Mostaccioli with pork shoulder ragu

I've been making meat sauces for years, but only now -- after two months as an apprentice at Oliveto -- have I learned some of the secrets behind a superlative ragu.

A ragu is a basic meat sauce for pasta. The first authentic version I tried was years ago, in Emilia-Romagna, the region of Italy that invented the classic Bolognese sauce.

That first ragu was bold and brooding -- much like a Pavarotti opera. The sauce was entangled in a nest of perfectly cooked tagliatelle, with the flavor infused into the noodle.

Numerous cookbooks offer suggestions on making a Bolognese sauce and other forms of ragu. Yet nearly all of these recipes, in my opinion, are flawed. Most suggest cooking a mixture of diced onion, carrots and celery before adding your meat to brown it. The sauce that results tends to be lifeless or, even worse, infused with chunks of burnt vegetables.

Vegetables sweating on top of meat as the meat brown

At Oliveto, the chefs have reversed the sequence. First they brown the meat and then allow the vegetables to steam, or "sweat," on top of the meat. This process produces a dark layer of caramelized meat solids at the bottom of the pan -- a foundation of flavor. This foundation, or "fond" as the chefs call it, is then deglazed by the natural juices of the vegetables when added on top. This is allowed to cook down so the fond is rebuilt and deglazed two or three times.

Paul Bertolli, the former head chef at Oliveto, describes the technique in his 2003 book, "Cooking By Hand." Bertolli's successor, Paul Canales, who had a role in developing this technique, has continued to refine and perfect it since becoming executive chef.

Cooking a ragu in this manner is not difficult, but it cannot be whipped out in an hour or two. A ragu is truly slow food -- time-tested and refined by Italian grandmothers over many centuries.

Ragu ready for a long simmer, after broth and tomato paste have been added

Ragu for pasta

Makes: 8-10 servings of sauce

Ingredients:
2 pounds ground meat (Beef, pork or equal amounts of both. For beef, try ground chuck or get adventurous with ground hanger steak, beef cheeks, etc. For the pig, try ground pork shoulder.)
4 medium yellow onions
5 stalks celery
5 carrots
4 tablespoons finely chopped fresh sage
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano
6 cups dark chicken or veal stock
½ cup white wine
½ cup high-quality tomato paste
1 cup cream (optional)
Salt and pepper to taste

Preparation:

1. Dice the onions, celery and carrots into a mirepoix -- cubes smaller than 1/4 inch in size. As you are dicing the vegetables and mincing the fresh herbs, start cooking your meat. Use a heavy bottomed Dutch oven or stew pot. This is essential. The bottom of the pan has to be thick and heavy enough to brown the meat, without scorching it.

2. Use high heat to start your browning process. But keep an eye on it, and adjust the flame accordingly. It’s okay for the meat to stick and brown, but you don't want it to blacken or burn.

3. After you have built an even layer of fond on the bottom, toss your vegetables on top of the meat. Leave them there for at least 15 minutes, allowing them to release their juices to the bottom of the pan.

4. Give your meat and vegetable a rigorous stir with a wooden spoon, and scrape up the fond layer that has now been deglazed by the vegetables.

5. Turn up heat slightly, and allow this to cook down and brown again, then add a shot of wine -- no more than a cup. Stir and scrape.

6. Allow this to cook down again. When browned, add a cup of stock. Repeat the process and add your tomato paste, diluted with a half cup of stock.

7. Watch your ragu carefully at this point. The addition of tomato paste could lead to scorching. Keep the heat up, but stir it regularly as the fond starts to reform. When it is nice and brown, but not scorched, add two or three cups of stock -- enough to make it slightly more soupy than you'd want for a sauce.

8. At this point, your ragu should have a lovely, brownish-red color. Bring it to a boil and then turn down to a simmer. Allow it to simmer for two to four hours, stirring occasionally and adding more stock, if necessary.

9. Before serving, you have the option of adding cream -- as much or as little as you want. Too much cream will dilute the intensity of the sauce, so be judicious at first.

10. You can take this basic sauce in many different directions. Add minced porcini mushrooms early in the cooking for an earthier flavor, or cinnamon or nutmeg to give it a spicy edge. Use different combinations of fresh herbs.

11. The final step, of course, is marrying the ragu with the pasta. Don't just ladle it on top. Cook your pasta just short of al dente, then mix it thoroughly in a skillet with an appropriate amount of sauce and then serve it immediately. Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese on top, and you will be ready to sing.

This is what ragu should look like when finished

There are myriad guidebooks to Paris: Pudlow, Michelin, and Lonely Planet, to name a few and all of them worth the money. They tell you where eat, where to stay, and what to see.

And then, of course, there are guidebooks to Paris-- those that tell you all of the above plus a little bit more, like how to navigate unfamiliar social customs, how to blend in with the landscape-- in short, how not appear as though one has arrived from Central Casting to play the Ugly American. The Sweet Life in Paris by David Lebovitz is that and a bit more:

It has recipes. Lots and lots of recipes.

Granted, The Sweet Life in Paris was neither written nor is it marketed as a comprehensive guide to the sights and flavors of the city. Rather, it's more or less an organic extension of Mr. Lebovitz's blog, which chronicles his life and experiences as a San Francisco pastry chef who packed up everything he owned and moved to Paris-- and all the pleasures, pains, and frequent head-scratchings that accompany French Culture Shock.

I refer to his book as a guidebook because that is precisely how I used it on my recent visit to his adopted city-- an entertaining, human, and extremely useful guide.

For example, his chapter "The Most Important Words to Know in Paris" warns that one absolutely must say "Bonjour Monsieur" or "Bonjour Madame" to the first person one makes eye contact with in any store or restaurant or "even in an elevator." It's a minute, but extremely important bit of information to share with Americans who are by nature accustomed to a thin veneer of anonymity when out in public. That and the knowledge that even the most feeble attempt by an American to speak French goes a very long way with Parisians. Having French-speaking abilities on par with a backwards two year-old, I found this comforting knowledge and entirely true in practice.

I purchased a copy of The Sweet Life in Paris the afternoon before leaving on my trip, hoping to read it on the flight over. It's a smooth, pleasurable read that I decided to put down at around page 200 so that I might finish up in the city itself.

Perhaps I should have read one chapter further...

Prior to my visit, I contacted Mr. Lebovitz, suggesting that we might meet up for lunch or a glass of wine so that I might talk to him about this latest book of his, and to which he politely agreed. Two days into my stay, I resumed reading and was horrified by what I read in the next:

In "The Visitors", Lebovitz shares his growing distaste for out-of-towners-- especially friends of friends-- who expect him to drop everything to meet up with them. Here's an excerpt:

The final straw was when one of those friends-of-friends types, whom I foolishly agreed to meet, deeply insulted a waiter at what was once my favorite café in the Marais. The charming waiter, who liked to joke around with me, said to this fellow, who ordered his drink in English, "You should try to speak a little French, after all, you are in France!" To which my gracious guest glared and shot back, "You know what? I don't even want to try." It would have looked a little funny trying to disappear by sliding under the table, so instead, I gulped down my drink quickly and got out of there as politely as I could. And I haven't gathered up the courage to go back. After that, I swore off guests forever.

As an out-of-town friend-of-friend, I gulped and quickly shot him off an email underscoring the fact that lunch or drinks or shiny baubles were on me.

I had short list of questions I wanted to ask Lebovitz when we finally met up for lunch, which happened at 5pm and turned into a bottle of wine and no food except the obligatory bar snack that seems to arrive anywhere, anytime you order a drink in Paris. And I don't think I asked a single book-related question. I didn't really care. I was enjoying myself.

Some people read better on paper than they do in person. Sometimes the persona a blogger dons is bigger than the one he wears in real life. Neither are true, so I discovered, with Mr. Lebovitz.

After a couple of hours and a couple of glasses of red wine later, Lebovitz offered us some advice as to where to have dinner. With that tip, we said goodbye and I headed off to the suggested restaurant, A la Biche au Bois.

Upon arrival without a reservation, I looked the man I took to be the owner in the eye, said "Bonsoir, Monsieur," and, in my terrible French, apologized for not having a reservation, but that we would very much like to "eat of the food here." He looked around at the very crowded restaurant and back at me to say, "There is no room for you!" Then he paused a moment and said, gruffly, "Come back in 45 minutes."

45 minutes. No problem. But he didn't take our name, which would have been the expectation, had this been happening here in San Francisco. Instead of worrying about it, we just decided to do as he said, go next door, and drink a kir or two (which happens to be the first recipe on offer in The Sweet Life in Paris and purely a coincidental occurrence).

At the agreed-upon time, we re-appeared, and so did the tall, bald linebacker of a man who told us to come back in the first place. He waved us to the rear of the restaurant and wedged us into a tiny table next to the service station, where a basket of old silver spoons lay tantalizingly within reach.

In short, the meal was simple and wonderful. It remains one of the favorite memories of my stay in Paris. And the best part of all? When Monsieur Gruffiness came by at the end of our meal, he looked at our water glasses and said, "You'd better drink up, boys." We did as we were told and emptied them in a gulp. He then refilled them with Armagnac from an obscenely large bottle he held under his arm. His serious scowl was replaced by a grin which led me to think he may have had one or two snorts himself. He roamed the place pouring out the bottle to his guests.

From the moment I entered the restaurant to the time I left, I played the "W.W.D.L.D."* game. From how I said hello, to what I ordered, to how I attacked the cheese platter, to how I eventually (and reluctantly) said goodnight.

It was a little bit of Paris for which I am grateful. Though it could be argued that nearly any Paris guide could lead you to such a place, how many of them will tell you, an American in Paris, what to do when you get there? The Sweet Life in Paris does.

And, of course, the others don't have recipes.

*What Would David Lebovitz Do?

I am so tired of hearing people say they hate eggplant. Children, particularly, seem hard pressed to even try it. Maybe it's the name. I don't think the inclusion of "egg" does it any favors, especially where kids are concerned. I think many cooks are also intimidated by the spongy texture of this vegetable when uncooked; after all, once you peel it, an uncooked eggplant sort of looks like a big white loafy mass. It can also turn into a soggy mess if it's not cooked correctly. So when people say they don't like the taste, I figure they've just had a bad experience with it.

Even so, when my nieces were visiting recently and they said they didn't like eggplant, I was surprised. I thought that my mother, who is the queen of eggplant, would have made them converts to its flavors by now. But after a little questioning, I found out that what they really didn't like was the texture of unbreaded eggplant. Although my mother is famous for her Eggplant Parmesan, her method of cooking this dish is to fry the eggplant in olive oil without breading, so the texture is smooth and the flavor a bit acidic. But hating a vegetable because you don’t like one dish seemed silly to me, so I set out to defend the honor of this beloved vegetable by finding a recipe they would love.

Luckily my mother was also visiting so I had two brains working on this problem instead of just one. When one of my nieces saw my zucchini post on BAB, she said the fried flowers looked good. My mother then remembered that her dad (my grandfather) had loved eggplant dipped in only seasoned flower and egg and then lightly fried in olive oil. I figured this was a great way to make this vegetable more palatable to kids: the simple batter recipe would keep the spices to a minimum while frying would give the slices a nice crunch to negate any potential texture issues.

To make the process more fun, we got the kids involved in the cooking process. They loved blotting the eggplant, cracking eggs, and dipping vegetable pieces into the batter. The adults fried the eggplant, but the kids did almost everything else. Once the eggplant slices were ready to eat, they were quite proud of themselves and excited to try their handiwork.

Both my nieces and daughters loved this dish. We actually had to slice up a second eggplant to make more for the demanding fans. Best of all, everyone also had a great time. The TV was off, the stereo was on, and everyone was actively cooking and eating together. So if your little ones insist they hate eggplant (or if you have an adult in the same boat), I highly recommend getting them involved in the cooking process to try this simple recipe. It's fun to make and a surefire way to create eggplant lovers in your house.

Simply Breaded and Fried Eggplant

Makes: 4 servings

Ingredients:

1 medium-large eggplant
1/2 cup olive oil
1 cup flour
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp kosher or sea salt plus more for sprinkling on the raw eggplant slices when prepping

Preparation:

1. Peel eggplant and then cut it into 1/4-inch thick slices.
2. Lay sheets of paper towel onto a cookie sheet or large colander (I prefer the latter) and lay enough eggplant slices down to cover the surface. Generously sprinkle salt onto the eggplant and then cover with another layer of paper towels. Repeat until you're out of eggplant
3. Let eggplant slices sit for 30-40 minutes.
4. Heat a frying pan (I like to use a large cast-iron pan, but anything that is not non-stick will work) on medium high. Add enough olive oil to cover the bottom with a 1/4-inch of oil.
5. Beat eggs with milk in a large flatish bowl and add 1/2 tsp salt to season it. Then mix the oregano and the other 1/2 tsp salt into the flour on a separate plate.
6. When oil is heated, press paper towels into the eggplant to soak up any extra liquid and then start dipping the eggplant slices into the flour mixture. Shake off an excess oil and then dip into the egg mixture to coat thoroughly.
7. Lay battered eggplant into the pan in batches, being sure not to crowd the pan.
8. Fry each side until golden brown. If the pan starts to get too hot, just lower the heat.
9. Repeat until all eggplant is cooked, adding more olive oil as needed.
10. Serve immediately.

Barbecue is literally the slowest of slow foods, not a sauce, but a process, a ponderous and primitive one often measured in days as much as hours. It's much more than mere technique. Like a Bedouin goat roast or a Hawaiian luau, barbecue is a festive carnivorous rite, the sort of party humans all over the world have thrown ever since they could catch the beasts they wanted to eat. Barbecue is a distinctly American tradition, however, and it warrants esteem in our food culture, one that increasingly values authenticity, heritage, and, importantly, a bargain. Historically, barbecue began as poor food. Indirect smoking with hardwood chips and charcoal renders sumptuous feeds from large, inexpensive, uncompromising cuts of meat the non-wealthy can readily afford. Today, due to trend as well as economic circumstance, food writers and chefs champion sustainability, rhapsodize about nose-to-tail eating, and fetishize la cucina povera across cultures. Hip local foodies head to starred eateries to scarf humble ribollita and marrow, and food glossies aggressively explore the homey cooking traditions of everyday people in distant locales.

Even though food tied firmly to a place invariably tastes best in its native setting, barbecue should have a stronger presence here. Sadly, like real bagels and perfect pizza slices, there's something about it San Francisco doesn't quite get.

L.A. export Baby Blues BBQ sits in an old pharmacy storefront on Mission Street at the base of Bernal Hill in San Francisco. The restaurant headed up the S.F. Chronicle's flimsy "new-school" Bay Area barbecue round-up back in February. In the article, the proprietor described his establishment's style as a hybrid, with dry rub from Texas, greens from Kansas City, and grilled shrimp from New Orleans. While only one of those things necessarily has anything whatsoever to do with barbecue, I withheld preliminary judgement, assuming I'd look for proof in the pork. The same writer, Amanda Gold, penned a largely favorable review less than two months later, hailing Baby Blues' offerings as "spot-on," and singling out the brisket and ribs in particular for accolades.

The brisket was, in fact, good -- shredded, not sliced as is customary, slightly sweet, with a broad, warm flavor that belied the stringy appearance. On the other hand, the chicken was desert-dry and the pork shoulder shockingly tasteless. Sauce helped but it shouldn't have been necessary. Good barbecue doesn't truly need sauce, maybe just a splash of vinegary Crystal. The Baby Blues macaroni and cheese was pretty tasty but that came as no surprise. The tidy tureen of pasta, butter, cream, and cheese congregated in creamy, crust-topped ooze resembled a miniature version of one of the less flamboyant goofily greasy things you'd see on thisiswhyyourefat.com. Pork and beans: dreary canned ones of various stripes, topped with some of the same tasteless pork shoulder. Mashed sweet potatoes: one-dimensional and cloying. Great sides are not a prerequisite for even serviceable barbecue but they sure help, especially when a bunch of people are trying to eat until they can't walk.

Dodging categorization is no boon when it comes to barbecue. Homogenizing its varied nuances with the perceived intent of garnering broader appeal smacks of desperation or at least excessive compromise, not inclusivity. Barbecue pit-masters, are curators of sorts. They consciously nurture and carry on a tradition, just making something they really, really know exactly the way they think it should be made for anyone who happens to be interested. Diners prize authenticity when it comes to regional Italian fare; they should when it comes to barbecue as well.

Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree even hoping to find what we're looking for at a place like Baby Blues. Throughout the barbecue belt, you'll eat some of the best barbecue in the world at church benefit suppers, desolate country grocery stores on two-lane roads, and strange little delis straddling dusty cracks in the interstate, not just at grand 'cue emporiums with bright lights and long lines.

Fittingly, in keeping with another current trend, that of back alley catering and restaurant-esque entities sprouting up all over town, the d.i.y. barbecue operations churning away on the edges of the local food scene actually best the likes of Baby Blues, Memphis Minnie's, and Big Nate's. There's definitely something appealing about outlaw status, and barbecue wears it especially well, even here. While the best pork barbecue I've had in San Francisco had to fly 2,000 miles from a deli case in Allen County, Kentucky, there are a few local super-smokers doing it right under-the-radar:

Try ordering a spread from Oakland-based Sneaky's BBQ for your next business meeting. Since 2008, the smoker-in-chief, a native of South Carolina, has been faithfully recreating the barbecue he knew back home -- husky, succulent pork shoulder with pepper-flecked vinegar-laced red sauce and racks of chewy baby-back ribs -- and delivering it, quite sneakily, in an unmarked van (red like the sauce), to homes, offices, and even park parties. It's popping off on Yelp and Chowhound for a reason. It tastes like vigilance. When you're eating it, you easily imagine the whole ritual -- the meat hitting the grill just after rush hour, and coming off, sticky-black, hours and hours later, as well as the sleepless night vigil, the sense, perhaps, of beers drunk and cigarettes smoked, of bleary eyes peering down and smudged hands reaching to open and close flutes at the proper intervals while the rest of the neighborhood sleeps.

The Broken Record is a mildly Zeigeist-y bar in the Excelsior. Chef Ryan Ostler, an alum of Boulevard, doesn't own it but he cooks from behind a wooden, windowed counter buried in the back. He's a Mission Street Food veteran, no stranger to the underground eatery game. The bar's offerings run the gamut from frito pies and amazing 'kraut-topped boar and pheasant sausages (sweet, high-flying stoner-pub party fare, yes, but not barbecue) to pulled pork sandwiches (serious barbecue). Of course, it's a chef's whim kind of place at heart. Sometimes, you show up and the pork isn't done. Or it is done, but it hasn't been carved up yet. Or it was ready hours ago and now there's none left. According to Ostler, they smoke every day, but quantities are limited. If you miss out, eat a sausage. Barbecue is not, after all, on-demand.

Baby Blues BBQ
3149 Mission St. in San Francisco
415-896-4250

Sneaky's BBQ

The Broken Record
1166 Geneva Ave. in San Francisco
415-963-1713

Saturday morning at the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market was classically representative of the way I shop the market. My plan was to get in and out in about an hour and go home to start my day. But all the vendors had stories, and I ran into friends and two and a half hours later, I was trudging home, my arms laden with lots of delicious goodies for the week.

This time of year is special at the market, as I think that the market changes drastically from week to week.

A couple days before the market, CUESA mentioned on their twitter feed that Lagier Ranches would be selling the elusive sour cherry this week. That was enough to motivate me to get to the market right when it opened, and it was a good thing that I did. The scene around the small yield of sour cherries was intense. "That woman just bought $50 worth of cherries!" my friend Jenn mentioned to me. I know that sour cherries are pretty rare here, and that they have a nearly cult following among some communities. The cherries were completely gone within about 45 minutes, and I brought home my precious two pounds to brandy for cocktails.

Fruit crops burst on to the scene for just a moment and are gone. My favorite Bing cherries are here, but only for about a month. I tasted Bings from many vendors this week before deciding that I would purchase my weekly ration from Johann at Hidden Star Orchards. Sierra Cascade Blueberries will be around for the next few weeks. I love Sierra Cascade's blueberries because they are small, full of flavor, and slightly tart. You can find them in the back of the building, right below the Gandhi statue. This morning, Sam mentioned CandyCot apricots which are only around for a couple of weeks a year as well. These apricots are extremely high on the Brix Scale for sweetness, and I see people carry them around the market like treasures.

If you know Nigel Walker, the proprietor of Eatwell Farm, you know that he is always working on new, fun projects and products. Word has it that he is working toward a grain CSA which would provide customers with a variety of grains and dried beans throughout the year -- much like his vegetable CSA does now. When I saw that he was selling large bunches of triticale (a wheat-like grain) this week, I knew that soon he would be providing us with fantastic local and organic grain.

This week, Fatted Calf debuted a new all-beef hot dog made with lamb casings. The beef is sourced from Marin Sun Farms, and I am really looking forward to tasting them. By the time I arrived at the Fatted Calf booth around 8:15 am, they were gone so I will be sure to pre-order by email next time.

The photo at the top of the post is of the lovely strawberries that Lucero Organic grows. Many of us are still missing our beloved Ella Bella Farm -- a great farm that closed up shop in California last year. But I've found that Lucero's strawberries almost make me forget how much I loved Ella Bella's. They are a great replacement from a farm that brings impeccably beautiful produce to the market.

The Great American Food & Music Festival (6/13/09), Mountain View, CA

If you made it to the Great American Food & Music Festival this weekend, you may still be grumbling, "You mean the not so great American no-Food Festival"...

Katz’s Deli, New York Pastrami on Rye

The first time event was just not prepared for the hordes of hungry festival-goers, eyes glowing red from want of a Katz’s Pastrami and other best of the best eats from around the country.

With an influx of over 15,000 patrons descending upon the festival, chaos ensued as systems crashed, credit cards were rendered useless, and lines upon lines multiplied.

Lines...

...and more lines

Passive-aggressive behavior escalated to aggressive-aggressive revolts as people waited an hour plus just to get into the Shoreline Amphitheatre, waited to add money to wristbands so they could purchase food, and then waited some more to actually get close to that glorious food.

Junior's Cheesecake

Propane griddles failed, food ran out, and disgruntled folks stood in lines for hours on end. Yes hours (that's plural). Those Anchor Bar Buffalo Wings were mighty tasty, but were they worth 3 hours of standing in line?

Grievance aside, once you managed to get to some food, it was delicious.

A burger from Bobby

Coupled with some big cold beers, beautiful weather, some green grass to sit on, and a little entertainment, the day ended up being a fun day in the sun.

Great American Food & Music Fest, Serious Eats stage

Not to mention, the opportunity to get up close and personal with the talented chefs and proprietors who make some of the best food around the country. And of course, Food Network celeb chefs galore: Bobby Flay, Guy Fieri, Anne Burrell, and Aida Mollenkamp.

Highlights of the festival:

Pink’s Famous Hot Dogs

Pink’s Famous Hot Dogs from LA were my favorite item of the day. A meaty dog with that great snap when you bite into it, topped with chili, cheese, kraut, mustard, catsup, relish, and onions. A sloppy, amazing, delicious mess.

SF Weekly Burger Challenge

Bay Area favorites, BurgerMeister, Pearl’s Phatburgers, Bistro Burger, and Mo’s Grill duked it out for the title of Best Burger.

Bistro Burger's rich, creamy Paris Burger, with brie and sautéed mushrooms, impressed even grill master Bobby with its crazy juiciness.

SF Weekly's Best Burger Winner: Pearl's Hawaiian Burger

But, it was no match for Pearl's Hawaiian Burger, with sliced pineapple, bacon, teriyaki sauce, jack and mayo, which took first with its sweet, spicy, exotic burger o' love.

Rockstar Performance from Guy Fieri

Must give props to Guy, he rocked the crowd with a highly entertaining blowout performance complete with loud rock n'roll, gratuitous hot chicks on stage, big machinery, power tools, and pyrotechnics.

All in all, a day that was admittedly frustrating, but not without some bright spots. If the people don't lynch them first, here's hoping that producers of The Great American Food & Music Festival can learn from mistakes and come back with a better, more organized, less stressful event next year.

Baby likes Brisket

We’re rooting for you to work out the kinks because we know that bringing together America's best is no easy feat. Looking forward to next year!

Last Sunday, a brand-new farmers market opened in one of my favorite San Francisco neighborhoods: The Inner Sunset. The market, in the parking lot at Ninth and Irving streets, is run by the Pacific Coast Farmers Markets Association and will run from June through November. Walking into the market, you get a feeling of a true community event. Neighbors are greeting each other, and the general atmosphere was festive and fun. The market is mostly vegetable and fruit vendors, but shoppers can also purchase eggs, baked goods and prepared foods. There is even a tofu vendor, but I don't remember seeing any cheeses or meats.

By the time I arrived, the eggs were sold out, but the vendor -- Smart Eggs -- looks interesting. It's a student-run egg farm that is from Modesto Junior College.

There are quite a few farms from the coastal region and several from the Central Valley. I will be returning to this market. It's a fun, mellow option for a Sunday morning market.




The vendor list, as I noted it, is as follows:

Serendipity Farms
Far West Fungi
Berrylicious
De Palma Farms
Capay Organic
Wassum Ranch
Smart Eggs
Tofu Yu
Bakers of Paris
Her Farm
Arizmendi Bakery
Garcia Farm
Rodin Farm
Calolea
City Bees
Fifth Crow Farm
Kashiwase

Inner Sunset Farmers Market
9am - 1pm, Sundays
In the parking lot behind the Irving Street shops.
Enter from 9th or 8th Ave
Runs through November 22

Underappreciated fruits and vegetables will always have a special place in my heart. Rhubarb, nettles, quince: all these things, so tasty when cooked, used to be very popular until they got shouldered aside by easier pleasures that didn't sting the unwary picker into welts, or weren't so sour or astringent at first bite as to make you wince. Artichokes' dip-scooping leaves were probably its saving grace. But for its use as a nifty delivery system for melted butter and lemon mayonnaise, it would be a forgotten thistle today.

Apricots, while more accessible, still have a certain forgotten-fruit quality to them. Just as quince gets described as apple's tough, weird older sister, so apricots are often just a placeholder for peach-lovers, something sweet and orange with a pit that will do until the real goodies come along.

But apricots are good for cooking in a way that peaches aren't, their flavor intensifying into an ineffable tangy sweetness that leans just right against a crumbly, buttery short crust or a piece of whole-grain toast, especially one spread with mild fresh chevre. Too often, though, all that the marketplace offers is the big bland Patterson, so smooth-skinned, so bright, so uniform and so utterly dull.

What you really want, especially for jam, are Blenheims, also called Royal Blenheims. You have to trust in these, because they're not so pretty. Mostly they're small, often green-shouldered, often freckly. At peak ripeness, they're almost deliquescent, their pulp turning to jam right inside the skin.

But, oh, what juicy, sticky-dripping flavor! Slurpy-good right off the tree, they're sublime for jam. I like to use the same overnight-sugar macerating technique as for strawberries, although these apricots don't throw off enough liquid to make straining necessary. Instead, they subside gracefully into a pool of satiny slush that's part pulp, part skin, part juice, and all divine.

Being wildly uncommercial—too small, too funny-looking, too mushy, too short a season—Blenheims have to be hunted out, either from soft-hearted orchardists or friends with an old tree in the backyard. Everything Under the Sun (the folks with the "Sampling is Mandatory-We're Watching!" sign) at the Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market had them last week, and probably this week, but not for much longer. Carpe diem! Get out your jars!

Apricot Jam
Of all the jams I make, this one remains my favorite. Letting the fruit and sugar macerate together before cooking mellows the sweetness and helps thickens the final product without the need for long cooking. This preserves the fruit's naturally vivid flavor and color.

Yield: 4 to 5 8-oz jars.
Prep Time: 15-20 minutes, plus 10-16 hours resting time
Cook Time: 30-40 minutes
Total: 1 hour, plus 10-16 hours resting time

Ingredients:
3 lb apricots
2 1/2 cups sugar
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice (1-2 lemons)

Preparation:
1. Halve apricots and pop out pits. Cut fruit into quarters if large. Toss apricots, sugar, and lemon juice together in a glass or ceramic bowl. Cover with a towel and set aside for several hours at room temperature, or overnight in the refrigerator. Stir occasionally to help the sugar dissolve evenly, if you feel like it.

2. When all the sugar has been dissolved, pour the mixture into a wide, heavy-bottomed nonreactive pot and bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce heat to low and simmer 10 minutes, stirring gently but frequently. Cook for another 8 minutes, until the fruit looks translucent and is beginning to break down. It's easy to scorch it at this stage, so stir frequently and don't wander off.

3. Pour mixture back into the bowl, let cool, then cover with a towel and set aside at room temperature for at least six hours, or overnight in the refrigerator.

4. Return fruit mixture to the large pot. Over low heat, bring to a simmer, stirring frequently. Cook for another 10-12 minutes, until fruit has mostly broken down and juices look syrupy. Scoop a small amount of juice onto a clean metal spoon. Tip the spoon sideways and let juice run off the edge. When juice has reached the jelly point, the last few drops will look thicker and run together into one viscous drop. Remove from heat. Ladle into clean, sterilized jars.

5. Set jars on a clean towel and do not touch or move them until they are completely cool. If you're using canning jars, listen for the slurpy sucking pop of the jars vacuum-sealing. Sealed jars will keep up to 1 year in a cool, dry place. If jar isn't sealed, store in fridge and eat within 2-3 weeks.

I really only have one requirement for ginger beer. I have to feel it.

To wit: "...the ginger beer has to sting, burn, and fire up the back of your throat. You have to feel it in your nose and down your gullet."

I found such a ginger beer in Boston -- made by Goya -- and we used it in all our Black Gosling Dark and Stormys. It was spicy, opaque perfection. Once we moved out here and couldn't find hide nor hair of Goya, I quested for the perfect ginger beer. Nothing served. Not Bundaberg, not Blenheim, not anything you can possibly name. Believe me. I've tried them. ALL of them.

In Andronico's British food section, I finally found a ginger beer made by Belvoir, and it was good. It burned my nose and tingled my throat, and I was so happy with that sought-after sensation that I ignored the slight tinge of chlorine in the taste that became decidedly pronounced the more I drank.

When I met Tim Warilow of Fever-Tree to sample his newest flavors, I pestered him about ginger beer. Fever-Tree, I argued, was the ideal company to make my favorite type of ginger beer. (Because it's all about me, right?) Tim just smiled and talked up the merits of their ginger ale. (And, as I've noted before, he ain't just whistling dixie on that one. Fever-Tree makes a killer ginger ale.)

However, a year later, Fever-Tree is now making ginger beer. I got two precious sample bottles in the mail and chilled them both immediately. One I drank as soon as it was cold, but the other is in safekeeping for another month.

In order to best appreciate it, I sipped it neat and not as a mixer. I've come to realize that the best mixers are the ones that can be fully enjoyed without alcohol or other things tarting it up. Fever-Tree's ginger beer is perfection. With each luscious swallow, I feel it trace a satisfyingly fiery path up my nose and down my throat.

And the flavor? Well, it was just ginger. I'm not denigrating the flavor with my "just," there, I'm elevating it. That's the flavor, "just ginger," which is as it should be. There was no chlorine aftertaste, no overt sweetness detracting from what ended up being pure ginger in liquid form.

Fever-Tree's ginger beer mixes two kinds of ginger: hot Nigerian ginger and fresh green Ecuadorian ginger. Just like all their other products, Fever-Tree's ginger beer is all natural, which explains the slightly cloudy appearance. For me, that cloudy, opaque look is key when layering up that most perfect of New England summer sips, the Dark and Stormy.

Oh, right -- guess what that reserved sample bottle is for? That's right. As soon as I'm allowed, post-delivery, that cold little bottle is going onto my deck and into my first decent Dark and Stormy in years.

I love all summer fruits, but peaches are close to the top of my list of favorites. There's nothing tastier than eating a plump fresh peach, juices bursting. But after eating my fill of peaches, I crave more. I still want all that sweet and fragrant peachiness, but in another format. This is where peach pies and tarts come in, not to mention grilled peaches and peach jam. My new favorite peach recipes, however, may be the simplest of them all: peach ice pops and creamsicles.

If you have a blender and some ice pop molds, making homemade peach ice pops and creamsicles is a breeze. And if you don't have ice pop molds, you can use short plastic cups and popsicle sticks. The only hard thing about making these frozen treats is waiting for them to freeze before you can eat them.

Preparing homemade fruit pops is also fun. My kids enjoy making them with me and, better yet, they love to eat them. So, instead of grabbing some high-fructose Big Sticks or Rocket Pops (although I must admit I do love both of those), my children are licking pops made of real peaches, with all of their vitamins and nutrients, and having a ball doing it. Best of all, they're not just fun and good for kids, they taste delicious.

As with anything homemade, you get to decide how the final product turns out. If you want popsicles with fruit chunks, just puree the fruit until you have a smoothly flowing texture that retains some small chunks of peach to bite into later. If you like smooth ice pops, puree the mixture until you get a velvety consistency. And, if you're in a tart and fruity mood (and who doesn't feel like that sometimes), you can make non-dairy ice pops, but if you're feeling a bit decadent and want a treat with more of an ice-cream flavor, the creamsicles really hit the spot.

As much as I love peaches, however, I don’t limit myself to using just this one fruit for homemade pops. Stone fruits -- such as nectarines, apricots and plums -- work well with the recipes below, but you could also try using raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, or whatever you'd like. Just use a little less juice or heavy cream when using berries as they have a more water consistency.

So if you're looking for something to do with your summer fruit, I highly recommend making homemade fruit pops and creamsicles. They're easy and fun to make, and are a great way to indulge in a delicious, and low calorie, summer dessert.

Note: To remove the popsicle from the mold, just dip the mold into a cup of warm water for about ten seconds. The mold should then release the pop.

Fresh Peach Ice Pops

Makes: 6 ice pops

Ingredients:
2 large peaches peeled
1/2 cup simple syrup
1 Tbsp lemon juice
1/2 cup peach nectar, mango juice or orange juice

Preparation:
1. Cut peach meat off the pit and place in a blender along with all the other ingredients.
2. Blend to desired consistency
3. Pour mixture into popsicle molds.
4. Freeze until frozen through.

Peach Creamsicles

Makes: 6 ice pops

Ingredients:
2 large peaches peeled
1/2 cup simple syrup
1/2 cup heavy cream, half and half, or whole milk
1 Tbsp lemon juice

Preparation:
1. Cut peach meat off the pit and place in a blender along with all the other ingredients.
2. Blend to desired consistency
3. Pour mixture into popsicle molds.
4. Freeze until frozen through.

Note: Although I like to peel my peaches before making ice pops and creamsicles, this step is optional. If you don't mind the peel, feel free to leave it in.

Simple Syrup

Makes: 3/4 to 1 cup syrup

Ingredients:
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup water

Preparation:
1. Place sugar and water in a medium sauce pan
2. Bring mixture to a slow boil and stir until sugar dissolves.
3. Cool.