Do you ever play the ‘if only’ game with yourself? It goes something like this: “if only I had a Mini Cooper, I’d be happy” or “if only I’d studied harder, I would’ve gotten into a better college” or “If only I had a bigger apartment, everything would be fine.” Of course you do. We all do. My ‘if only’ game is kind of more like a neurosis and an obsession rather than a fun hypothetical consideration. The earliest I remember it showing its ugly face? 5th grade. All of my friends brought those packaged pies from the grocery store — the ones filled with bright yellow lemon filling, gooey chocolate pudding, or glowing fake cherry. My mom packed me carrots, hard boiled eggs, and healthy sandwiches. I was convinced my life would be better if I had pies in my lunch. I’d be happier, certainly. I remember eying those pies on a daily basis and wondering what the hell was wrong with my family. If only.
Then in junior high I wanted crutches with a passion. This sounds odd, I realize. But those girls got a whole lot of attention. Older boys carried their books and friends crowded around to hear the story of how it all happened…for the twenty-ninth time. If only. Then in college, my ‘if only’ was all about real estate. Instead of settling into dorm life and putting up crumby posters like most normal young adults, I began searching the internet to see what kind of off-campus housing was available. I had to get out of there. And unfortunately this ‘if only’ hasn’t yet dissipated. For the past ten years, I’ve been obsessed with buying my own house, convinced that every problem–big or small–would surely dissolve if I had a place that was my very own. I’m tired of moving. I’m sick of moving boxes, and every month it seems silly to write a rent check that goes directly into someone elses’ bank account. If I had my own house, I’d work on tile projects and paint and buy mid-modern furniture at estate sales and have fruit trees and a yard and it’d be all mine. In fact, I recently discovered a house on Craigslist in Durham, North Carolina and I’ve fallen in love. I’ve never visited North Carolina. Or the South in general. After hearing about it, my sister suggested I get therapy.
Now I just finished the book, Life Would be Perfect If I Lived in That House, by Meghan Daum (who I adore, by the way. Check out her other stuff). In it, Daum describes her unwavering real estate addiction which she thinks was likely helped by moving around so much growing up. I’ve never identified so much with a memoir in my entire life. I read it in one day. And not just because I could relate, but because Daum explores the meaning behind this constant search, this tireless gazing towards the future:
I came to be the president of my own personal academy of domestic desire, the overseer of a pantheon of architectural structures and corresponding price tags that led to a most adolescent form of existential inquiry: Where should I live? Why can’t I afford to live where I want to live? How come where I want to live is so tied up in why I live?
I realized with each flip of the page I’d been biting my nails. I was anxious and couldn’t put it down. Why exactly was I so obsessed with where I should live? It was, I realized, getting in the way of actually living and had been for quite some time. Then I finish the book and find myself in tears. Daum writes:
Maybe learning how to be out in the big world isn’t the epic journey everyone thinks it is. Maybe that’s actually the easy part. The hard part is what’s right in front of you. The hard part is learning how to hold the title to your very existence, to own not only property, but also your life. The hard part is learning not just how to be but mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.
And there’s the rub. Learning how to be comfortable with where you are at this very moment–not constantly looking for the next ‘if only.’ Do I have the answers for what this would look like? I wish. Do you? If so, please share. I realize living each day looking towards what will be isn’t healthy, but it’s what I’ve done for so long I’m not quite sure how to live any differently. So for now, I’m tackling one of my oldest ‘if only’s’ in the hopes that my current, most pressing ‘if only’ eventually works itself out. I’m making hand pies…a lot of them. And allowing myself to eat them at lunch or late in the afternoon or whenever the heck I feel like it. Because at this present moment, that feels right. And that’s all I’ve got.
These hand pies are special because they’re made with blenheim apricots, the fleeting summer stone fruit that is a bit sweeter than its cousins and infinitely more fragile. I found them at the Berkeley farmer’s market this past weekend and snatched them right up. They’re quite literally like taking a bite of summer sunshine itself. The crust is flaky and buttery: a good old fashioned pate brisee (Martha Stewart’s no-fail recipe). As long as you don’t let the dough get too warm and work with it quickly, it will be your friend. The apricots are cut into small pieces and lightly spiced with cinnamon and coriander, a splash of lemon and a dash of sugar. While I’d nab a bag of apricots while you can, these hand pies are versatile: add any fruit you have on hand or make a savory pie with your favorite greens, spicy lamb or ground beef, or herbed potato and cheese.
While a biscuit cutter would certainly be handy to get the round shape here, I just used the flip side of a round container with a mouth of about 4 inches. If you have a larger biscuit cutter (5 inches) and want to make more generous hand pies, go ahead. Don’t stress too much about size–it will simply affect the final yield of hand pies you end up with.
Dough recipe from Martha Stewart
For the dough:
For the filling:
Make the dough:
In the bowl of a food processor, combine flour, salt, and sugar. Add butter, and process until the mixture resembles coarse meal, 8 to 10 seconds.With machine running, add ice water in a slow, steady stream through feed tube. Pulse until dough holds together without being wet or sticky; be careful not to process more than 30 seconds. To test, squeeze a small amount together: If it is crumbly, add more ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time. Divide dough into two equal balls. Flatten each ball into a disc and wrap in plastic. Transfer to the refrigerator and chill at least 1 hour. Dough may be stored, frozen, up to 1 month.
Prepare the pies:
Combine the apricots, lemon juice, sugar, salt, cinnamon and coriander in a small bowl and gently stir to combine. Put in the refrigerator while you prepare the dough.
Take out one disk of pie dough and place on flour-dusted surface for a few minutes to slightly soften. Using a rolling pin, roll out the dough until it is between 1/4 and 1/2 inch thick. Use a 4 inch biscuit cutter to cut about 10 circles (you may need to gather the scraps and re-roll). Set them on a large plate and put them in the refrigerator to chill for 10 minutes (don’t skip this step-it will make the pies much easier to assemble).
Prepare a baking pan with a sheet of parchment paper. Then, take apricots out of refrigerator, set a mesh strainer over a bowl, and pour the fruit into it, straining away the excess juice. Return the apricots to the original bowl and add the flour, tossing to coat.
Preheat the oven to 375 F.
Remove the dough circles from the refrigerator. Put a small spoonful of fruit onto one half of each circle of dough. Using your finger, brush a little cold water along the border of the circle (to help it seal) and fold the top half of the dough over the apricots, pressing the edges gently to seal. Make a decorative edge by pressing the edges of the dough together with the back of a fork. Repeat with remaining dough circles. Brush the tops with the egg wash. Bake for 30-35 minutes or until the tops begin to brown. Don’t worry if some of the filling leaks out. Allow the pies to cool for 15 minutes before eating.
My good friend Keena was working in India for the last few months and just returned to Seattle, eager to experience as much Pacific Northwest summer as possible in September. I'm with her on this one: It just so happens that towards the end of this month, the farmers markets I've been doing will also come to an end, so things seem like they're both simultaneously gearing up (hike! picnic! beach!) and wrapping up at the same time as I also feel a sense of wanting to cram in as much as I can before the days start getting noticeably shorter. And truly: there's no better recipe to commemorate such efforts than these fresh corn grits with oil-poached summer tomatoes.
For many years, I've always made a summer to-do list. I usually set to work on it right at the beginning of June when the days feel long and ripe with possibility. The list often involves things like learning to bake sourdough bread or making homemade ricotta, doing an epic hike I'd read about in a local magazine, training for a marathon, or reading specific novels. It is always a pretty aspirational list, and I generally don't make much of a dent in it -- resulting in the guilty feeling come late August that I'd wasted too many lazy afternoons when I could've been baking sourdough or making ricotta or doing memorable, epic hikes. But this summer is going to be a bit different: there will be no list. We wait so long in Seattle for long stretches of sunny days, and now that it stays late until 9:30 (or later?), I want to see more of our friends and find stretches of time to do not much of anything except catch up, tan our legs and eat farmers market berries. That's my list.
I received The Sprouted Kitchen Bowl + Spoon cookbook in the mail not long before we moved to our new house, and I remember lying in bed and bookmarking pages I was excited to try but also feeling overwhelmed with where to start: the truth is that this summer has been a relatively low-inspiration / low energy time in the kitchen for me. I'd been chalking it up to pregnancy but when I think back and if I'm honest with myself, my cooking style tends to be very easy and produce-driven during these warmer months. I rarely break out complicated recipes, instead relying on fresh tomatoes and corn or zucchini and homemade pesto to guide me. But last night I cracked open Sara's book and pulled out a few peaches I've had sitting on the counter, fearing their season may be nearing its end. This morning as I was making coffee, I sliced up the peaches, toasted the pecans and churned away -- having a bite (or maybe two) before getting it into the freezer to firm up.
A triple berry summer crisp made with oats, quinoa flakes and hazelnuts. Summer in a skillet.
We just returned from my mom's cabin on Lake George in upstate New York where we often spend the 4th of July. As usual, each bedroom was packed with family members (this year the couch was even occupied for a night), and our days with reading, lounging on the dock, swimming a bit, maybe jogging down the road or playing tennis if you were feeling ambitious. We drank a notable amount of seltzer water; I managed to read three books and my mom threw us a family baby shower complete with balloons, chocolate cake and Mike's rhubarb bars. In previous years, my mom has planned most of the dinners and even some lunches, but for breakfast we'd all fend for ourselves. I'd often bake a pie or a batch of brownies in the afternoon and everyone would help out where they could, but she would largely do the shopping and brunt of the cooking. This year was different: having just moved from California to Vermont, my mom had a lot on her plate and sent out an email before the holiday weekend asking us all to chip in and help with the meals. Sam and I claimed Friday dinner: we grilled sausages and Sam made his famous deviled eggs. We cut up some unusually seedy watermelon that I found at the co-op in Burlington before we drove out to the lake, and I made a summery quinoa salad that I expected to be kind of epic. The trouble was that it wasn't. I overcooked the quinoa until it was kind of a congealed mush and everything just went downhill from there. But I knew that the idea was strong -- to pack a whole grain salad with all the things of summer (corn! tomatoes! basil!) -- so when we got home to Seattle I tried again. And this time it's a winner.