It's hard to be a pie on Thanksgiving. It's the quandary of the big feast: everyone wants to see pie on the table, it seems, but after all that turkey, stuffing, gravy-drenched mashed potatoes and marshmallow-topped yams, few have the available real estate inside to truly do justice to a slice (or more) of pie. All that time you spent rushing around sourcing precious leaf lard from the appropriately happy, local, and pasture-raised pigs, all that careful crimping and filling, hovering and squatting in front of the oven window, praying that the crust edges wouldn't overbrown, finally sweeping up the big floury mess, and for what? Nothing but the sight of all your tipsy, satiated friends and family asking for "just a teeny slice" and then pushing it around on their plate while they drink more wine and attack the whipped cream instead.

Pie, of course, is the best day-after-Thanksgiving breakfast ever. But you can only count on leftover pie if you’re hosting the dinner in your own house. Bring the pies to someone else’s dinner, and you must hope and pray to be sent home with what remains. After all, a pie must be brought over intact; a pie minus one piece is a used pie. Sadly not every host/ess has the grace to make up little care packages of leftovers. What this means, besides no turkey sandwiches for lunch, is that you could have rolled and latticed all day long, seen lots of uneaten pie on the counter, and still ended up with no pie to go with your coffee the next morning. This has happened to me more times than I would care to remember.

You can get around both these scenarios in one easy step: just turn your pies into bars. This works best with solid, open-faced pies—pumpkin, sweet potato, pecan, or the chilled cranberry-tangerine, below. Apple or other sliced-fruit pies won’t work, but someone else will make these, anyway. Instead, imagine a lemon square refashioned for autumn, with crunchy crust on the bottom and creamy-firm filling on top. Baked and then chilled until well set, these can be cut like brownies into narrow rectangles or small squares, a two- or three-bite morsel, perfect for both children and overstuffed adults alike.

How to do it? Use a cookie-like crust recipe, one with egg yolk and vanilla in the dough instead of just water, what's usually called a sweet tart dough. This dough, sturdier and sweeter than a typical plain pie dough, can be easily rolled out and/or pressed to fit into the bottom of an 8"x8" square pan. Prick lightly all over with a fork and bake until just blond and set. Let cool, then pour on filling and bake as usual, keeping in mind that it will probably take a little less time to bake than a regular pie, since the filling won't be as deep. Cool, chill, and cut.

Cranberry Tangerine Bars
This cranberry-tangerine dessert is a longtime family favorite. It's particularly great for any holiday get-together, as the nut crust holds up well in the fridge and doesn't get tough or soggy. You can definitely make it the day before; because of the gelatin, however, you'll need to keep it refrigerated until dinner time. A nice blob of fresh whipped cream helps balance the tart fruitiness of the filling.

Yield: 16 squares
Prep Time: 45 minutes
Cook Time: 20-25 minutes
Total Time: 1 hour, 5-10 minutes, plus several hours' chilling time

Ingredients:
1 cup finely chopped, lightly toasted walnuts
3 tbsp sugar
1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup (4 oz) butter, softened
1 egg yolk
1/2 tsp vanilla
1-2 tbsp water (optional)

Filling:
1/4 cup plus 2 tbsp water
1 envelope (1 TB) unflavored powdered gelatin (such as Knox)
3 cups fresh or frozen whole cranberries
1 1/4 cups sugar
Rind and juice of 1 tangerine (you may not need all the rind; add half first, then more if you want a stronger orange flavor)
1 tbsp good orange liqueur, such as Grand Marnier or Cointreau (optional)
Whipped cream for serving

1. To make crust: Mix walnuts, sugar and flour together in a large bowl. If you have a stand-up mixer (like a KitchenAid), use the paddle attachment to beat in the butter. Otherwise, mix and mash in with a hand-held mixer, a pastry blender or your fingertips. Stir in egg yolk and vanilla to form a crumbly dough, adding water as necessary to make the dough stick together. Chill dough for 1 hour.

2. Preheat oven to 350F. Press dough into an 8x8 square pan, preferably glass. Bake until light golden and firm, about 20-25 minutes. Let cool before filling.

3. To make filling: Sprinkle gelatin over 1/4 cup water and let sit until gelatin swells and softens into a pasty, translucent gel. In a saucepan, combine cranberries, sugar, rind and juice, and remaining two tablespoons of water. Bring to a simmer over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, for 10-15 minutes, until berries have popped and mixture is thick.

4. Remove pan from heat, cool slightly, then stir in gelatin and liqueur, if using. Let cool to room temperature. Taste for sweetness, adding more sugar or liqueur as desired, keeping in mind that a bittersweet tartness is this dessert's main charm, then spread over crust.

5. Chill until firm, at least several hours or overnight. Cut into bars and serve with fresh whipped cream.

Still need pie therapy? Local pastry chef and caterer Meloni Courtway, who taught last year's wonderful Orchard to Oven workshop, is offering a hands-on apple-pie workshop at the Marin Country Mart on Saturday, November 19. All participants go home with a hand-made pie that can be frozen and baked fresh for Thanksgiving.

Sunday was my birthday! Were she still baking among us, my grandmother, Fae Rosenbaum, would have celebrated the day by showing up with no less than three proudly Saran-wrapped plates of cookies: her perfectly plain, perfectly perfect chocolate chips; her crunchy, nutty sesame rounds; and best of all, the towering achievement of any bubbe, her flaky, tender, cinnamon-sugary rugelach, chubby golden-brown pastries filled with jam, raisins, and nuts.

Sad to say, for all the New Yorkers among us, rugelach haven’t made the jump from East Coast to West. You can find them, good, bad, and indifferent, in just about every deli and bakery with a somewhat Jewish clientele, right next to the black-and-white cookies, the hamantaschen, and the garishly bright rainbow cakes (these last also known as 7-layer cookies, and more Italian-American than Jewish, but happily co-opted).

Here, though, the few bakery-and-deli versions available are rarely worth eating. More often than not, they’re stale and wan, with the texture of soggy papier-mâché, lumpen and underbaked. In my experience, the only ones worth eating around here are those from from San Francisco's Noe Valley Bakery, where the cherry-chocolate and pecan-raisin versions are little delights of tender, sweet, and crunch.

Which means, of course, that if you, like me, crave a plateful of good rugelach on your birthday, you’re going to have to roll your own. Like all filled-and-rolled cookies, they take a little time and one-by-one effort, but I wouldn’t call them fussy. They don’t have to look perfect; in fact, being a little homey and misshapen here and there just makes them more authentic, in my opinion. (Professional kitchen experience has made me a neater cook than I would be, left to my own familial inclinations. The women of my family have always cooked with a kind of exuberant, love-crammed zeal that shrugged at a few lumps and crumbles, as long as the end result was delicious.)

So, where to start? A rugelach, if you've been so sadly deprived as to never yet to see one, is a fat little pastry, traditionally crescent-shaped (although my grandmother's were always squarish), made from a rich but not sweet butter-and-cream-cheese dough, wrapped around a filling of jam, raisins, nuts, or chocolate chips. Cinnamon and brown sugar usually found their way into the filling; the jam was usually apricot or raspberry. A good rugelach barely contains the abundance of its filling, and the dough hits a irresistible sweet spot between tender and flaky. They are best small, maybe two bites each, and most delicious when just an hour or two out of the oven.

The dough is a rich one, sticky and tricky to work with unless you keep it very cold. As much as I support instant gratification in home baking, rugelach dough, like pie dough, is much better for a few hours' rest in the fridge. This will re-harden the fats and keep the pastry flaky when baked. To make life even easier, throw together the dough in the evening, wrap it and pop it in the fridge, and take it out for filling and rolling the next day. It also freezes well.

What you fill it with depends on your mood, and most importantly, what your own grandmother put in them when she showed up at your house with her own Saran-wrapped plate. I'm always a little suspicious of chocolate-chip rugelach; much as I adore chocolate in every other guise, its richness here seems like overkill against the buttery pastry. Nuts, raisins, and jam, that's the ticket, or even just nuts and raisins over a swipe of melted butter and a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. Pecans are best, walnuts second, and both should be toasted and chopped to chunky crumbles. Currants make a neater pastry, but raisins are fine, and can be chopped if you want a slightly more uniform filling. Just don't be stingy. No one wants a skimpy rugelach! And bake until they're a fine golden brown, top and bottom. A little more browned is better than too pale. Don't use flavored or low-fat cream cheese, while you're at it, check the label to make sure it doesn't have a lot of weird and unnecessary ingredients in it. You'd be surprised what kind of stuff ends up in what should be an unadulterated dairy product these days.

These are a lovely thing to have on the table when you're laying out a table of bagels and lox, with lots of coffee and the New York Times crossword at the ready. You're already stocking up on cream cheese and butter for the bagels, make a few rugelach while you're at it. What could it hurt?

Grandma's Rugelach
I never saw my grandmother cook from a printed recipe. Flour was measured in a coffee cup, and things like cinnamon and sugar went in by eye. I'm still trying to make rugelach as good as hers; here is my approximation of her recipe.

Yield: 36 rugelach
Prep Time: 45 minutes, plus 3 hours' resting time
Cook Time: 25 minutes
Total Time: 1 hour, 10 minutes

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups all-purpose unbleached flour
3 tbsp sugar
1/4 tsp salt
8 oz. cream cheese, at room temperature, cubed
8 oz. butter (1 cup, 2 sticks), cubed
2 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup sour cream

Filling:
3/4 cup apricot jam
1/2 cup currants or raisins
1 cup pecans or walnuts, toasted and chopped
3 tbsp sugar mixed with 1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 tbsp milk or half-and-half, for glazing

Instructions:

1. In the bowl of a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, stir together the flour, sugar, and salt. Using the paddle on a slow speed, beat in the cream cheese and butter until a soft dough forms. Beat in the vanilla and sour cream.

2. Divide the dough into three rounds. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and chill for at least 3 hours or overnight.

3. Preheat oven to 375°F. Leaving remaining rounds in the fridge, unwrap and roll one round into a circle approximately 10 inches across. Spread a thin layer of jam across the round, then sprinkle with currants, nuts, and a little cinnamon sugar. Cut the round into 12 equal triangles. Roll up each triangle from base to tip, bending the two points inward to form a crescent. Repeat with remaining dough and filling. (You can also roll dough into a rectangle, cover with jam, nuts, raisins, and sugar, and roll up lengthwise to make a long roll. Slice into 1-inch sections.)

4. Place pastries on a parchment or Slipat-lined baking sheet. Brush with milk and sprinkle with remaining cinnamon sugar. Bake 25-30 minutes, until golden brown. Let cool for a few minutes on the baking sheet, then remove to a wire rack to finish cooling.

The first thing that struck me about The Beekman 1802 Heirloom Cookbook, written by Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell with Sandy Gluck, is the very first page. There's a smartly designed book-plate that reads:

First Generation to Own This Book: ____________

I think the very first page of the book says a great deal about the mission and ethos behind the project, the recipes, and the vision. Brent and Josh have a 200-year old farm outside of tiny Sharon Springs, New York where they produce goat's milk soap, cheeses, and other artisanal products along with hosting dinners and events. After deciding they firmly believed in capturing the work that was happening on the farm, preserving the food traditions they were introducing, and celebrating the small community surrounding them, a cookbook seemed like the next logical step.

Now the Beekman boys will be the first to ask the question, "does the world really need another cookbook?" This fall, especially, seems to be a banner season for new releases including The Family Meal, Bi-Rite's Eat Good Food, Essential Pepin, Ruhlman's Twenty and The Food 52 Cookbook among many others. So what sets this one apart? Sure, it's organized by seasons and focuses on feel-good recipes with a sense of history. But a lot of cookbooks do this. I think the true thing that sets the Beekman Boys' book apart is the definitive aesthetic and design (highly visual, quirky, a little bit irreverent), the approachable and inspired recipes appropriate for novice and more experienced cooks alike, and their push for generational cooking. I like this last part a lot. It's why I'm really sold on this book.

The photography by Paulette Tavormina captures the almost-down-home nature of the recipes beautifully. Most dishes are basic comfort food with a twist, and the photos really convey a warm, lived-in quality that make you want to pull up a chair and settle right into an evening meal at the farm. As far as the recipes are concerned, there are some that stand out right away for me. I've bookmarked Pea Pod Risotto, Meatloaf Burgers, Buttery Peach Cake, and Rosemary Spiced Nuts. The recipes range from simple salads and soups to more substantial entrees, side dishes and desserts. In addition, they do profiles of ingredients (raspberries, green beans, onions) and little "how-to" (yogurt cheese) sections that make the reader feel even closer to farm life. The headnotes for each recipe are approachable and become quite formulaic: the Beekman boys spell out why they're drawn to the recipe and then give a tip on preparation or shopping. For example, with the Broccoli Cheddar Soup recipe, they discuss using the broccoli stalks and florets and why each is useful.

But we really can't discuss the recipes without exploring the question: what exactly is a "heritage recipe"? In their introduction, Brent and Josh note that "heirlooms [are] recipes that we will make every year, recipes that we pass along to friends and family on scraps of paper. They are now as much a part of the story and life of Beekman 1802 Farms as are the house, the barn and the land." Later they go on to note that "heirlooms" of any kind are often irreplaceable and are, therefore, cherished. So they seem to have a two-fold mission: first, to publish recipes that have become important to them in living and creating a meaningful life on the farm and second, to encourage others to make these recipes a part of their own family traditions. There is a little "Notes" box next to each recipe to encourage readers to jot down what they liked, didn't like, or would change. They also supply sturdy note cards to jot down adaptations you might make with a certain recipe. Then, after doing so, Brent and Josh encourage readers to go to Beekman1802 to chronicle the changes. This way, each recipe will grow, change, and live on. For generations? Who knows. Time will tell, I suppose.

Is the book romanticizing their "newly bucolic [country] lives?" Sure. Absolutely. Regardless, the emphasis on family and the importance of traditions is especially relevant this time of year, especially as we tip-toe into fall and start to peek towards Thanksgiving. And that is why I so wanted to try out their Sweet Potato Pie recipe that appears towards the back of the book.

The Beekman Boys have given Bay Area Bites permission to reprint the recipe and I can tell you that it's already been decided that Sweet Potato is taking down Pumpkin this Thanksgiving at our house. This recipe is special largely because of its simplicity, attention to detail (uses two distinct kinds of sweet potato) and the addition of brown butter at the end. It's, in all honesty, a pie I was talking about for a good three days afterwards. I think you will, too. While the recipe doesn't delineate the timing, I've done so here below. I've also split the paragraphs up into numbered steps. Last, when making your pie dough, if lard isn't your thing, Martha Stewart's pate brisee is a perfectly lovely and reliable pie dough so go that route instead.

Sweet Potato Pie
To get a sweet potato pie that isn't overly sweet, we use two kinds of sweet potatoes: Japanese sweet potatoes, which are a little drier in texture and mildly sweet, and deep-orange garnet potatoes, which are moist and quite sweet. If the pie develops a crack in the center as it cooks, which many do, simply top with sweetened whipped cream, sour cream, or yogurt.

Prep Time: 25 minutes (to make dough)
Cook Time: 1 hour
Total Time: 1 hour, 25 minutes

Ingredients:
Basic Pie Dough *
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, grated
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup sour cream
3 large eggs
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 cups pureed cooked sweet potatoes (from about 1 1/2 pounds)
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Instructions:
1. On a lightly floured work surface, roll out the dough to a 12-inch round. Roll the dough around the rolling pin, and then fit it into a 9-inch deep-dish plate without stretching it.
2. Press the dough into the bottom and sides of the pan. With a pair of scissors or a paring knife, trim the edges of the dough to form a 1-inch overhand. Fold the overhand over to form a high edge, and with your fingers, crimp the dough all around. Refrigerate.
3. Preheat the oven to 350 F.
4. In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt until well combined. Whisk in the milk, sour cream, whole eggs, egg yolk, and vanilla. Whisk in the mashed sweet potatoes.
5. In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Cook until the butter foams; them continue cooking until the foam subsides and the butter turns a rich brown.
6. Immediately pour the browned butter into the sweet potato mixture and whisk until incorporated.
7. Place the pie plate on a rimmed baking sheet and pour the mixture into it. Bake for 1 hour, or until the pie is set with a slightly wobbly center.
8. Cool on a rack. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

*Basic Pie Dough
Ingredients:
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into bits
4 tablespoons cold lard, cut into bits
3-4 tablespoons ice water

Instructions: (note that there are two methods described below)
1. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, and salt. With a pastry blender or two knives used scissors fashion, cut in the butter and the lard until pea-size lumps remain.
2. Gradually add the ice water until the dough begins to come together but doesn't clean the sides of the bowl. Add just enough of the ice water so the mixture holds together when pinched between two fingers.

1. Alternatively, in a food processor, pulse together the flour, sugar, and salt.
2. Add the butter and lard and pulse 10 times or until large pea-size lumps are formed. With the motor running, gradually add the ice water until the dough begins to come together but doesn't clean the sides of the bowl.
3. Add just enough of the ice water so the mixture holds together when pinched between two fingers.
4. Shape into a disk, wrap in wax paper and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 2 days.

Buy the book on Amazon, $13

When you’re making brunch for 25 starving artists, you better have a lot of bacon. In a kitchen like the one at the Headlands Center for the Arts, where I’m currently living and working as a kitchen intern, everything counts in large amounts, and nothing’s more beloved by the artists we’re feeding than the house-made meat products we grind, cure or smoke.

Bacon, pancetta, breakfast sausage, spicy link sausage, salmon gravlax, and more: most of them require only salt, sugar, spices, and time to transform fatty, tough cuts of meat into savory staples that can richly flavor any dish. (The exception is the salmon, of course, caught for us in Alaska by a friend of the chef’s and sent to us in pristine vacuum-packed sides. Still, even this great stuff emerges silkier and more aromatic after a few days’ curing with salt and dill.) It helps, too, that Damon Little, my fellow kitchen intern, spent some months last year working as an apprentice in the stainless-steel surrounds of esteemed salumi-makers Boccalone in Oakland.

Making bacon takes time, it’s true—eight days to cure, a few hours in the smoker, another hour or so in the oven to finish—but very little of it requires our hands or even our presence. It doesn’t take much time to weigh out a handful of salt and spices, rub it into a slab of pork belly, slap the belly onto a baking pan and pop it in the fridge. A turn and rub every other day takes maybe two minutes, tops.

Cured bacon slabs in the smoker.

Then there’s the smoking, a couple of hours, but during almost all of that time, the bacon-to-be is quietly, smokily minding its own business while we go about ours. At the end, well-smoked, the slab goes into the oven to finish cooking. (This last step may not be necessary, depending on how hot your smoker gets; the main thing is getting the pork's internal temperature up to 150 degrees.)

Bacon slabs, just out of the smoker, ready for the oven.

The result, eschewing all modesty, is fantastic. Right out of the oven, the slabs are deep red-brown, lacquered like a Peking duck, with an outrageously appetizing aroma. Because our bacon doesn’t have to last for weeks in a butcher’s case or grocer’s fridge (we freeze it immediately and defrost it chunk by chunk as needed), we can make our cure lighter on both the salt and “pink salt” than most commercial versions. Enough to cure it safely, of course, but light enough that you can taste the flavor of the pork and aromatics as well, without your tongue being clubbed by salt. (What is pink salt, you ask? Also known as curing salt, DC cure, or DQ cure, it is a mixture of 6.25% sodium nitrite and 93.75% sodium chloride, or table salt. The nitrites in the salt mixture help prevent bacterial contamination and also preserve the meat's color during the curing process. It is dyed pink to prevent it from being confused with regular salt.)

This last time we made bacon, we added maple syrup to a simple salt-and-pepper cure, to make something straightforward and breakfast-y out of half the meat. The other half became pancetta, cured without syrup but with more spices and aromatics, including plenty of rosemary. After curing, the meat was rolled and tied but not smoked, to make a savory bacon in the European style, useful as a base for sauces, stews, and ragus.

Damon LIttle tying pancetta.

Any pieces of the bacon or pancetta not immediately fried up for brunch quickly find a home: turned into lardons for salad, sautéed with onions, carrots, and celery to give a backbone to lentils or duck-and-bean soup, or simply cooked up for a kitchen-crew snack on yesterday’s sourdough bread, piled with sliced tomatoes and a smear of leftover garlic mayonnaise or Caesar dressing.

Pancetta

Given that we generally cure and smoke four big slabs of organic Berkshire pork from Idaho’s Snake River Farms at a time, the savings in the kitchen budget are significant. High-quality, organic bacon like this would probably cost us four times what the plain pork belly does. When you’re a non-profit cooking daily for 25 to 30 people, sometimes for twice that, making your own value-added products in house is just good sense.

Good organic jam, free of high-fructose corn syrup and made with more fruit than sugar? Expensive, especially when one brunch can empty 3 or 4 fancy jars. A flat of organic, locally grown plums, a pound or two of organic sugar, a handful of lemons and a couple hours of my time? A much cheaper, and much more delicious, way to fill a pantry shelf. The apples from a staff member’s backyard tree are tasty but misshapen and pocked with holes, useless for out-of-hand eating. But a little time with a paring knife, an afternoon’s slow baking in the oven, and we have three quarts of autumn apple butter ready to be slathered on this Sunday’s waffles.

Waffles served with bacon, naturally. Having come to bacon late in life (my parents’ one nod to traditional Jewish dietary laws was no pork in the house), I’ve never felt confident cooking it, especially since every bacon-lover seems to have a different bacon ideal—rigid or floppy, nearly burnt or just sizzled. Here, I’ve learned a good trick for when you’re making bacon for a crowd, when frying up a single panful just won’t do. We cut our bacon in fairly thick strips, laying them out side by side on parchment-lined sheet trays and popping them into the oven to cook until just crisp. Take the slices off the trays and lay them out on cooling racks to drain; this keeps them from getting soggy with grease and steam while you go about prepping the mimosas and flipping the frittatas. Pour the excess grease off the baking sheets (into an old jar or bowl, not down the sink, since it will thicken and harden into a drain-blocking sludge as it cools). To reheat, slide the bacon, still on its racks, back onto the baking sheets, and return to the oven until crisp and hot. Serve immediately, if you can bear to let any of it leave the kitchen.

Final bacon

Recipe: Smoked Maple Bacon
Summary: The following recipe is adapted by Headlands kitchen intern Damon Little from Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing, by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn.

Prep Time: 60 minutes
Cook Time: 4 hours
Total Time: 5 hours, plus 8 days' curing time
Yield: About 4 lbs

Ingredients:
2 tbsp red pepper flakes, crushed in a mortar
1 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
1.75 oz kosher salt or sea salt (not iodized)
1/4 tsp pink salt (curing salt)
1/4 cup maple sugar or packed dark brown sugar
1/4 cup maple syrup (grade B has the most flavor)
One 5-lb slab pork belly, preferably from a pasture-raised animal

Instructions:

1. Combine the chili flakes, pepper, salt, pink salt, and sugar in a bowl and mix well. Add syrup and stir to combine.
2. Rub cure over both sides of the belly, making sure to work it under any flaps and into any crevices. Seal meat in a 2-gallon resealable plastic bag, or place in a non-reactive (glass, ceramic, stainless steel) container a little bigger than the meat. The salt and sugar will pull liquid out of the meat as it cures; make sure the meat stays bathed in this brine throughout the process.
3. Refrigerate meat, turning and rubbing the belly to redistribute the cure every other day, for 7 days.
4. Remove belly from pan, rinse it thoroughly to remove any remaining cure, and pat dry. Put belly on a rack over a rimmed baking sheet and refrigerate, uncovered, for another 12 to 24 hours.
5. Smoke the belly in a hot smoker for 2 hours. The finished internal temperature of the bacon should be about 150 degrees F.
6. If, after 2 hours, your bacon has not reached this temperature, remove from the smoker. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Place belly on a metal roasting rack over a rimmed baking sheet and bake for 60-90 minutes, until the internal temperature reaches 150 degrees.
7. Remove bacon from oven and let cool. When cool, cut into one-pound pieces, and wrap tightly in plastic. Refrigerate or freeze until ready to use.

Joe Yonan in his home kitchen. All photos: Ed Anderson

Devotees of the NBC sitcom 30 Rock may well remember a scene in an episode that goes something like this: Liz Lemon, the perennially single character played by Tina Fey, is at home on the phone talking with her boss Jack Donaghy (played by public radio fan Alec Baldwin). Donaghy asks, somewhat unkindly, what Lemon did last night. She responds: "Well, I was going to go to my cooking for one class but my instructor committed suicide." Cue laugh track now.

Joe Yonan, the James Beard Award-winning food editor of The Washington Post, recalled that scene at a recent book signing at Omnivore Books, where he talked up his adventures in cooking for one, which he documents in a monthly column of the same name at the Post, and in his recent cookbook Serve Yourself (Ten Speed, paperback, $22).

Spend even a few minutes with Yonan and you'll figure out he's one funny guy. But Yonan isn't terribly amused by those who mock singletons who make a meal for themselves. That's because, he tells folks at the event, it feeds into people's perceptions that it's not worth "bothering" to make something delicious when "it's just me." He says such sentiment makes him tear up a bit and you believe him. He simply discounts the commonly held notion that cooking for one is depressing or sad. Alone and lonely are not synonymous in his mind. He's living proof: As the youngest of eight kids he has a highly developed sense of narcissism, he admits, and never ever thinks "it's just me." And you believe that, too.

That kind of secure thinking is worth imitating. Yonan's feed-yourself-well mantra boils down to this: Standards for what goes on the table shouldn't slip because there's only one place serving. That territory has been covered in other recent recipe books on eating alone, including those by culinary legends Judith Jones, Deborah Madison, and Joyce Goldstein, as well as an anthology of essays on the subject edited by Jennie Ferrari-Adler. (For reviews on these see my colleague Megan Gordon's piece on same, as well as her post on the lighter side of eating alone.)

Still, Yonan thought there was room in the genre for his male perspective (hello taco chapter) and his easy-to-make recipes aimed at food-fancying singles -- the fasted-growing segment of U.S. households. Young ones are waiting longer to get married (if at all), while many older folks who survive their spouses are healthy enough to live independently.

Serve Yourself is full of useful tips, walking readers through the three concerns of single amateur chefs: portion size, shopping, and spoilage. (In short: the freezer is your friend (cooked rice, broth, or pizza dough, can form the beginnings of many a meal), as is the fridge (condiments like chutney, kimchee, and salsa can brighten lots of dishes), and the pantry (dried beans, pasta, or grains, can get things started at the stove). He offers solutions for storage to minimize waste and recommends that soloists make it a goal never to have to stop at the store on the way home from a long day at work, which sinks many home cooks, regardless of how many mouths there are to feed.

Yonan views cooking for one as an opportunity to take a few risks and diversify one's repertoire, since there's no performance anxiety issues at play, like those that can surface when cooking for a crowd. There aren't any unknown eating quirks or allergies to cater to either, he notes, there's only your sweet self to satisfy.

Cooking for yourself is literally a way of taking care of yourself, adds Yonan, who's quick to acknowledge he frequently cooks for and eats with family and friends. But there's no question that learning your way around a kitchen makes you less dependent on others, whether paid or not, to provide you with nourishment. It's both a selfless and selfish act. It's certainly cheaper and healthier than eating out or ordering take out every night.

There's a growing audience for this book. "Lots of people become single later in life because the relationship or marriage goes south, and I've run into lots of those on book tour," says Yonan. "Some of them are a little more open to the idea of cooking for themselves than you might think, because they see it as something of sweet revenge -- finally getting to make the things that they've wanted to, things that damn partner never wanted them to make. Some find it soothing to nurture themselves when they're heartbroken, of course," he explains. "And some are ready to move on, big time. I had one recently single gentleman slip me a note at a signing that read, 'If you're ever ready to cook for two, you know where to find me.'"

Yonan's cookbook includes over 100 recipes for both weeknight dining and more complex cooking projects for weekend meals, when time is potentially less a factor. Not surprisingly eggs feature prominently (there's a whole chapter on these portion-controlled, versatile, long-lasting, fast-cooking, protein-filled friend of the single cook) and it's good to find another eggs-for-dinner advocate. Pizza gets a chapter too and Yonan reveals his Texas roots with his fondness for salsas, beans, and those tacos. Bonus: The man is a sweet potato fan. Dishes that sound worthy solo endeavors include Mushroom and Green Garlic Frittata, Sweet Potato and Orange Soup with Smoky Pecans, Catfish Tacos with Chipotle Slaw, and Smoked Trout, Potato, and Fennel Pizza. Meat lovers will find pulled pork, short ribs, and sirloin steak, no worries. And there are desserts too, like Cappuccino Tapioca Pudding with Cardamom Brulee.

The only drawback to solo cooking, as far as Yonan is concerned: There's no one to help with the clean up after dinner, which, since he lives alone, he often leaves until the morning, as there's no one to nag about dishes in the sink.

Yonan needs to send a copy of Serve Yourself to Tina Fey pronto. With his enthusiasm for the pleasures of cooking for one, even the cynical Liz Lemon might be won over.

Cappuccino Tapioca Pudding with Cardamom Brulee

Makes 6 (1/2-cup) servings

3 cups milk, preferably low-fat
1/3 cup small pearl tapioca
1 tablespoon instant espresso powder
2 egg yolks, whisked to combine
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom

Pour 1 cup of the milk into a heavy saucepan. Add the tapioca and let soak for at least 30 minutes.

Pour the remaining 2 cups of milk into a mixing bowl or glass measuring cup, sprinkle the espresso powder over, let it sit for a minute or two, and then stir to dissolve.

Whisk the espresso-milk mixture into the tapioca mixture, along with the egg yolks, salt, and 1/3 cup of the sugar. Over medium heat, slowly bring the mixture just barely to a boil, stirring constantly; it will take 10 to 15 minutes. Reduce the heat until the mixture is barely simmering, and continue cooking the tapioca, stirring occasionally, until the beads swell up and become almost translucent and the custard thickens, another 15 to 20 minutes.

Remove from the heat and let it cool. Spoon the pudding into 6 individual 1/2-cup ramekins and wrap each in plastic wrap, pressing the plastic directly onto the surface of the pudding to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate until chilled. It will keep it the refrigerator for several days or in the freezer for up to 2 months.

When you are ready to eat, unwrap one of the ramekins of pudding (thaw it first if frozen), and sprinkle the top with 1 teaspoon of the remaining sugar and a pinch of cardamom. Use a small culinary blowtorch to caramelize the sugar on top, keeping the torch moving so you deeply brown but don’t blacken the sugar, then eat.

Last chance for tomatoes! Now's the time to get your final fill of summer's bounty, time to buy a bagful and stock the pantry for the long days of kale and pumpkin ahead. Mariquita Farms' Ladybug Buying Club will be in residence at Camino on Thursday Oct. 6, from 5-7pm, if you want to split a flat with a pal or two. For canning, the best tomatoes aren't the huge splashy heirlooms but the more modest Romas or Early Girls, short on size but dense with punchy flavor and sweetness.

Having participated in a massive can-a-thon of Roma tomatoes last year, I must say I'd rather spend such kitchen time pumping out a product with a few more frills. (For preserving straight-up peeled tomatoes, a vacuum sealer and plenty of freezer space are much more efficient.) Frills like barbecue sauce, or ketchup, especially this well-spiced, un-corn syruped, oven-roasted version, as good on a steak as a burger, on French fries or scrambled eggs. I put this out at a recent brunch between the home fries and the salmon eggs Benedict, and the bowl came back scraped clean.

Yes, it takes a long time, but the actual hands-on time is short. Some chopping, a little spice-toasting, the occasional stir, and all the rest is simply unattended oven time. A thick puree like this one can scorch and splatter when you try to cook it down, however slowly, on the top of the stove. Here, a slow roast concentrates the tomatoes without carbonizing them, while a final, brief stovetop cooking melds the flavors.

You could up the amount of vinegar, sugar, onions, and heat, add some molasses, and make into something more like barbecue sauce, even replacing the tomatoes with late-season plums. You can start with this spice mixture, then add more or less as your taste commands. A pinch of cardamom, some cayenne pepper for zing, more ginger, whatever you like. You can even put it in a red plastic squirt bottle, just like at your favorite burger joint. In this case, it really is a vegetable.

Want to share what you've put up and getting handy tips from other urban-homesteading enthusiasts? The preserving pros at Happy Girl Kitchen (who make a very tasty ketchup of their own) are hosting an Autumnal Recipe Exchange today, Oct. 2, from 12-5pm in Oakland. Bring samples of what you've been making along with personal recipes to swap.

Recipe: SLOW-ROASTED AUTUMN KETCHUP
Summary: Dress up a meatloaf or a burger with this smooth and saucy ketchup. Slow and steady oven roasting prevents scorching.
Prep Time: 30 minutes
Cook Time: 4 hours
Total Time: 4 hours 30 minutes
Yield: 1 quart

Ingredients:
4 lbs small, dense-fleshed tomatoes, such as Romas or Early Girls
2 hot peppers, seeded and chopped
1 onion, peeled, halved, and sliced
8 cloves garlic, peeled and sliced
3 quarter-sized slices of fresh ginger, peeled
2 tbsp olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 cinnamon stick
4 whole cloves
1/2 tsp coriander seeds
1/2 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 tsp mustard seeds
1/2 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp smoked paprika (pimenton)
1/2 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp oregano
1/4 cup cider vinegar
1/4 balsamic vinegar
1/3 to 1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
1 tablespoon maple syrup
2 tablespoons honey
Salt to taste

Instructions:
1. Preheat oven to 325F. In a glass or ceramic 9 x 13 pan, toss tomatoes, peppers, onions, garlic, and ginger together. Drizzle generously with olive oil and sprinkle lightly with salt and black pepper. Break cinnamon stick in half and tuck both halves, plus cloves, into the tomato mixture. Roast, stirring occasionally, for 2 hours, until tomatoes are cooked down and saucy.

2. Remove cinnamon stick and cloves. Put tomato mixture through a food mill or push through a strainer to remove skins and make into a smooth puree.

3. In a small, heavy frying pan, toast coriander, cumin, and mustard seeds over medium heat for a few minutes, until the mustard seeds begin to pop and the mixture smells toasty. Remove from heat and let cool briefly, then grind to a powder using a mortar and pestle or spice grinder.

4. In a bowl, mix spices, tomato puree, vinegar, sugar. Pour mixture back into 9x13 pan and return to oven. Bake, stirring occasionally, until mixture is thickened and flavors have blended, about 1 hour. Taste and adjust seasoning.

5. To fully meld the flavors, scrape mixture into a heavy saucepan and cook over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, for 10-15 minutes.

6. Pour into sterilized jars and seal. Or, pour into clean glass jars, let cool, then top with lids and store in the refrigerator. The ketchup is ready to eat right away, but gets better after collecting itself for a few weeks.

When a world-famous and beloved chef gathers together sixty years of the recipes he "love[s] the most" and stuffs them in a hearty cookbook that measures two inches thick, it's time to make room on the bookshelf. This fall Jacques Pépin publishes his newest cookbook, Essential Pépin, and gives his hungry fans over 700 of his favorite recipes culled from his six decades as an apprentice cook, professional chef, and cooking school teacher.

Always the perfectionist in and out of the kitchen, Jacques didn't go easy on himself when putting this book together. In his introduction, Jacques admits that he could have simply sent off all 700+ recipes to be published with no additional changes, however, he instead decided to reconsider each one and "adjust, correct, and retest [them] for a modern kitchen to make them usable, friendly, and current for today's cook, while retaining the spirit and flavor of the originals." Essential Pépin is essentially Jacques, and the recipes reflect his life in food from the fanciest French dishes to the homiest American comfort foods to his personalized approach to "fast food" cooking.

I don't know what Jacques' original recipe was for Onion Soup Lyonnaise-Style, but this one did me just fine on a pre-Autumnal evening. As I swim my way through a practically tangible haze of slowly simmering onions and browning mountain cheese, I will say that I wish Jacques had been a little more specific about what port is "sweet port." To me, all port -- ruby, tawny, vintage -- is fairly sweet. It's not like sherry where one is clearly sweet and one is clearly dry. I went with ruby for this recipe, but might try tawny another time just to experience a taste comparison. Also, I didn't use canned stock. What with all the scary news about what is going on with canned foods these days, I buy cartons of stock not cans. Of course, that's an even better excuse to make your own stock, which is Jacques' primary suggestion.

Onion Soup Lyonnaise-Style

Serves 6 to 8

15-20 slices baguette, 1/4 inch thick
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 medium onions, thinly sliced (about 4 cups)
8 cups homemade chicken stock or low-salt canned chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups grated Gruyère or Emmenthaler cheese
2 large egg yolks
1/2 cup sweet port

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Arrange the bread slices on a cookie sheet and bake for 8 to 10 minutes, until browned. Remove from the oven and set aside. (Leave the oven on.) Melt the butter in a large saucepan. Add the onions and sauté for 15 minutes, or until dark brown.

Add the stock, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil and cook for 20 minutes. Push the soup through a food mill.

Arrange one third of the toasted bread in the bottom of an ovenproof soup tureen or large casserole. Sprinkle with some of the cheese, then add the remaining bread and more cheese, saving enough to sprinkle over the top of the soup. Fill the tureen with the hot soup, sprinkle the reserved cheese on top, and place on a cookie sheet. Bake for approximately 35 minutes, or until a golden crust forms on top.

At serving time, bring the soup to the table. Combine the yolks with the port in a deep soup plate and whip with a fork. With a ladle, make a hole in the top of the gratinée, pour in the wine mixture, and fold into the soup with the ladle. Stir everything together and serve.

I also tried one of Jacques' pita pizzas -- the one with red onion, tomatoes, Herbes de Provence, chives, and Gruyère cheese -- and it's definitely something I'm going to try out on my toddler. In fact, my husband was so taken with the pizza that I had to make another one right after we scarfed down the first one. I was out of tomatoes, so my second rendition was done up with slices of red onion, Herbes de Provence, chives, Gruyère, and a handful olive oil-dressed watercress I tossed on the pizza after it came out of the oven.

If I recall from my work on More Fast Food My Way, Jacques' pita pizzas are part of his "fast food" oeuvre, and clearly the onion soup smacks of his classical French background, so I decided to round out my Essential Pépin sojourn with his roast chicken recipe, a classic American entry.

My experience with this recipe was somewhat rocky. While I loved Jacques' tip about not covering the finished chicken with foil (because the steaming that ensues makes the chicken taste reheated), I did struggle mightily to keep the stubborn bird on its side during part of the roasting process. I ended up lacerating one of the drumsticks during the balancing act, but since the drumsticks go to my toddler, it wasn't a huge loss.

As my husband and I stood over the warm chicken, tearing off crispy skin and strips of juicy breast meat with our fingers, he mumbled through a mouthful, "Best roast chicken you've ever made." I then whisked some Grey Poupon into the pan of unstrained juices, warmed it slightly, and poured it off into a bowl. We continued feasting, this time dipping our fingerfuls of chicken into the sauce. In this book, there's Jacques the Chef.

I leafed through the rest of the book, scanning other recipes, and suddenly realized I wasn't even reading the recipes because I completely enthralled by the illustrations. In this cookbook, there's no glossy photography showing rivulets of garnet juices running down a slice of steak, no crooked fingers of steam rising from hot-from-the-oven rolls, there's just a gratin pan here, a curly head of Boston lettuce there, an occasional plump chicken pecking in the dirt -- all lovingly rendered in watercolor by the chef himself. In this book, there's Jacques the Artist.

Early in the book is a 3-page "General Information About Eggs" section, which is seeded with smidges of new-to-me information. Here Jacques shares a great tip about freezing individual egg whites in ice cub trays and how raw unbroken egg yolks should be covered with cold water for optimal refrigerator storage. However, the egg tip I find most fascinating is the idea that it's not it's necessary to bring eggs to room temperature before whipping up their whites. The master chef's opposing opinion is that the texture of egg whites is "tighter, smoother, and better if the egg whites are cold, even though the volume after beating is slightly less." Tucked among the 700 recipes are other snippets of advice, like how to make your own proof box for baking and ways to improvise your own fish smoker out of an old pot or roaster and a screen.

The next recipe I'm most looking forward to trying is the Grilled Squid on Watercress. Grilled squid is a dish I always order (sometimes in multiples) if I see it on a restaurant menu, but I've never had sufficient courage to try at home. With Jacques by my side, guiding me through each step, I think I'll finally be able to attempt it. In this book, there's Jacques the Teacher.

Packaged with the book is a 3-hour DVD of Jacques' techniques, which really deserves its own review. The very first technique Jacques demonstrates is the proper way of tying your apron to insulate yourself against burns, and attaching your towel to your apron for attractiveness and ease of retrieval. Genius. There are other worthy techniques, of course, and some are difficult -- making butter roses and gilding them with paprika for color -- and some are easy, like peeling broccoli stems for cooking.

Also not to be missed is KQED's 26-episode TV show, Essential Pépin, which starts airing on October 15th. KQED's specially designed website will feature 2-4 printable recipes from each episode along with delectable photographs of the finished dishes. The website also enables you to watch full episodes online a week before they air on TV.

The autumn equinox has passed, and at sundown today, Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, begins. (Happy 5773!) One of my favorite parts of this important but still joyous holiday is the mandate to start the year with sweetness. No radicchio, no vinegar, nothing bitter or sour. That will come in due time, as part of life. But right now, while the new year is still untouched and full of promise, it should hold nothing but sweetness. Honey is a traditional part of the new year's table, as are new fruits, those that have just ripened during this autumn season but haven't found their way into your kitchen yet. They can be served as is, baked into desserts, or slow-braised with chicken, duck, or brisket.

We have a rich variety of such fruits to choose from this season: dusty blue, oval-shaped French and Italian sugar plums, excellent for baking in cakes and tarts; luscious juice-dripping melons; grapes of all colors and sizes, from golden, winey Muscats to brilliant Autumn Flames; the first greeny-yellow Bartlett pears and rough-skinned amber Asian pears. And of course, figs, the crown of our fall harvest. There are Black Mission and Brown Turkey figs, green Kadotas and crazy Candystripes. They are frankly seductive, not juicy like a peach but lush and yielding when perfectly ripe.

Ripeness is all, though: an unripe fig is a hard, chalky thing with all the appeal of seedy spackle. So, first rule of thumb: make sure your figs are ripe. How to tell? A ripe fig should give a little. A drop of clear, sticky juice oozing from the tiny hole at the base is a good thing. You don't want moldy or wrinkly, but softer is better.

It also depends on what you're doing with them. Almost-mushy figs are the tastiest, but they're not going to slice neatly. A wonderful salad for firmer figs this time of year is arugula and mixed lettuces tossed with wheels of peeled orange and quartered figs, dressed with a shallot-sherry vinaigrette and showered, just before serving, with sliced, toasted almonds and nubbins of fresh goat cheese (chevre). Or you can make a divine hors-d'oeuvre by cutting a cross in the top of each fig, tucking in a nubbin of goat or blue cheese, drizzling them with pomegranate molasses and running them under the broiler until the fruit swells and the cheese just begins to melt. Truly, one of the best ways to treat a fig that I've ever discovered.

A warm fig is a sexy fig, and so I love baking with fresh figs this time of year. I can imagine this schiacciata d'uva made equally delicious with halved figs instead of grapes. The cake below started as your typical fall apple cake, loaded with diced apples, toasted walnuts, a sweet spice mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. But it grows up and becomes a little more elegant when the apples and walnuts are swapped out in favor of figs and almonds, and when the cinnamon is nudged out by the fragrant, camphor-y aroma of cardamom. The seeds of one or two pods of fresh green cardamom, freshly ground or crushed into a cup of sugar, will give more than enough perfume to this cake. You could also crush the dried blossoms of a few stalks of lavender into your sugar instead, to a different but equally lovely effect.

Recipe: Fig Cake with Almonds
Summary: Want to go wheat-free? You can replace the white and wheat flours in this easy autumn cake with a mixture of oat and barley flours.

Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 25-30 minutes
Total Time: 45-50 minutes
Yield: 1 cake

Ingredients:
1 cup all-purpose unbleached white flour
1 cup whole-wheat pastry flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
6 oz (10 tbsp) butter, softened
1 1/3 cup cardamom or lavender sugar
grated rind of 1 orange
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
3 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
8 ripe fresh figs, stems removed, quartered
2 tbsp honey
1/4 cup sliced almonds

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease a 10” round baking pan or 9"x13" rectangular pan.

2. Sift flours, baking powder and soda, and salt together in a large bowl. Set aside.

3. Cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing until each one is thoroughly incorporated into the batter before adding the next. Beat in orange rind and vanilla.

4. Beat in one third of the buttermilk. Using a rubber spatula, gently fold in the flour mixture in thirds, alternating with the remaining buttermilk.

5. Spread batter in the prepared pan. Press figs lightly into the batter, cut side up, in a decorative pattern. Drizzle with honey and scatter with sliced almonds.

6. Bake for 25-30 minutes, until a tester inserted in the center comes out clean and cake is pale golden-brown. Let cool on a rack before removing from pan.

7. Serve with a dollop of crème fraiche or Greek yogurt mixed with honey.

Chef Scott Spencer, owner of Spencer's Pantry. Photo by Jenny Oh.

If you know any cyclists, chances are they're "food-passionate" (This sounds less pejorative than food-obsessed.) They range from serious athletes who religiously count calories and eat specific nutrients to stay fit for races, or those like me: folks who pedal hundreds of miles so we can eat delicious meals guilt-free.

Chef Scott Spencer is a fellow cycling-food enthusiast who I met through the Bay Area cycling community. To borrow some racing classification terms from the world of cycling, Scott is a cooking "Pro," whereas I'm merely a mid-range "Category 3." As the owner of Oakland-based Spencer's Pantry, he'll prepare an exquisite 6-course meal for you and your guests using fresh, local seasonal ingredients -- often from his garden.

48-hour short rib, 12-hour pork belly, brown butter potatoes, baby carrots, onions and beurre rouge. Photo by Scott Spencer.

Preserved Meyer lemon ricotta-stuffed squash blossom, rock shrimp, basil and fresh pea puree. Photo by Scott Spencer.

Diver scallop, caviar lentils, farro, uni cream and tarragon. Photo by Scott Spencer.

His culinary interests began over ten years ago while cooking on a casual basis for friends. Scott's hobby soon evolved into the pursuit of a professional culinary career, and he attended the California Culinary Academy in 2002. Upon graduating, Scott held diverse group of jobs: he learned about desserts at Scharffen Berger, worked the wood oven at B Restaurant and oversaw the raw bar at the now-defunct Pearl Oyster Bar & Restaurant in Oakland.

Then he landed at Boulevard in San Francisco, "a restaurant that I had really dreamed about working in since I started cooking. But I was still on the line, busting my butt every night and I hit a spot in my life that made me question where I was going to be when I was 30."

"My friend was working for Thrillist.com and approached me about an article. He knew I did some catering on the side to supplement my cook's income. I just said, 'Write that I will come over and cook a meal like I do for my friends and family. Very intimate, more along the lines of having a dinner party with a friend who is a chef.' I got 63 emails that morning, left Boulevard and was off to the races. It's been nothing but great for the last 2 years."

Scott says there are many benefits to owning his own business. "I can close up shop and travel when I would like. I make a lot more money than I ever have. I don't have any employees, so I have total quality control. I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my cooking. The only con has been the time involved doing it all myself. I ride my bicycle around the Bay Area to gather ingredients, so the prep time turns into a 14-18 hour workday before a dinner."

If you'd like to have Scott pedal over and cook for you in your home, visit his blog and website to learn more about Spencer's Pantry. You can also check out his reviews on Yelp and find him on Facebook and Flickr.

Heirloom tomato gazpacho. Photo by Scott Spencer.

As it's prime tomato season, here's one of Scott's stellar recipes for a vegan Heirloom Tomato Gazpacho. It's also gluten-free as it eschews the usual addition of bread.

Heirloom Tomato Gazpacho
Makes 6 Cups

1 ½ lbs. very ripe heirloom tomatoes cored and roughly chopped
1 large yellow onion thinly sliced
1 English cucumber peeled and roughly chopped
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon salt
1/4 tablespoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar

Add olive oil, onion and cayenne to a large pot, stir and set to low heat. Cook until soft and translucent, about 15 minutes. Take the pot off the heat and add the rest of the ingredients. Stir and add in small batches to a blender. Blend on high until smooth and run through a fine mesh strainer (optional).

If needed, season with salt, cayenne and rice vinegar. You are looking for the warmth of the cayenne, the flavor of tomato and the zing of a little vinegar. The soup should be chilled and served cold.

Purple-Speckled Dragon-Tongue Romano Beans grown by Annabelle Lenderick at La Tercera Farm

Corn, tomatoes, beans, and peppers: the quartet of summer, born in the Americas. None of these need much fussing with, and all four go very well together, in any number of permutations. Steamed green beans with halved cherry tomatoes and silvered red onion, drizzled with olive oil and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Corn salsa with chopped tomatoes, lime, and cilantro, served with black beans on a corn tortilla. Roasted peppers mixed with grilled corn next to sliced flat-iron steak. Fresh shelling beans--cannellini, borlotti, cranberry--tossed with corn and herbs for a sweet summer succotash, far away from winter's bleak frozen-limas-and-canned-corn version. The seed-flecked juices of a fresh tomato salad soaking into an ear of plain boiled corn on the cob, with the insistent perfume of basil and perhaps a dab of garlicky mayonnaise somewhere close by.

My friend Jen McAllister used to write a charmingly delicious food blog, Prepare to Meet Your Bakerina, about her adventures, cooking and otherwise, in a bite-sized apartment in Astoria, Queens. By August, she and her husband, sunk in muggy late-summer torpor and farmers' market overload, were perfectly satisfied with eating what they'd dubbed The Cornbread Thing several nights running. It's a simple composition, but a winning one: a fresh corn relish/salsa, made of cooked corn, chopped tomato, a bit of sweet onion, lime juice, chili powder, salt, and olive oil, left to macerate overnight; a skillet-baked batch of cornbread; some Greek yogurt, plenty of cilantro. The cornbread is cut into wedges and split horizontally, then slathered with Greek yogurt, dolloped with corn relish, and ornamented with sprigs of cilantro. What more do you need?

Well, how about salmon? Local sockeye and king salmon is in its late-summery, coral-colored glory right now, and poaching a slab of fish is even easier than baking a pan of cornbread. I'm enamored of the "shallow poaching" method outlined in The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters. No need for full submersion: fill a shallow saute pan with just enough liquid (half water, half white wine, or water with a splash of white-wine or champagne vinegar) to come half-way up your fish filets or steaks. Add a few sprigs of tarragon, parsley, thyme, whatever aromatic nice thing you have growing, plus a few thin slices of lemon or lime and a big pinch of salt. Bring to a boil, cut the heat to barely a simmer, and slip the fish into the liquid. Cook, without letting it boil, for about 3 to 4 minutes. Flip the fish over, and cook for another few minutes, until it's just cooked through, and remove. For a nearly instant sauce, reduce the poaching liquid by half, then whisk in some cubes of cold butter. Remove the lemon and herbs, and voila! Beurre blanc without tears.

Or you can skip the buttery action and simply lavish your poached salmon, warm or chilled, with a slightly tweaked version of Jen's corn relish, over a plateful of lightly steamed green beans or, even better, the wonderful purple-speckled dragon-tongue romano beans grown by Annabelle Lenderick at La Tercera Farm.

Recipe: Summer Corn Salsa

Summary: This easy salsa, adapted from a recipe on the blog Prepare to Meet Your Bakerina, makes a wonderful summer topping for poached or grilled fish.

Prep time: 10 minutes
Cook time: 5 minutes
Total time: 15 minutes
Yield: 4 cups

Ingredients
6 ears fresh corn, husked
2 tbsp pure chile powder
a pinch of ground cumin, optional
1 tbsp water
1/2 of a large sweet onion
1 jalapeno, seeded and diced
1 large tomato
1/2 tsp salt
1 tbsp olive oil
juice of 2 juicy limes
a handful of cilantro or basil leaves, stems removed

Instructions

1. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Drop in corn, bring back to a boil, then cover and turn off heat. Let stand for 4 minutes, then drain and let corn rest until cool enough to handle.

2. While corn is cooking, stir chile powder into lime juice, and let sit for a few minutes while you dice the tomato and onion. Cut corn off the cob and mix with chile, lime, tomatoes, onion, jalapeno, salt and olive oil. Taste for seasoning.

3. Salsa can be made several hours (or even a day) before serving. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Just before serving, add a small handful of roughly chopped cilantro or basil leaves.