It's 7am here in Novato, time to walk across the creek (summer dry now, except for a puddle or two under the rocks) and feed the goats and chickens. These last few weeks have been a country-living idyll, if you can call a mere 15-minute drive from an on-ramp to 101 the country.

But the neighbors have horses, the only sounds at night are peacocks moaning and dogs barking, and across the creek and the little meadow is a former donkey stable turned goat-and-henhouse, home to two young goats, Teddy and Lila, each about the size of a spaniel, and 9 plump hens--4 blonde and bosomy Buff Orpingtons, 3 glossy Rhode Island Reds, and 2 perky little bantam Brahmas.

The chickens tolerate the goats, since their presence involves the appearance of tasty sweet hay and goat chow twice a day. Teddy and Lila, meanwhile, accept life with a mess of clucking, pecking birds underfoot as perfectly normal. Right now, they spend a lot of time bending their little goat brains into figuring out how to get into the enclosure where the feed tubs are kept. It's wood-walled, locked and chicken-wired at every opening, but that hasn't stopped them from poking and butting at every opportunity.

So far, living near these chickens has opened my wannabe urban-farmer eyes-- and ears. Chickens are noisy, even when there's no rooster around. Hens will cackle, call, chirp and just downright yell their feathered little heads off when they feel like it, 6am and your sweet dreams be damned.

The look in a hen's eye when one approaches her in her nest could drill holes in a diamond. I know egg baskets lined with cheerful gingham dish towels do not exist in nature, but any hen worth her salt will know exactly what you're up to when you come sidling up to her, little basket slung casually over one wrist. One more step and I'll shoot, she seems to say, and so far I haven't be brave enough to put her glare to the test.

There's already 2 dozen eggs in the fridge as it is, half left by the owners and half this week's haul. Some are white and dainty, others big and brown, but all are delicious as only new-laid eggs from happy hens can be.

The yolks stand up and shout, bright yellow ringed by a thick, nearly aspic-like white. Hard-boiled, they're nearly impossible to peel--too fresh. But scrambled, poached, fried sunny-side up, they make getting crowed out of bed at first light seem worth it.

Naturally, with the eggs of 9 happy layers at my disposal, challah, quiches, and custards of all sorts are looking pretty good.

For something made with not much more than milk, cream, eggs, and corn, corn pudding has many variations, most of which hark back to the South. There are simple, silky puddings, trembling and delicate as a Japanese chawanmushi, baked in a water bath to cook the custard gently and evenly. There are brawny ones, made with cornmeal (or, more likely, Jiffy cornbread mix) like spoonbread, kissing cousin to a corn muffin. Some are spicy with jalapeno and pepper cheese, others sweet with sugar.

Growing up, my mother made it the way her mother did: custardy and simple, baked in a white souffle dish and dusted with paprika for color. Sometimes she separated the eggs, first sauteeing some onion and red pepper in the butter, stirring in the flour then adding the milk and cream, bubbling it into a creamy white sauce. The egg yolks were whisked and tempered with a little sauce, then stirred into the sauce and cooked until thickened. The egg whites were beaten to drooping peaks, then quickly folded in and popped into a hot oven. Puffed and golden, this was no mere corn pudding but a puffed and golden corn souffle. Either way, served with broiled lemon chicken and a salad of ripe tomatoes dabbed with mayonnaise and fresh basil, these were eggs that tasted of summer.

Corn Pudding
Getting the pan of hot water into the oven without splashing (and burning) yourself is the one hurdle to using a bain-marie. The easiest trick? Bring a kettle of water to a boil. Preheat your oven. Put your pudding dish inside a larger baking pan (there should be at least an inch of room all around the dish) and place it on the oven rack. Using the kettle, pour hot water into the baking pan so it comes about halfway up your pudding dish. Slide rack carefully back into the oven, taking care not to slosh yourself.

When pudding is done, remove dish to a cooling rack or trivet. Leave the water-filled baking pan in the oven until cool, then remove.

Serves: 4

Ingredients
1 tbsp butter, melted
1 tbsp flour
1/2 tsp salt
freshly ground pepper
4 ears corn, or enough to make approximately 2 cups corn kernels
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup half-and-half
4 eggs, preferably from happy hens
a few pinches of sugar (optional)
a few pinches of cayenne pepper or a few dashes of hot sauce, optional
Paprika

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.

2. Grate each ear of corn across the large holes of a box grater until all the kernels and milk are off the cob. Or, cut kernels off cob with a sharp knife and pulse a few times in a food processor to make a lumpy puree.

3. Whisk corn, flour, and salt together.

4. Whisk eggs well and add to corn mixture along with milk and cream. Whisk in pepper, hot pepper, and sugar if desired. Lightly grease a 6-cup ceramic souffle-type dish. Pour corn mixture into dish.

5. Place a baking pan large enough to accommodate the baking dish onto the oven rack. Put baking dish inside pan, and fill pan with hot water to come halfway up the dish.

6. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, until top is golden brown and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.

7. Let cool for at least 10 minutes before serving. Like most custard-based dishes, this tastes best when eating warm rather than hot.

Summer is a tricky thing in San Francisco. A morning in July here often feels like a morning in February, much to the consternation of shivering tourist. We grab what sun we can two days here, three days there, until the fog rolls in and we're grabbing our sweaters and pashminas instead, shrugging our pasty shoulders all the while. If one never leaves the City, one has but few clues as to what life is like on the hot, sticky Outside. And I like that just fine.

I always know it's summer when I see berries flooding the markets. I grab baskets of them-- strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, snozberries-- and challenge myself to eat them all before they rot in my fridge, which happened last year, much to my shame. I decorate my cereal with them, never quite looking as well-placed as on the cereal boxes I never buy. I pretend I'm putting them in the wood chipper as I drop them into my blender to make smoothies. I sprinkle them over ice cream. I eat them out of hand.

If I want to put a little effort (and I do mean little) into doing something with berries, this year, I'm making berry pudding, one of the easiest and reasonably healthiest desserts around. If I were forced to give this dish human form, I would vote for Betty White. Rose Nyland-sweet, Sue Ann Nivens-tart, and just about as quick and clever as all Miss White's snappy answers on The Match Game. Put a little whipped cream on her and she's good to go. She's always good to go.

This is a recipe that is wonderfully simple in both preparation and outlook. Berries in, berries out. I was going to say it was easy- breezy but, unless eating raw fruits has a certain effect on your G.I. tract, it is merely easy. The only real time involved is the time the berries and bread must spend in the refrigerator, getting to know each other.

Berry Pudding

Many of the recipes I've read for Berry Pudding call for the berries to be cooked with sugar. I strongly object. Not to the sugar, mind you, but to cooking the berries. One might as well be using frozen fruit, and that, my friends, is a capital "C" crime in my book-- at least in high season.

I might suggest letting your berries ripen a bit before making them into pudding. They will thank you for it.

Serves: 4

Ingredients:

1/2 cup strawberries, chopped
1/2 cup blueberries, whole
1/2 cup raspberries, whole
1/2 cup blackberries, whole
2 tablespoons sugar, taste the berries to determine their sweetness before adding sugar. Adjust accordingly.
8 one half-inch slices of white bread, brioche, or other neutral starchy vehicle, cut to the shape of whatever molds one is using.
A splash of complementary booze (blackberry brandy, Cointreau, etc.) Complementary as in "will complement the flavor of the berries", not complimentary, as in "free". Of course, if your alcohol is both complementary and complimentary, I say bravo to you.
A pinch of salt

Preparation:

1. Wash berries well, but gently. Chop strawberries to the approximate size of the other berries. Place all berries into large bowl and sprinkle with sugar, salt, and booze. Let sit for five or so minutes.

2. After the berries have macerated a bit, lightly crush them. I feel I was a bit too excited when it came time to inflict harm upon mine. Stir.

3. Cover the bottoms of your molds with your most attractive bits of berry, since this will be the top of the dessert when it is unmolded. Place one piece of bread on top. Add more berries, a second layer of bread, then more berries.

4. Cover tightly with plastic wrap, pressing gently down upon the filled molds to remove any major air gaps.

5. Refrigerate for at least four hours or overnight.

6. To unmold, gently run the tip of a sharp knife between the outer edge of the filling and the inner edge of the mold. Hopefully, you have been clever enough to have removed the plastic wrap before doing so. Place serving plate over the top of the mold, invert, and gently giggle the pudding free of its form. Repeat with the remaining puddings, if you are serving them all at once.

7. Top with whipped cream, ice cream, or bacon. Whatever makes you happy.

I've been having deep thoughts about pudding lately. It all started when I was watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with my daughters. Twice in the movie, Luna Lovegood refers to eating pudding at a Hogwart's feast. Every time I heard the word "pudding," my mouth watered and I knew I had to make some soon.

But what type of pudding? Although Harry Potter takes place in the United Kingdom, land of the bread pudding and baked pudding, I imagined Luna sitting down to a lovely bowl of rich chocolate pudding. I mean, what kid dreams of bread pudding? Well, forget about Luna -- I have pudding dreams of my own and they are all creamy and chocolaty.

Once I decided to make pudding, I had a lot of questions. Whole milk or heavy cream? Eggs or no eggs? Nonfat or super fat? The options are endless and I began to feel a little like a puddin' head thinking about it all. The one thing I knew for sure was that I was going to make it from scratch.

Now before you scoff and say that you don't have time to make pudding from scratch, let me wag my digital finger at you. Making homemade pudding takes only about five minutes longer than mixing together a box of the instant stuff. Years of watching Jell-O commercials may have convinced you otherwise, but it's true. Not one of the three recipes I made took more than twelve minutes to cook. Honest. Plus, unlike the boxed variety, you can pronounce all the ingredients, which is always a plus.

Nonfat Pudding

I started my pudding adventure wondering if I could make a pudding with nonfat milk that tasted creamy and rich. I made one from the Cooking Light web site and was sadly disappointed. The pudding was flat in both texture and taste. The wonderful creaminess you get from milk fat was missing and although I used a nice bittersweet chocolate, its nuances were drowned out. After a few bites, my husband and I agreed it wasn't worth eating so we threw the whole thing out and made ice cream sundaes. If you're interested in trying this nonfat milk pudding, here's the recipe, and I wish you better luck.

Whole Milk Pudding Made with Cornstarch

The next night I made a chocolate pudding using a recipe on the New York Times web site by Mark Bittman. I am quite a fan of Mr. Bittman's and so wanted to try his version. The recipe called for whole milk, sugar, cornstarch, chocolate, and not much else. I used a nice Michel Cluizel Mangaro Lait milk chocolate, because I thought my daughters would like it. When I make this pudding again, however, I will use a bittersweet chocolate instead as the milk chocolate lost its character once it was added to milk and sugar. Don't get me wrong; it was still lovely with a nice caramel undertone. It just wasn't chocolaty enough for my tastes. The recipe itself was smooth and rich, although with the occasional gelatinous blob of cornstarch even though I tried to thoroughly whisk it into the cold milk. Here's the recipe. If you'd like to make a first-rate pudding and don't want to deal with eggs, this is the one for you.

Custard Pudding

The final pudding would actually be considered a custard by some, although for me it had the best flavor of the bunch and seemed the most pudding-like. I used egg yolks, whole milk, cornstarch, bittersweet chocolate, and a few other minor ingredients. After looking at about fifteen custard and pudding recipes, I ended up cobbling this one together on my own as the others seemed to use either too many egg yolks or called for heavy cream, while I wanted to use milk. Others required a double boiler, which seemed like a lot of work for what is supposed to be a simple dessert. This pudding was the most time intensive, but it still took under 12 minutes to make from start to finish. The texture was velvety; the taste complex yet balanced. I used a combination of cocoa powder and bittersweet chocolate, melting them in at different times to give the pudding a fuller chocolaty flavor. I used a nice cocoa powder along with some Grenada Organic Dark Chocolate. This one definitely hit the spot.

I asked some friends over for a blind taste test and all agreed that although the New York Times recipe was quite good, the custard pudding was superior. We felt the Times recipe was a great choice for parents who wanted to make good and fast pudding for kids, but that the custard pudding had better consistency and flavor. One of my friends called it a pudding for grownups, which seemed to sum it up nicely.

So, please, get rid of the Jell-O box and try some homemade pudding. You'll be pleasantly surprised at how easy and fast it is to make, and much happier with the results.

Velvety Bittersweet Chocolate Pudding
Makes 2 - 4 servings

Ingredients
2 large egg yolks
½ cup sugar
3 Tbsp corn starch
Dash of salt
2 Tbsp good cocoa powder
2 cups whole milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 Tbsp butter
3 ounces finely chopped bittersweet chocolate

Preparation

1. Heat the milk on medium-low heat until it starts to steam with small bubbles around the edge. Turn off the heat.
2. Whisk egg yolks with sugar in a bowl until the mixture is a light yellow color.
3. Add the sugar, corn starch, cocoa, and salt to the egg mixture and whisk thoroughly, making sure there are no lumps.
4. Add about a half cup of the warmed milk to the egg mixture, whisking vigorously to temper the eggs.
5. Add the egg mixture to the milk and incorporate thoroughly.
6. Cook on medium-low just until the mixture starts to bubble. Be sure to frequently stir or the pudding will start to burn at the bottom.
7. Lower the heat to simmer and cook for five minutes, stirring often.
8. Once the pudding is thickened, turn off the heat and stir in the butter and vanilla.
9. After the butter has melted, add in the chopped chocolate and stir until it is thoroughly melted and incorporated.
10. Divide into serving bowls, or place in one large bowl.
11. Cover with plastic wrap, being sure to let it sit directly on top of the pudding to avoid a skin forming.
12. Refrigerate for at least two hours.
13.Serve with whipped cream.

The first time someone asked me what a persimmon tasted like I paused for a long time. "It tastes like a persimmon," was not going to do. I tried to run through all the fruits and vegetables I knew, but nothing seemed right.

"It tastes like sex." I finally replied.

I was speaking of the Hachiya variety, about a hundred of which lined every windowsill or counter top of my then large communal kitchen. I had just come from an afternoon of 'persimmon hunting' with my mother in East Oakland. This activity involved climbing up a moldy ladder and onto the corrugated roof of a neighboring garage. Completely unsure if this roof was stable, I climbed onto it; placing my lanky self inside one overgrown, fruit laden persimmon tree. My very short mother stood safely below where I tossed her the fruits I could reach.

Persimmon hunting doesn't require camouflage but you might want to wear clothes you would to Happy Hour in a college town. A very ripe persimmon is basically a thin skinned balloon filled with orange slime. Fun.

The persimmon tree is a gorgeous thing. Basically invisible until autumn, the leaves and the fruit are waxy green. The tree sets at the first frost; leaves and conical, round, flattened or almost cubical fruit turning yellow and fire orange, announcing themselves gorgeously loud. A quick drive through lush North Berkeley the other day was a veritable persimmon tree show.

But the persimmon is enigmatic. At The French Laundry we had a small tree near the wine room and one fateful November afternoon I had a quiet but heated fight with a pastry cook. "It's ripe," Matt insisted. "No it's not," I replied emphatically and authoritatively. We stood like this, locked in a kind of Ernie and Bert argument about perception and truth staring down at the silent fruit. Finally it came to me. I sliced the persimmon in quarters and handed him a partially opaque piece.

My very tall, earnest, East Coast assistant got that terrible look on his face. I knew what the unripe persimmon was doing to him. Horrendously tannic, the immature Hachiya, (conical), persimmon is not to be taken lightly. It will pull all the moisture out of your mouth and mess you up. And not look back.

"OK you're right, it's not ripe." He conceded, defeated.

When buying Hachiyas pick fruit whose hue is as shockingly orange as you can find. Black or brown spots are ok. Place them stem side down on a sunny or warm window sill until they are completely translucent, sagging and attracting fruit flies. Prep on a large cutting board, scraping with a spoon, or other dull object, the flesh away from delicate skin. Puree this pulpy mess in a blender briefly. Store in glass or non-reactive material and lay plastic wrap or parchment paper directly on the surface to minimize oxidation.

The other variety, Fuyu, is quickly gaining popularity, probably due both to its versatility and the Hachiya's perplexity. The Fuyu straddles the sweet and salty kitchen seamlessly. While it is still difficult to pin down the taste of the Hachiya, the Fuyu's flavor can best be described as tasting like the scent of a freshly cut squash, but very sweet. Trying them out for the first time, my friend Jessica remarked, "I'm looking for the acid, but there is none, it just tastes of sugar."

While the Hachiya must be almost liquid before eating, (think of them as a vehicle for pectin), the Fuyu can be eaten rock solid or any version of softness that comes after leaving them out at room temperature. They take any French knife cut, especially the ineffable brunoise. In other words, they're fun to play with.

Here are two simple persimmon recipes, one for each varietal.

Persimmon Pudding

1 cup sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup whole milk
1 egg
1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted
1 cup Hachiya persimmon puree
1 splash vanilla extract
toasted walnuts (optional)
currants (optional)

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F
2) Butter baking container thoroughly, apply parchment, flat, on the bottom
3) Sift sugar, flour, cinnamon and baking soda into a bowl, add salt and whisk
4) In another bowl whisk egg, persimmon puree, & vanilla extract until uniform
5) Create well in bowl of dries and pour in wets, mixing with whisk, wooden spoon or spatula. Right before mixture is uniform, stir in melted butter
6) Pour batter 3/4's of the way into the buttered container
7) Bake uncovered in a partial bain marie or on a baking sheet about 20 minutes
8) Pudding is done when middle is set and does not jiggle when tapped
The pudding will keep at room temperature for up to a week.
I like to serve it with cognac chantilly or vanilla ice cream.

Naked Salad

4 Fuyu persimmons
1 1/2 cups pomegranate seeds

1) Cut top out like a tomato. Slice bottom off, being careful not to take too much fruit
2) Peel persimmons, cut four pieces off core the way you might an apple
3) Dice persimmons into a shape slightly larger than the pomegranate seed
4) Mix pomegranate seeds and diced persimmon gently with a spatula
This salad will keep refrigerated for about three days but is best eaten fresh.

Dressed Salad
A vinaigrette made with a light vinegar such as Sherry, Champagne or white Balsamic and a buttery extra virgin olive or a nut oil would complement these fruits nicely
The options for green leafies are endless-- sauteed &/or fresh escarole, romaine, little gems, or any other chicories would create a bright, colorful and seasonal salad.