people who have that seasonal “What to do with your zucchini?” dilemma I bought two squashes at the farmers market. Shockingly I wasn’t craving anything sweet (due to the generous sampling of a very nice Lady Baltimore cake from a neighbor I actually like) and searched for a savory zucchini recipe. Martha saved the day with this zucchini parmesan bread, so nice with soup for you soup-eaters or a big salad, cheesy and salty. And I spent a perfect, quiet Sunday indoors minding my own business. Mrs. Kravitz would not have approved.
Nosy Neighbor Zucchini-Parmesan Bread
From Martha Stewart Everyday Food, September 2005
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients
1/3 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 cups all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled), plus more for pan
1/3 cup milk
2 large eggs
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese (about 4 ounces)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt
1/4 teaspoon coarsely ground pepper
1/2 pound (about 1 medium) zucchini, coarsely grated
Directions
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Brush a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan (6-cup capacity) with oil; dust with flour, and tap out excess.
In a small bowl, whisk oil, milk, and eggs.
In a large bowl, whisk flour, Parmesan, baking powder, salt, and pepper.
Mix in zucchini, 
then egg mixture until just moistened (batter will be very thick, like biscuit dough).
Transfer batter to prepared pan; press in gently.
Bake until a toothpick inserted in center comes out clean, 60 to 70 minutes (tent with foil if loaf starts to brown too quickly).
Cool 15 minutes in pan.
Turn out loaf onto a rack to cool completely.
My grandfather, Sol, would have been 102 this month, had he not died several years ago at 94. I feel like I need to acknowledge that it would have been his birthday because when he was alive I forgot it all the time. I feel terrible admitting that but it’s true. Honestly, I don’t remember the birthdays of any of my grandparents and I also don’t remember the dates of their deaths. I remember that I wore a winter coat at Grandma’s service and that Nana died in December right before her 75th birthday but that’s about it. How terrible that these details have never been absorbed by my brain.
Then again, isn’t it more important to have a mind filled with snapshots of real memories? Like the time Nana put her purse on top of her car and drove off with it teetering on the roof until the honking of passing drivers got her to pull over. I thought it was hilarious but she was frantic. Or when I had a sleep-over at my paternal grandparents’ place and Grandma’s attempt to get me ready for school involved braiding my hair in such a tight, weird way that I looked like an exchange student from Eastern Europe, circa 1935. And the Sunday afternoon I found a Playboy in Grandpa Jules’ bathroom and was sure that meant a divorce from Grandma was imminent. I was nine.
Grandpa Sol was my mother’s father and he looked like the actor Robert Mitchum. He was 6’2” and a fantastic athlete. He grew up in New York City in a section of town filled with German and Irish and his boyhood pals were named Lefty, Flugey and One-Eye. I love the idea of him playing stick ball (according to him he was almost recruited by minor league baseball) in the streets while his mother yelled for him from their tenement window. I’ve made that image up but it seems right. In fact he was such a baseball fan that the day my mother was born he celebrated by going to a Giants game at the Polo Grounds and was heart-broken when his team moved out West.
Mitchum:
Grandpa:
When I was little he still lived in New York and basically my interactions with him involved being taken to various events—The Ice Capades, the circus, the Nutcracker. And he’d always buy me a special program or whatever souvenir he noticed me eying. That was how he showed he cared, by buying me things, whether a new winter coat or a hot fudge sundae. Emotional intimacy didn’t come naturally to him.
Years later, when he was living in Florida and I was in college, he used to leave me messages on my answering machine as if he were writing a letter. “Hello deah (that’s how he pronounced “dear”), I hope you are feeling good. Is it very cold there? The weather here is beautiful. Mother tells me you are enjoying your classes. Speak to you soon. Love, Grandpa.”
But the times we did speak it was like he had a timer next to the phone allotting a certain number of seconds per response.
“Hello Deah! How’s work going?” he’d ask.
“Oh, it’s okay but you know my boss is away and there is so much …”
“You still working in the Fisk Building? I used to have customers there.”
“No Grandpa, I never worked in the Fisk Building. I work diagonally across the street at…”
“How’s your apartment? You getting along with your roommate Amy?”
“Her name is Wendy, Grandpa and yes, she’s….”
“Your sister still dating that Chinese boy?”
“He’s not Chinese, and he’s really nice. I’m sure you’ll…”
“I’ll see you next month when we’re in town. I hope you have time to have lunch, Doll.”
“Sure, I’ll pick a…”
“Okay Deah. Love.”
Click.
It was pretty funny but also a little sad, as if he was so afraid I’d deliver a piece of serious news that he had to cut me off before he got upset. But when I think of his young life I can’t say I blame him. Stick-ball to one side he grew up so poor he told me he wore his shoes down until they had holes in the soles and would sneak rides on the trolley car because he couldn’t afford the fare. He adored his mother but he never mentioned his father to me at all, if he knew him or even had one. His world was populated by strong women. One funny thing was that the most important ones were named either Sylvia (sister, wife I and wife III) or Ethel (wife II, sister-in-law with wife I, housekeeper with wives I and II, and secretary of wife III.) But the most poignant thing of all was that, although he was naturally left-handed, he was forced to write with his right hand as was the practice in schools at the time. His hand writing literally looked like pain, awkward and slanting oddly. I can only imagine what that would do to a child’s brain.
But he was so proud of his daughter and grandchildren and was always ready with a corny joke, a terrible pun and an easy laugh. Somehow my siblings figured out if you punched "70514" into a calculator and turned it upside down it read, “hi sol.” This trick reliably cracked him up--which was slightly ironic since he also had this Rainman-like ability to multiply three digits by three digits in his head. Sometimes we’d catch his lips moving and he’d tap his forehead and say, “gotta keep the old noggin working.”
I always think about Grandpa whenever I make a pie. When we were kids he would slip us $5.00 and say, with a wink, “have your pie a la mode,” at once so basic and so meaningful. It may have taken his death for me to remember his birth but to celebrate what would have been Grandpa’s 102nd birthday I made this lovely simple tart—lemony blueberries piled high in a sweet buttery crust—and shared it with my family. And of course, we had it a la mode.
Grandpa's Blueberry Tart
From Martha Stewart Everyday Food July/August 2005
Printer Friendly Version
Ingredients-Crust
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (spooned and leveled), plus more for dusting
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
Ingredients-Filling
6 cups fresh blueberries, rinsed and dried
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest
3 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2/3 cup sugar
Pinch of salt
Directions-Crust
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
In a food processor, combine flour, sugar, salt, and butter; process until large moist crumbs form (dough should hold together when squeezed).
Transfer dough to a 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom; with floured fingers, press evenly into bottom and up sides. Freeze until firm, about 15 minutes; prick bottom of dough all over with a fork. 
Bake until golden, 20 to 25 minutes; cool completely.
Directions-filling
Meanwhile, reserve 1 cup of the prettiest berries for topping.
In a medium saucepan, bring 1/4 cup water and 1 1/2 cups berries to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat; simmer, stirring occasionally, until berries begin to break down, 3 to 4 minutes.
In a small bowl, mix cornstarch with 2 tablespoons water; stir into berries in pan. Add lemon zest and juice, sugar, and salt. Bring to a boil; reduce heat. Simmer, stirring, just until mixture begins to thicken, 30 to 60 seconds. Remove from heat. 
Stir in remaining 3 1/2 cups fresh berries. 
Immediately pour hot berry mixture into cooled tart shell, and smooth with a spatula.
Scatter reserved berries on top, pressing down lightly to help them adhere. Refrigerate until cool, about 30 minutes and up to overnight.
Yield: 8-10 slices
So, here we are again; the end of another summer where I just never quite got the hang of it. I’m not sure if it was the endless crashing of heat waves or the crushing reality of stepping up a job search but whatever it was, the show is over people. I’m cranky because traditionally summer is my favorite season—which is a little like saying New Year’s Eve is my favorite eve (it isn’t), because in addition to warm nights and peaches summer brings lots of expectation. Are you happy and carefree? Have you had your fill of lobster rolls, blueberry pie, and mint chocolate chip ice cream? Taken any long walks on the beach with a special someone? Spread out your blanket and picnic basket while taking in the Philharmonic under the stars? Do you look like a cross between Malibu Barbie and Gidget? No? Sorry, you’ve failed Summer 101.
I know it’s immature to think that summer has magical properties and that’s really where the potential for disappointment is born. One of my closest friends (who was my beachiest pal growing up) recently said she was sick of people asking her, “How’s your summer going?” as if the season was any different than fall, winter or spring to this self-employed, single mother. She’s still multi-tasking herself into stretched too thin, all while trying to keep her school’s-out-for-summer daughter busy every day.
Maybe it’s time I look at June, July and August as three months of the year when it just happens to be hot and the produce just happens to be better. I’m kind of ready for a new season, a bit of a fresh start. If you ever saw the movie Mother with Debbie Reynolds playing Albert Brooks’ well, mother, you’ll remember a brilliant scene when he is sitting in her kitchen and she offers him a scoop from a long suffering ½ gallon of sherbet, revealing its layer of frost. “Look under the protective ice!” she says in her defense (the scene is 43 seconds into the trailer). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve accused my mother of letting freezer burn grow all over the battered, half-eaten containers of Breyer’s waiting patiently for a warm piece of pie or a warmer day. So, to avoid the unpleasant exchange that will happen over Thanksgiving weekend when I open the freezer and think Mom has bought a new carton of vanilla to go with my pecan pie only to learn it is six months old, I cleaned out her freezer. Purging is so satisfying when you’re craving a clean slate.
This terrine is an excellent way to use up all the ice cream you’ve collected this summer and it’s especially great if you have been renting a house and will be trashing all the leftovers before you head home anyway.
To call it a recipe is absurd, as you will see, but the result is delicious and the bit of cookie crunch beats the taste of ice crystals any day. The point is to use what you have and clearly I wasn't after a perfect look. We had some Oreos left over from a visit from nieces but anything sweet and crunchy would be great.
I’m keeping this short and, of course, sweet so you can get out there and enjoy this last summer weekend. And who am I kidding? I need to work on my Malibu Barbie tan.
End of Summer Ice Cream Terrine
Sprinkle ½ cup cookie crumbs evenly across ice cream. Press crumbs gently into ice cream and place pan in freezer for about 1 hour until firm.
Spread second pint of ice cream over cookie crumbs and top with second ½ cup of cookie crumbs. 
To unmold, peel plastic wrap off of top of pan and let hang.
Place a warm, wet kitchen towel over pan for 30 seconds, 
lift off pan, peel off plastic wrap, slice and serve with leftover anything else…extra cookies, hot fudge sauce brought by a generous house guest, etc.
Yield: 12 servings.
Note: During the intervals when the layers of the terrine are freezing keep the waiting ice creams in the freezer until about 10-15 minutes before you take out the terrine. That will be enough time for them to soften to a spreadable consistency.
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