Stone Fruit

This makes for an easy, satisfying breakfast when summer fruit is plentiful. Tahini, a Middle Eastern nut butter made from ground sesame seeds, is most often used to make hummus and baba ghanoush. I find that locally made and organic brands of tahini are fresher, sweeter, and looser than commercial brands, in which the oil has often separated from the solids.

Apricots seem exotic and rare because they disappear from the market before peaches and plums, their stone fruit cousins. Light grilling keeps their pleasing shape intact, and the fruit’s natural sweetness is accentuated by the fat and sourness of the goat cheese. If you don’t have a grill, sear the apricots in a pan, following the same instructions for grilling. For a sweeter take on this recipe, reduce the salt and pepper and, after topping the apricots with the goat cheese, drizzle them with honey and garnish with a few mint leaves.

Choose your favorite fall fruit to adorn this sweet focaccia. The great Italian cook who taught me how to make it recommended throwing three tablespoons of water into the lower part of the oven (below the pan of focaccia) three times during the first ten minutes of baking. The steam created results in a crispier crust. Try it, but be careful not to extinguish the pilot light or soak the focaccia!

Dede loved pickled peaches and all manner of preserves. Every year, there was a garden of fruits and vegetables. In the summer, my family would put up quart upon quart of green beans, peaches, and canned tomatoes, and in the fall, golden pears in syrup and muscadine preserves. He’d seal the lids tightly with his strong hands and place them in rows on shelves in the basement. The name of this recipe reminds me of the tongue twister, “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” Dede would often recite similar silly phrases, play word games, and come up with whimsical names for foods: “cat head” was a large biscuit. “Wasp’s nest” was loaf bread. “Floppy motus” was gravy. And Jell-O was appropriately called “nervous pudding.”

Each summer, any peaches that were not eaten, jellied, or canned were frozen. We would peel and slice the peaches and pack them into sealable plastic freezer bags. Most often, they later appeared as a topping for Meme’s Pound Cake (page 266). For a child, peach season was purgatory—it was so very hot—but I am sure Meme is smiling in heaven with satisfaction when she sees me practicing now what she taught me then. This soufflé uses the meringue method to rise, and the flavor is delicate and light. Frozen peaches may be used when peaches are not in season; simply defrost them before using.

Although native to China, peaches have been grown in Georgia since breeders began developing new varieties during the early 1900s. And while pecans are native to Texas, today they too are grown commercially in Georgia. This is a simple cobbler that requires little attention after the ingredients have been assembled and put in to cook, and it tastes simply delicious.

Peeling peaches with a knife can be a pain, but blanching them first makes it much easier. Lowering the peaches into a pan of boiling water for two or three minutes loosens the skins enough that you can easily peel them with your fingers. This works even better on tomatoes, which are impossible to peel otherwise.

This is a terrific recipe for preserving fresh cherries during their relatively short season. As they cook, their ruby red juices gush out and continue to deepen in color until they thicken to a flavorful syrup. Before folding them into ice cream, you’ll want to make sure they’re dry, since the liquid will muddy the ice cream. Drain the cherries in a strainer for at least 1 hour first, until they are sticky and dry (save the syrup for drizzling over ice cream). Then coarsely chop the cherries, or fold them into the ice cream whole as you remove it from the machine. Candied cherries are excellent on top of Lemon Sherbet (page 116) or Olive Oil Ice Cream (page 83), and on any homemade ice cream sundae you make as well.

If you’re as wild about sour cherries as I am, you’ll be as happy as I was to discover that big jars of them are available in Eastern European markets and specialty grocers (see Resources, page 237). They come packed in light syrup and are a fraction of the cost of their pricey Italian counterparts, and they’re simple to candy yourself. Once cooked and cooled, if you wish to mix the cherries into ice cream, drain them of their syrup completely (until they feel dry and sticky), and then fold them into your favorite flavor. I recommend White Chocolate Ice Cream (page 33), or try the Toasted Almond and Candied Cherry Ice Cream (page 60). Or simply use one, or more, to top off an ice cream sundae. (Save any leftover syrup to mix with sparkling water to make homemade sour cherry soda.) This recipe calls for 3 cups of cherries, which includes their syrup.

One of the best-tasting plums for cooking and eating is the Santa Rosa plum. Their meaty, succulent yellow flesh contrasts in color and flavor with the tangy purple skin. When cooked together, the sweet-tart flavors meld perfectly to make a heavenly granita. If you find it a bit too tart, serve it with a dollop of Whipped Cream (page 170).

Nectarines make a particularly enticing summertime granita that definitely merits precious freezer space as the temperature climbs. I patiently wait and wait for the first of the sweetest-smelling nectarines to appear, and then bang—I hit the markets, buying as many as I can. Try serving this granita surrounded by a mixture of raspberries, blueberries, and sliced strawberries sweetened with a touch of honey.

I’m insatiable when it comes to fresh cherries, and I eat pounds and pounds of them right off the stem during their ridiculously brief season, which I’m convinced is one of nature’s cruelest acts. But their characteristic flavor really becomes pronounced when warmed, so I sauté them first to deepen their luxurious flavor. Be sure to start with full-flavored, very dark cherries, like plump Burlat cherries or blackish red Bings.

I was twenty years old when I tasted my first fresh apricot. I was baking in a restaurant in upstate New York, and one day the produce person handed me a small paper sack of dewy orange orbs. I’d eaten many a dried apricot in my lifetime but had neither seen nor tasted a fresh one, and frankly, I didn’t know what to do with them. Since I had just a handful, I made one singularly gorgeous apricot tart that I kept away from prying hands (the greatest hazard for the pastry chef in any professional kitchen), slicing it carefully so eight lucky customers were able to have a taste. My first summer in California, I was amazed at how many fresh apricots there were and thought that the stacks of crates at the market were a one-time windfall. So I started hoarding them, making as many things as I could before they disappeared forever. Or so I thought. When next year rolled around and the cases of apricots started stacking up again, I learned that they were actually quite common and rather prolific. But to this day, when they’re in season I try to use as many as I can, still mindful of how precious each and every silky-soft apricot is. And don’t be put off by apricots that are so ripe they feel like they’re ready to burst. That’s when they’re at their best.

Plums are the last of the summer fruits to arrive, and they stay around long enough to welcome in the fall. Having a batch of this sorbet in the freezer is the perfect way to extend the warm glow of summer just a few more weeks.

There’s a curious custom in Gascony, a region in the southwest of France known for its full-bodied red wines (its famous neighbor is Bordeaux). When they’ve just about finished their soup, the locals tip a little bit of the red wine from their glass into their soup bowl, mingling the wine with the last few spoonfuls of the broth. I later discovered that this custom is equally good with a goblet of sorbet when I was scrambling to figure out a way to make this rosy nectarine sorbet a bit more special for an impromptu dinner party. I simply scooped sorbet into my guests’ wine glasses at the table and let them pour in as little (or as much) red wine as they wished. It was a big success. If you have time to think ahead, prepare a big bowl of sweet, juicy berries and sliced nectarines, and let your guests add some fruit to their sorbet too.

One day while wasting the afternoon flipping through the television channels (what did we do before the remote control?), I stopped when I came across a not-very-well-choreographed procession of statuesque, exotically beautiful women parading across a stage. After a few minutes of riveted attention, I realized that I’d happened upon the Miss Martinique pageant. Once the glamorous gals had strutted their stuff wearing barely-there bikinis, teetering around precariously on steep high heels (it seemed the smaller the swimsuit, the higher the heels), the contest concluded with the host posing the all important question about why the pageant was so vital for promoting world peace and understanding. One of the contestants flashed her big, bright smile, looked right into the camera, and responded, “Because beauty is the key to communication.” With a thought-provoking answer like that, awarding the crown to anyone else would have been a crime. And sure enough, she won. But maybe she got mixed up and was talking about mangoes, the other beauties of the tropics. Their vibrant red exterior and succulent orange pulp do indeed communicate beauty and good taste that are not just skin deep.

This is the first ice cream that springs to mind when people recall hand-cranked, old-fashioned fruit ice creams from their past. More than any other homemade ice cream, this is perhaps the most beloved of all flavors and is indeed best when spooned right out of the machine, just moments after it’s been churned. An easy way to peel peaches is to cut an X at the bottom and then lower them in a pot of boiling water for about 20 seconds. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the peaches to a colander and shock them with cold water, then let them cool. Afterward, you’ll find their fuzzy peels just slip right off.

Unlike some of the other frozen yogurts in this book, I only make this with plain, unstrained yogurt. Since the peach purée is so velvety thick, this frozen yogurt has a lovely consistency when frozen.

If you’re lucky enough to live in an area where fresh apricots are bountiful in the summer, be sure to take advantage of their brief season by churning up a batch of this ice cream. Don’t be put off by apricots that are übersoft, as plump and fragile as an overfilled water balloon, seemingly ready to burst at the slightest touch. Those are invariably the best-tasting fruits.

For many years, I was delighted to work with Lindsey Shere, the founding pastry chef at Chez Panisse. She was constantly surprising us with amazing fruits and berries from neighbors’ backyards and nearby farms. Without fail, Lindsey would come in one weekend each summer carrying a big plastic Tupperware container, which, due to its distinctive rounded shape, left no question that it was precisely designed to hold a canned ham. But instead of a ham, inside would be a jumble of tiny, tender, smushed wild plums picked by her mother. Eaten raw, they were puckery-tart, but once stewed, they made an incredibly flavorful plum ice cream. Each year I would wait patiently for that one late-summer weekend when Lindsey would walk though the door lugging her now-infamous canned ham container. Although wild plums may be hard to come by, you can use whatever plums are available with equal success.