Strawberry muffins

Our summer CSA kicked off last week, which was the starting gun, of sorts, for summer cooking. Now, instead of beginning with a recipe and wrangling the necessary ingredients, the ingredients wrangle us. Imagine a benign but insistent band of curly cress, sunchokes, and sweet potatoes twirling and hurling a lasso at this family of four, because that’s kind of how it is. Funny salads are born, piquant green sauces evolve, spur-of-the-moment pastas and gratins equal dinner–and it's usually pretty delicious. 


What's headline-worthy right now are the glorious strawberries, the best we've had in years–I exaggerate not. They should be insipid and half-drowned from all this rain we've been getting, but instead they're concentrated and perky and sweet, the very essence of what a strawberry should be. I’ve followed Wilklow Orchards, our fruit CSA, to the Borough Hall and Fort Greene markets because we keep emptying our little green baskets of fruit and wanting more, more, more. I have a drawer full of those little red berry hairnets. As with the rhubarb, I’ve been compulsively hoarding and overstocking, because I know strawberries will be on their way out soon (This trait comes from Mom, who crams her cabinets with lotions, potions, and incandescent light bulbs, for fear her favorites will be discontinued).


I’ve been keeping this recipe for strawberry muffins up my sleeve for the past few years, and it makes nice use of the berries once the shine goes off them–which believe it or not happens very quickly if the berries last that long–because we're not talking about giant styrofoam strawberries here. The recipe somehow sprang out of one for blueberry muffins, from the Gourmet Cookbook (the big yellow tome), but it bears only a passing resemblance to the original. I did away with the suggested crumb topping (overkill), scaled back on the sugar, and substituted almond flour for some of the all-purpose flour, for a gentle nuttiness and tender consistency. The strawberries create fierce little pockets of fruit, and their juice runs a little bit into the nutty sweet batter; they remind me vaguely of the financiers I used to mix by the hundreds in a Hobart. 

There’s nothing exotic or mind-bending about this recipe, it just works and always, like strawberries themselves, aims to please. It makes a nice breakfast for those days we’re a bit late out of the starting gate, lying too long in bed listening to the birds outside, hearing the second wave of dogs go by on their walks. These muffins have rescued us on many a lazy morning. They’re not exactly health food, but they are pretty wholesome, tasty enough to tempt the most breakfast-averse among us to eat. And, since they're packed with fruit and a few almonds (almonds are a super food, right?), I don’t feel too guilty pressing one into a small, camp-bound hand and calling it the start of a day.

Strawberry almond muffins   

Makes 12 muffins
Ingredients: 

• 1 cup all-purpose flour   
• ½ cup almond flour (a.k.a. almond meal or finely ground almonds)  
• 2/3 cup sugar  
• 1 ½ teaspoon baking powder  
• ½ teaspoon salt  
• ¾ stick (6 Tablespoons) unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing tins  
• 1/3 cup whole milk  
• 1 large egg  
• 1 large egg yolk  
• ¾ teaspoon vanilla extract  
• 2 cups chopped strawberries, in blueberry-sized pieces

Instructions:  
Preheat oven to 375°. Generously butter muffin cups. In a large bowl, whisk together dry ingredients. In a small pot, heat butter until just melted, and remove from heat. Allow to cool for a few minutes, then whisk in milk, eggs, and vanilla until just combined. Stir wet ingredients into dry ingredients, then carefully fold in strawberries. Fill the muffin cups about ¾ way full, dividing batter evenly. Place in the center rack of preheated oven and bake, rotating about halfway through baking, for 20-30 minutes–or until tops of muffins are golden and they pass the toothpick test. Cool at least 15 minutes before removing from tins (I run a blunt knife around the edges of the muffins, then give them a little twist).

Days of rhubarb and roses

Each June, just before the wealth of summer fruits bursts onto the scene, I go completely rhubarb crazy. Never mind that we have our own patch, or that our vegetable and fruit CSAs both flood us with rhubarb; I just can’t stop myself. Seduced by the ruby bundles in the farmers markets, which until recently were dominated by the beige of overwintered roots, I stagger away with armloads. That's fine at first, before the heat has withered my enthusiasm for baking rustic tarts or roasting the chopped stalks with wine and vanilla. Although a few strawberries are just coming into the markets, rhubarb is still the default spring fruit here.

It is my secret shame, though (secret no more), that this rhubarb usually sits in the fridge too long and goes all bendy in the vegetable drawer. This year it happened when, in a fit of optimism, I overbought right before Memorial Day weekend, and then left town before I could fire up the oven; I arrived home to a heap of limp stalks. If this is you, too, or if you are otherwise over your head in rhubarb, all is not lost. There’s a solution: rhubarb syrup. It’s bright, it’s tangy-sweet, and it’s a versatile mixer for potions both virgin and spiked. Scroll down to the bottom for the how-to on rhubarb syrup, which can be mixed with a little fizzy water for an all-ages pink drink. We also enjoy the occasional  rhubarb mojito, which I stumbled upon a couple of years ago at Brooklyn Farmhouse. Other ideas are a rhubarb basil cocktail from The Kitchn and the rhubarb and Aperol cocktail from Franny's, one of my favorite Brooklyn restaurants.

*Tangent Alert* Instead of posting a bunch of boring pictures of rhubarb, I decided to ply you with the lushness of the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, a treasure we’re so lucky to have within a stone's throw. If you live in the area and haven't become a member, do it! You can go every two weeks and have a completely new experience each time. City kids can roll in actual grass. There are amazing members' nights in the summer, when you can linger until bats swoop down over the lawn, and you might even spy a star or two. Did I mention it's one of my most favorite places on earth? 

This week featured rose night, a sprawling picnic with live jazz, hats of all kinds, and strolls through the Cranford Rose Garden with drinks in hand to see the colors pop in the fuzzy dusk light. A rosy rhubarb cocktail would have been nice (we had rosé, which was nice, too).

One of the most delightful things about roses is their cultivar names. When I was growing up we had Dolly Parton roses in our garden. They were the color of dress-up lipstick, and brazenly perfumed.

You could get drunk on those masses of blooms. One of the children in our midst exclaimed "I think I'm gonna faint!" and I suddenly remembered feeling that same wooziness when, as a child, I stumbled through the Bagatelle rose gardens on my first visit to Paris. 

And now, back to the rhubarb: 

Rhubarb Syrup

Ingredients: 

• 10-12 medium stalks rhubarb, chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
• 1 cup sugar
• Cold water 

Instructions: 

Put rhubarb and sugar in a heavy pot and add water to cover. Bring to a boil and then lower to a gentle simmer, stirring occasionally. The pieces will break down fairly quickly. Simmer until rhubarb fibers are evenly dispersed into the liquid, around 15 minutes. Remove from heat and pour contents through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean bowl. Using a large spoon or spatula, stir and press pulp to force all liquid through. Clean out pot and pour strained liquid back in (reserve pulp as a topping for ice cream or Greek yogurt, or simply to eat like apple sauce). Simmer for 10 minutes or so, until liquid has thickened to maple syrup consistency. Pour into a clean jar and store in the refrigerator until ready to use. 

To make a simple spritzer, pour one part syrup and three parts seltzer over ice, and add a squeeze of lime.

Rhubarb "Mojitos" 

Adapted from Brooklyn Farmhouse

Ingredients: 

(Amounts per drink–multiply for each drink you make)

• 4 tablespoons rhubarb syrup 
• 1 fl oz. white rum
• 6 (ish) mint leaves, finely chopped or torn
• 1/4 lime–for juice and a slice for garnish
• 3-4 fl. oz. seltzer or club soda
• ice cubes

Instructions:

In a glass, stir together rhubarb syrup, rum, a few mint leaves, and a healthy squeeze of lime juice. Pour in soda, and top with ice cubes and a slice of lime, or a swizzle of rhubarb. Note: Consider these amounts guidelines, adding more rum, more soda, etc. as desired. 




 

Sunday hikes

On Sundays, when we’re in the country and the weather obliges, the four of us like to get up into the hills and get our legs moving. Even the little legs, by now, are pretty capable at trudging up the steadier inclines, the little hands know how to claw up rock faces and grip the strong roots of trees. We started off using the cobalt blue baby backpack that now carries my nephew, but both girls have run on their own steam for the past couple of years.

Often there are complaints, resistance. Sometimes there are tears, but if we didn’t force ourselves out, messily, we would pass a day lolling in the easy softness of our yard. I suppose these hikes are for us what church is for other families: a quiet place to admire all that is bigger than we are, to appreciate our little community, to reflect on what’s good and what needs fixing. It’s cleansing to be able to lose ourselves in that leafy, loamy world, especially when the one outside is plagued with tornadoes, tsunamis, terrorists, and people who set playgrounds on fire.

Our favorite destination these days is Macedonia Brook state park, at the Western end of Connecticut. Its expanse stretches out endlessly green in the warm months, blazes bright and unreal out of the valley in autumn, and turns raw and contrasty against the muted winter sky. This time of year, we trek up under the thinly clad trees, and through them glimpse the valley rolling away, the new leaves sparkling like peridots among the branches. The hike we usually choose, Cobble Mountain, winds up through the forest, skips across streams, scrambles over a field of lichen-covered boulders, then reveals its secret view, over gentle foothills and glimpsing the bluish Catskills in the distance. Most times, we pack lunch for the top. There’s some grumbling, yes, and the requisite whip-cracking. But I think the four of us agree we always feel calm and nicely tired afterward, buzzing a bit from all that free oxygen.

The last time we went, on May Day, Spring was still tender upon the park, and we hit the trailhead only to bump squarely into a towering man in overalls and bushy, bleached-out eyebrows, holding a straw hat full of freshly-dug ramps in one hand and a leash in the other. The leash was attached to a black and white goat, and a matching goat was being toted by the man’s embarrassed-looking teenage daughter. We stopped and chatted with them for a while, because this is not a sight you see every day, and my daughters insisted on meeting the goats.

“This one’s really well trained,” said the man, gesturing toward the one he led. “I’ve taught him to not tap dance on command. Watch: ‘Don’t tap dance, Merlin!’”

The goat stared out of slitted pupils, unblinking, and flicked a fly off his ear.

“See? He didn’t tap dance. This other one’s mama was a prize-winning milk goat, so she’s actual royalty. If the two of them ever get married she will wear a long, fancy dress and train, and the wedding will be on TV, watched by millions.”
 
I’m sorry I didn’t get a photo of them. I was so awestruck that I forgot about the camera hanging, tourist-style, around my neck. Actually that’s not quite true, because I did become aware of the camera’s weight just before we parted ways, but I couldn’t bear to mortify the teenager any more than she already had been. My daughters will be there soon enough.

Yes, the woods hold unexpected delights, and nature herself puts on quite a show with more wardrobe changes than Lady Gaga, but there are important lessons I think my daughters are learning from our forays, even if they don’t quite realize it yet:

• Find a good, steady pace that will work for the long haul.
• Learn to trust your own footing.
• When crossing a stream, always test the rocks. Choose strong, solid ones. Avoid the wobbly unreliable ones.

• No one’s going to carry you.

• If you fall, pick yourself up and get on with it.

• It’s not a race.

• You may not always know where you’re going. Keep an eye out for markers.

• The reward is not always at the top. It's all around you, if you look closely.

 

• You are part of nature. Respect and treat the great outdoors as you want to be treated. 
• There is no better bath, no better sleep, than the one following a hot, dusty hike. (There’s no tastier beer, either, but that’s a lesson for later)
• Always fuel up! 

Homemade Trail Bars 

Modified* from Kim Boyce's Good To The Grain

Ingredients:

• 2 oz. (1/2 stick, also 4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, plus extra for pan and hands  

Dry Mix: 

• 1 1/2 cups rolled oats 
• 1 cup crispy rice cereal (unsweetened) 
• 1/2 cup flaxseed meal (ground flaxseeds)
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• Optional: 1/2 cup nuts, such as chopped peanuts, walnuts, pecans, or sunflower seeds.

Syrup:

• 1/2 cup honey
• 1/4 cup dark brown sugar
• 1 tablespoon unsulphured molasses (or very dark grade B maple syrup)
• 1/2 teaspoon sea salt

Instructions:  

1. Preheat oven to 325°and butter a 9-by-9 inch baking dish (one with smaller dimensions will yield thicker bars).
2. In a large skillet, melt butter and stir in oats. Over medium heat cook, stirring occasionally, until oats begin to color a bit darker. Add crisp rice and continue to stir until oats are a couple of shades darker than when raw. 
3. Pour oats into a large bowl and stir in flaxmeal and cinnamon (and nuts, if using).
4. To make syrup, put honey, brown sugar, molasses, and salt into a small saucepan. Over medium heat, cook, stirring to combine, until evenly boiling, about 6 minutes. Don't skip the boiling! It's the secret to a good, chewy granola bar.
5. Pour syrup over the oat mixture and toss very thoroughly, to coat every last flake evenly in syrup. Make sure you scrape out every bit of the syrup from the saucepan. Transfer granola mixture into prepared pan. 
6. Butter your hands and press oat mixture firmly and evenly into pan.
7. Bake for 25-30 minutes, rotating pan halfway through. The outer edge of the granola bars should be a little bit darker, and the bars should have a nice sheen. Remove from oven and let cool for 10 minutes. Cut into quarters, then into quarters again for a total of 16 squares (you can cut into long bars, as pictured, but you will have some scraps left over). 
8. Remove from pan and cool before eating. They will keep in an airtight container for up to 3 days. 

*The original recipe, for Granola Bars, calls for raisins. Since we can do without raisins but love a bit of crisp, I substituted crisp rice and scaled back the oats a bit. Good to the Grain is a gorgeous cookbook filled with wholesome treats.