Wild grapes are sour and perhaps the Aesop’s fable, The Fox and the Grapes, is the reason that the proper name for wild grapes is fox grapes.

I hope that the possibility of encountering an animal doesn’t deter you from gathering grapes. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bear, if it were as friendly as the ones Sal and her mother saw. This year, the only animals we encountered as we picked grapes were a pair of birds who weren’t happy about sharing and three sleepy beetles that traveled to our kitchen sink on the vines.

Sponge cake, topped with a layer of jelly and rolled into a spiral is a special treat when both the sponge cake and the jelly are homemade. Here’s how I did it:  … read more

Last week, our friend Richard called to say that it was time to pick pears. As I drove to his house, I remembered the first time I had seen pears on that tree.

It was nearly fourteen years ago, just after we had moved from Washington DC, leaving behind townhouses, taxicabs, and sirens, to come to live in rural in Vermont with farmhouses, tractors, cows and of course pear trees.

For the most part, adjusting to the changes was easy. I loved seeing mist rising on the river, wildflowers at the roadside and blue skies with white fluffy clouds. I wasn’t so comfortable when a snake appeared when I was mowing the grass or when a troop of turkeys wandered by. Luckily, those creatures were as timid as I was. Cows were another matter. I liked seeing them in the pastures, I marveled at their beauty but I needed to have a fence between me and them – until the first time I saw Richard’s pear tree. As I drove along the road near his house, I had to stop for a herd of cows. The cows were not in the meadow, they were in the middle of the road, and in no time at all, I was in the middle of the cows.

What to do? I sat in my car, with the windows closed and, after a minute or two, all of the cows, except for one lovely Jersey, walked slowly up the road, away from me and toward the barn. The remaining cow turned, looked back at me, batted her glorious eyelashes and headed for the pear tree growing in the center of the garden in front of a large house. She downed at least a dozen pears and then her herding instinct overwhelmed her desire for pears and she hustled off. I followed the cows at a safe distance, until the wanderers reunited with the rest of the herd at the top of the road. When I was certain that the cows had no interest in me, I knocked on the front door of the house and told the woman who opened the door that her cows were on the loose. She shrugged her shoulders, and said, “They’re not my cows but they like to stop by. I’ll call the farmer.”

A couple of years later, that woman, Nancy, and her husband Richard became our friends. I shared my story about the cow and the pear tree at our first meeting. Nancy explained that even though the cows still stopped by I was welcome to share the bounty of the pear tree with them. Each August, as summer winds down, when Richard calls about the pears, I think about Nancy who died four years ago.

On Saturday we had a picnic with friends and other sculptors at the opening of Sculpturefest in Woodstock. Charles’ sculpture of a mosque made its Vermont debut and I wanted to mark the day with a celebratory cake. The pears from Richard’s tree and a chunk of bittersweet Callebaut chocolate from the Coop inspired me to make a chocolate studded, pear cake. Here’s how I did it:

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The pie in the  post below is quick and easy but peaches with a coconut-broiled topping that I learned to make from my artist friend, Barbara, are even easier.

Barbara is an artist who seems to be in the midst of a most wonderful creative place. She has been working with tea bags, with no political statement, to create wonderful art that you can see here and  here. She created this sculpture with lids, tart pans, an egg poacher and more for Sculpturefest 2010, in Woodstock, Vermont. (The orange word are links, click on them and you will be magically transported to see more.)

When making these peaches, the most important ingredient is vigilance. Do not burn it as I did the first time I made it. Stand at attention, with the oven door open, and watch the sugary coconut brown and remove it promptly. Here’s how:

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At dinner, Charles told me about picking fruit in Wenatchee when he was a boy. He ended with the pronouncement, “Although most people don’t know it – nectarines are peaches.”

As the resident food expert, I said, “No. Nectarines are a crossbreed of peaches and plums.” He was confident and I was confident. It was time to Google. We logged on and there it was “… nectarines belong to the same species as peaches but have a recessive gene that gives them a smooth rather than fuzzy skin”. Who knew? Charles knew.

I had another conversation at the polls with Andrew, a new friend, who said that peaches were at their best simply peeled and mixed with Gran Marnier. That inspired me to make a creamy, uncooked pie topped with peaches when friends came to dinner on Friday. Here’s how I did it: … read more