SpiceLines

A sharply flavored parsley salad with Kalamata olives, shallots and pecorino cheese is a
perfect foil for juicy pork chops brined in salt, brown sugar and spices and grilled over a charcoal fire.

To continue: Last night I made a smashing dinner—or so I was told--using two of the ingredients in the Elysian Fields Farm CSA box: a big bunch of flat leaf parsley and a pint of local strawberries. Also on the menu: a quartet of succulent pork chops, another product of the farm, brined with hot chiles and sweet spices.

To get in an "everyday cooking" mood, I spooned a few plump strawberries into a glass of fizzy pink Prosecco.

Roasting at 500 degrees intensifies the sweet, earthy flavor of root vegetables such as beets,
carrots, turnips and rutabagas. Even the scallions caramelize and become irresistibly sweet.

It’s a race against time.

Tomorrow is Wednesday which means Elise will be delivering another CSA box exploding with gorgeous, eat-me-now vegetables.

Yesterday I decisively hacked away at last week’s bounty by making a room temperature salad of oven-roasted Rainbow carrots, Forona Beets, and a dozen scallions. For good measure I threw in the rutabagas that had been malingering in the crisper drawer and some darling baby turnips that I had managed to overlook.

Sweet, aromatic coriander seeds accent the mild, nutty flavor of cauliflower gently cooked
with ginger, green chilies and scallions. Turmeric gives the vegetable a golden hue.

I just slipped in under the wire.

Normally I hate cooking under pressure. (One of the many, many reasons you’ll never see me working in a restaurant kitchen, or sharpening my knives on Top Chef.) But this week I’ve been trying to beat the clock, using up all the vegetables in our CSA box before Elise leaves another bounteous delivery on our doorstep.

On Tuesday I cooked the last offerings: one cauliflower, two zucchini and a yellow crookneck squash.

Where: Sportello in Boston

When: Last Friday night

What: Mustard Green Agnolotti with lamb, fava, rapini.

Late spring flavors: fragile pasta filled with sautéed greens and cheese, in a bowl with melting braised lamb, nutty broccoli rabe, and luscious little fava beans; topped with shaved parmigiano-reggiano. Delicious, unexpectedly rich, impossible to finish.

Mixologists in motion at Drink, Barbara Lynch's popular Boston speakeasy.

Maybe never.

Serendipity and I were at Drink, Barbara Lynch’s vastly popular Boston speakeasy, two flights down from Sportello. Famously, Drink has no cocktail menu. You just tell the mixologist what you’re in the mood for–maybe rye or crème de violette or waters of forgetfulness from the river Lethe—and minutes later a drink, possibly something you’ve never even thought of, appears in front of you.

Just don’t ask for an apple martini. There are certain drinks these alchemists of alcohol won’t touch.

But Serendipity wanted something with rum. The tattooed bartender—well, they almost all have tattoos, but this one had a particularly florid armband—proposed a Daiquiri. “I usually find them too sweet,” said my companion. The mixologist arched one eyebrow and retorted: “When was the last time you had a proper Daiquiri? They’re really quite balanced.”

Sunflowers bordering the fields at Breeze Family Farm, site of Sunday's
Farm to Fork Picnic. Proceeds will benefit small farms across North
Carolina through expanded apprentice programs.

It was about the produce, of course.

Local strawberries and blueberries, baby beets and bok choy, garlic scapes, basil and red chard. Organically raised pork, rabbit, chicken and goat in various guises. Farmers and chefs shared star billing, while food artisans offered tastes of rhubarb-flavored ale, varietal honey and pecan toffee.

But in the end, pickles ruled.

Dewy Harvester peaches from Caskey Orchards brought a cool breath of
air to San Antonio's Pearl Farmer's Market on a brutally hot Saturday.

As one man said, it was “smokin’ hot.”

A brutal 102 degrees, blasting off the asphalt parking lot like a raging mesquite fire.

I grew up in San Antonio, but I’ve clearly lost my tolerance for this brain-liquefying South Texas heat.

Still, when I ran across these dewy peaches at the Pearl Farmers Market, I could almost feel a cool country breeze blowing my way.