Simple Summer Dinner

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There comes a moment every summer when the garden finally quits showing off one thing at a time and decides to throw a proper party.

The tomatoes are perched on the windowsill. The crisper is filled with cucumbers. And the sweet corn is sitting on the kitchen counter, shucked and waiting for the water to boil.

Sweet corn and fresh tomato-and-cucumber salad. You don’t need anything more.

The corn is so sweet it could pass for dessert. The tomatoes are still warm from the garden and smell like sunshine. The cucumbers are cool and crisp, bringing just enough snap to keep those tomatoes from stealing the show. Toss them together with a little salt, a drizzle of olive oil and a splash of vinegar and call it supper.

This is not company food—the kind that requires three grocery stores and a recipe printed from the internet. This is the kind of meal that says, “Pull up a chair on the porch. The fireflies will be here in a minute.”

I love that August has a way of humbling us. We spend the rest of the year trying to make dinner interesting, and then summer arrives and reminds us that two or three things picked at their peak can outshine anything we’ve spent hours cooking.

Our grandparents knew this, of course. They didn’t have names for eating seasonally or locally. They simply ate what the garden gave them and considered themselves lucky. Sweet corn was shucked on the back steps, tomatoes were sliced thick enough to hang off the bread, and cucumbers appeared in such abundance that it was impossible to eat them all. Then you made pickles.

These are the meals that never make it into family cookbooks because nobody wrote them down. Everyone just knew. Slice the tomatoes. Cut up the cucumbers. Shuck the corn. Add salt with a generous hand and eat it while summer is still sitting at the table with you.

Before long, we’ll be talking about soups and sweaters and putting the garden to bed. But for now, August is asking very little of us—only that we pay attention and enjoy what’s right in front of us.

Sweet corn and fresh tomato and cucumber salad. Easy, delicious, and pure summer. And around here, that’s about as good as supper gets.

Marinated Tomato Cucumber salad

Slice ripe tomatoes as thinly as you can. Peel (or don’t) cucumbers and slice very thinly (a mandoline works well for this). Slice red onion thinly. Add splash of mild oil such as safflower, a splash of cider vinegar, a dash of sugar, and salt and pepper to taste. Serve at room temperature. Add what you like – feta, mozzarella, garlic, minced basil.

Simple Tomato Pasta Dinner

Chop garden-ripe tomatoes, mince some garlic, slice fresh basil and stir together with fruity olive oil and salt. Toss with hot cooked pasta and fresh parmesan.

Tomatoes!

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I have to talk about tomatoes. It’s the season, after all, and mine are coming in at warp speed. One day you’re admiring a few green fruits hanging on the vine, and the next you’re leaving bags of tomatoes on your neighbors’ porches under cover of darkness.

We’re eating those fresh garden tomatoes that make your heart ache just a little because you know they’ll be gone too soon. The kind that taste like sunshine and warm afternoons. We eat them every way we know how—right out of the garden with a sprinkle of salt, piled high on BLTs and grilled cheese sandwiches, chopped into salads, or simply sliced on a plate and admired for a moment before disappearing.

Tomato season always feels a bit like summer’s love letter to us—brief, extravagant, and wonderfully messy.

Of course, tomatoes are temperamental creatures. Give them a good Appalachian thunderstorm, and they’ll split wide open overnight, unable to contain themselves. When that happens, I bring them inside, cut away the cracks, and toss them into a roasting pan.

Some people might think roasting fresh garden tomatoes is a waste, but anyone who’s grown tomatoes knows they wait for no one. Leave them on the counter for a day too long, and the fruit flies move in like they’ve received engraved invitations. They soften and spoil faster than we can possibly eat them.

So we roast them.

There is something deeply satisfying about turning the abundance of July into something you’ll be grateful for in January. Those roasted tomatoes become little frozen cubes of summer tucked away in the freezer. And come winter, when the garden is sleeping and the mountains are gray, a spoonful stirred into soup or sauce tastes infinitely better than anything that ever came from a can.

Roasted Tomatoes

Quarter or halve the tomatoes, depending on their size, and drizzle generously with olive oil. Toss in a clove or two of garlic if you’d like. Garlic and tomatoes have always seemed happiest together.

I use the convection bake setting on my oven, which means a fan runs while they roast. It evaporates some of the juices and condenses and caramelizes what’s left into a sweet, savory treasure at the bottom of the pan.

When most of the juice has evaporated, take the tomatoes out of the oven and cover them for a few minutes. The steam loosens all those caramelized bits so none of summer goes to waste.

Run everything through a food mill, freeze the puree in ice cube trays, and store the cubes in a freezer bag.

Then, sometime in the middle of winter, when you’re wearing wool socks and wondering if spring will ever come, pull a few cubes from the freezer. Stir them into a pot of soup or a simple pasta sauce and remember what July tasted like.

Figs

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There is nothing like tasting a fig straight from the tree, sun-warmed and tender. You can eat the whole of it. The whole thing. The skin, the purple flesh, the seeds. Divine. Eat the whole fig, that’s my advice. And take it from the tree, right in that moment, when you get the chance.

My fig tree died back to the ground this year (again), so I knew I’d have to visit the farmers market for the figs I love. But to my surprise, it resprouted (again), and I have figs!

Okay, only five, but I’ll take them happily.

Several years ago, I gave my parents a fig tree that we carefully packed into the back of their car to travel home to Texas from Wisconsin.  Despite the car smelling like cat urine the entire trip (yes, that’s what fig trees smell like), they proudly planted it and have had buckets of figs every year since. 

My mother made homemade fig newtons, which were delicious but quite time-consuming. The first step is to make fig jam, wrap it in cookie dough, and bake. Frankly, I’m just happy with the jam, so I never get to the newton part. I will happily spread it on anything. Homemade fig jam, butter or not, on a warm biscuit is to die for. 

Fresh Fig Jam

1½ pounds fresh ripe figs (about 20–24 medium figs), stems removed and quartered

⅓ c. sugar (adjust depending on sweetness of the figs)

2 T. lemon juice

1 t. finely grated lemon zest

¼ t. cinnamon (optional)

Pinch of salt

1 t. vanilla extract

Combine all but the vanilla in a saucepan. Cook over medium-low heat for 30–45 minutes, stirring often, until the figs have broken down and most of the liquid has evaporated.

Mash with a potato masher or purée briefly with an immersion blender if you prefer a smoother jam.

Stir in the vanilla and continue cooking until the mixture is very thick—it should mound on a spoon and not run. Cool completely before using. If it’s still too loose, refrigerate it for an hour to firm up. The preserves will keep in the refrigerator for several weeks. To keep longer, freeze. And please try them on a warm biscuit.

Cilantro pesto

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We often think of pesto as a basil-forward sauce for pasta. But there are so many other kinds of pestos (apologies to all Italian nonnas), that it seems a waste not to consider other possibilities. 

Consider other herbs and vegetables before you give in to using only basil. You can certainly add basil to any pesto, but consider a delicious green sauce made from parsley (if you like parsley, which I don’t. Shh), mint, broccoli, spinach, and Swiss chard. I’ve tried some of the stronger herbs like thyme and oregano, and they are too strong unless used in small amounts with another vegetable like spinach to tone them down. 

I happen to have buckets of cilantro right now. It self-seeds in my garden, and although I love to have a bit around, it is prolific. I have a fragrant, leafy, slightly accusatory forest.

There are only so many tacos a person can eat before the cilantro starts whispering, “You had plans for me. And I don’t just mean for guacamole.”

Enter cilantro pesto, the culinary equivalent of “I refuse to waste this, but I also refuse to follow rules.” Traditional pesto is structured, classical, Italian, and probably owns a linen apron. Cilantro pesto is barefoot, possibly wearing a hat indoors, and absolutely substituting whatever nuts you have on hand without apology. Cilantro pesto is what happens when basil goes on vacation and cilantro throws a party without asking permission.

The recipe is mostly a negotiation. You gather cilantro (all of it, because commitment matters), garlic (to keep things honest), some kind of nut or seed (walnuts, almonds, pumpkin seeds—this is not a picky dish), something sharp (lime, because we’re leaning into chaos), and oil (enough to make it feel like a sauce). Cheese is optional, and often debated. 

Then comes the blending, which is less about technique and more about trust. At first, it looks like lawn clippings. Stay with it. Add oil. Add more oil. Forget calories – you’ll only be using a small amount for your dish. Scrape the sides like you’re coaxing a shy guest into conversation. Suddenly, it transforms into something bright, green, and suspiciously alive.

The first taste is always a moment of truth. Cilantro, as we know, is controversial. For some, it tastes like sunshine and possibility. For others, it tastes like a bar of soap. Cilantro pesto does not care where you fall on this spectrum. It arrives boldly, announcing itself on roasted vegetables, grilled meats, eggs, rice, bread, and anything else that seems like it could use a personality.

And that’s really its purpose. Cilantro pesto is not here to be subtle. It is here to rescue Tuesday night. It is here to make leftovers feel intentional. It is here to say, “You may not have planned this meal, but look how it turned out anyway.”

By the end, the forest is gone. The cilantro has fulfilled its destiny. Your fridge contains a jar of something vibrant and slightly unpredictable, which feels, in its own way, like a small victory.

Cilantro Pesto

1 cup packed cilantro leaves

1/3 cup olive oil or avocado oil

1/3 cup pepitas

1 clove garlic

Juice of 1 large lime

Kosher salt and black pepper, to taste

Blend as best you can – it will not be smooth. You can use it as it is or add cheese of choice – parmesan or cotija are good. If you want it as a sauce, 

Add some mayo and sour cream or yogurt to make it a milder sauce. Add buttermilk to make it pour more easily. 

Toss with hot pasta, rice or farro, or pour over grilled vegetables or meat. 

It will keep in the fridge for several days, but if you have an abundance, make it without the cheese and freeze it in ice cube trays to keep for six months. Toss a cube into tortilla soup, or thaw and serve as above.

Beans and Greens

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There are two kinds of people in the world: those who get excited about beans and greens, and those who have not yet been properly introduced.

Beans and greens are not so much a dish as they are a personality trait. It is the culinary equivalent of wearing sensible shoes that secretly make you feel superior. It whispers, “I am hearty. I am thrifty. I will outlive you.”

At first glance, it seems suspiciously virtuous. Beans? Greens? Where is the butter-lacquered decadence? Where is the crisp, golden something? But then you cook it, and everything changes. The beans soften into creamy little pillows, the greens relax into something silky and deeply flavored, and suddenly you are leaning over the stove, eating it straight from the pot like someone in a rustic European film who has strong opinions about olive oil.

This dish has range. It can be peasant food, monastery food, or “I just spent $28 on this at a restaurant with reclaimed wood tables” food. It is forgiving, flexible, and quietly smug about its nutritional profile.

We return to it. Again and again. Because it is warm, grounding, and deeply satisfying in a way that flashy meals rarely are. It feels like something your great-grandmother would approve of, even if she would absolutely add more salt.

Simple Beans and Greens (with Italian sausage if you’re feeling lively)

Serves: 1-2

1 T. olive oil

2 cloves garlic, sliced (or more, no one is judging)

½ small onion, chopped

1 ½ t. red pepper flakes (optional but recommended)

½ bunch greens (kale, escarole, or Swiss chard), chopped

1 can (15 oz) white beans (cannellini or great northern), drained and rinsed

½ c. chicken broth (or just water + confidence)

Salt and pepper

Squeeze of lemon

Optional upgrades:

1 Italian sausage, sliced or crumbled

Parmesan cheese

Crusty bread (strongly encouraged)

Directions:

If using, brown the sausage in a large pan until cooked through. Remove and set aside.

In the same pan, add olive oil if needed. Sauté onion until soft, then add garlic and red pepper flakes. Cook until fragrant—about 30 seconds.

Toss in the greens with a pinch of salt. They will look like too much. They are not. Cook until wilted.

Add the beans and broth. Stir gently and let everything simmer for 5–10 minutes so the flavors get acquainted.

Return sausage to the pan (if using). Taste and adjust salt and pepper. Add a squeeze of lemon to wake everything up.

Top with Parmesan and eat with crusty bread. Ideally, while standing at the counter, because this dish encourages that behavior.

Pantry Beans & Greens

Minimalist “pantry night” version. This is one of those meals that proves you don’t actually need a plan—just a can, a green thing, and the willingness. Serves: 1–2

Ingredients (flexible to the point of chaos)

1 can white beans (any kind)

Something green (spinach, kale, even that slightly sad bag in the fridge. Yes, you can use lettuce)

Olive oil (or butter, or whatever fat answers when called)

Garlic (fresh, jarred, or garlic powder in a moment of truth)

Salt + pepper

Optional: red pepper flakes, lemon, grated cheese, splash of broth/water

Directions

Drain and rinse the beans.

In a medium skillet over medium heat, add a glug of olive oil. Or butter. 

Add garlic and stir for about 20–30 seconds. Don’t burn it. If you burn it, pretend you meant to and continue.

Toss in greens with a pinch of salt. They will shrink dramatically.

Add beans and a splash of liquid – water or broth. Stir. Let it simmer 5 minutes.

Season to taste – salt, pepper, maybe red pepper flakes. If you have lemon, squeeze it in. Serve immediately. 

Pump it up:

Toast bread, rub it with garlic, and pile everything on top.

Crack an egg into the pan and let it cook in the beans.

Drizzle good olive oil at the end and act like you’re in a tiny kitchen in Italy.

Tools, Too

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A bit intimidating?

There comes a moment in every cook’s life when you realize the problem isn’t you—it’s your tools. You stand there, wooden spoon in hand, trying to coax a decent sauté out of a flimsy pan that heats like a moody teenager—too hot in one spot, cold in another, and entirely unpredictable. 

Your knife? It’s less “precision instrument” and more “suggestion,” squishing tomatoes instead of slicing them. 

Suddenly, the clouds part: it’s time to grow up. It’s time to buy good kitchen tools. Now, before you picture yourself dropping a small fortune on gleaming copper pots and artisanal blades forged under a full moon, let’s take a breath. 

Buying high-quality kitchen tools isn’t about becoming a chef overnight. It’s about making your everyday cooking easier, more satisfying, and—dare I say—more joyful. 

Let’s start with pans, because they are the stage on which all your culinary drama unfolds. A good pan doesn’t fight you. It heats evenly, responds when you adjust the flame, and holds just enough heat to give your food that beautiful golden sear instead of a sad gray shrug. 

The first time you cook eggs in a well-made pan, you’ll wonder where it’s been all your life. They’ll glide. Glide! Like tiny breakfast ice skaters. Learning to cook in cast iron or stainless steel takes a bit of time. But you’ll be glad you took that time.

Then there’s the knife. If you’ve been hacking away with a dull blade, upgrading will feel like switching from a butter knife to a lightsaber. A quality knife isn’t just sharper—it’s balanced. It fits your hand. Try it out to see how it feels before making the purchase. It makes chopping onions less of a tearful ordeal (well, slightly less tearful). 

Suddenly, you’re not dreading prep work; you’re kind of… enjoying it? You might even start chopping things that don’t need chopping, just for the thrill of it. 

Of course, there’s a bit of a learning curve. A good knife demands respect. You’ll find yourself looking up “how to hold a chef’s knife properly” and considering the merits of honing versus sharpening. 

You may develop strong opinions about cutting boards. (Wood, by the way. Always wood. Your knife will thank you.) My sister always laughs at how many cutting boards I have. I secretly can’t resist a serious cutting board when I’m in a second-hand store. 

Here’s the secret that no one tells you at the beginning: you don’t need everything at once. In fact, please don’t buy everything at once. That’s how you end up with a drawer full of gadgets that seemed essential at midnight but now feel… confusing.

Start with the things you use every day. A pan. A knife. A cutting board. Live with them. Let them earn your trust. Because good tools do something subtle but powerful—they invite you in. They make cooking feel less like a chore and more like a small, daily ritual. 

You start noticing things: the sound of onions hitting a hot pan, the rhythm of chopping, the satisfaction of a perfectly flipped pancake. You begin to understand why people talk about cooking as if it’s therapy. 

And here’s the best part: high-quality tools last. They become part of your kitchen’s story. The pan that’s seen a hundred Sunday breakfasts. The knife that’s chopped vegetables through seasons of your life. They age with you, developing that slightly worn, deeply loved look that says, “Yes, this kitchen is used.” 

Buying good kitchen tools won’t magically turn you into a professional chef. But it will make you a happier cook. And honestly, that’s the whole point. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an onion I’m oddly excited to chop.

Ode to my Tools

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The Unsung Heroes of My Kitchen

Every kitchen has its stars—the gleaming stand mixer, the impressive Dutch oven, the knife that gets reverently hand-washed like it holds secrets. 

But in my kitchen, true greatness belongs to the quiet overachievers: the tools that show up every day, ask for nothing, and somehow make me look like I know what I’m doing. Every cook has a favorite lineup, and while others may chase shiny gadgets or whisper sweet nothings to expensive appliances, I remain loyal to my small, slightly mismatched, deeply trustworthy kitchen inner circle.

The Bowl

First, the bowl. Not just any bowl—the bowl. It has no brand prestige, no dramatic origin story, and yet it is the center of everything. It was made by a local potter and is all the more precious because someone else’s hands shaped it. It holds pancake batter, salad greens, rising dough, and occasionally my thoughts as I stand staring into it, wondering what I came into the kitchen for. It is generously sized, and never once has it complained about being asked to do too much.

Nonna Knife

Then there’s my “Nonna” knife, named either for an Italian grandmother or because it has the quiet authority of one. It doesn’t glide so much as decide where the cut will be. Carrots, onions, herbs—it handles them all with a kind of calm certainty that makes me feel like I might know what I’m doing. It has earned a permanent place within arm’s reach, which is more than I can say for most things in my life. 

Wok

The seasoned carbon steel wok is, frankly, a bit of a diva—but a diva worth indulging. It demands proper heat, proper oil, proper respect. Ignore it, and it sulks. Treat it right, and it delivers magic: vegetables with just the right char, noodles that taste as if they came from somewhere far more impressive than my kitchen. Its surface tells a story, layer by layer, meal by meal—a record of dinners past that somehow makes each new one better. 

Pitcher

And then there’s the 8-cup Pyrex pitcher, the quiet overachiever. It measures, it pours, it mixes, it reheats. It steps in wherever needed without fuss or fanfare. It has probably done more actual work than anything else in the kitchen, yet asks for nothing more than a spot in the cabinet and the occasional rinse. 

Kitchen Towel

And finally, the humble kitchen towel. Not flashy, not expensive, but indispensable. It dries, it grabs, it shields, it rescues. It is, at various times, a potholder, a napkin, a cleanup crew. I have beautiful towels in the drawer – too beautiful to use. But my ordinary towels get a workout, and occasionally I put one to my nose, and it smells just like when I would bury my little child’s face in my grandmother’s apron – all onions and garlic and biscuits.

Together, these tools form a kind of culinary democracy—no single star, no unnecessary drama (except the wok, but we’ve accepted that). They don’t beep or buzz or connect to anything except my hands and a vague sense of intention. They turn ingredients into meals, messes into something manageable, and ordinary evenings into something a little more satisfying. And if that’s not kitchen greatness, I don’t know what is.

Quick stir-fry to clean out the fridge

Too tired to cook or just not feeling the enticement of the kitchen? This is fast and easy and doesn’t take much energy except a little chopping.

Heat your wok and swirl some oil of your choice. You certainly don’t need to use a wok – a large skillet will do.

Over medium heat, add some chopped onion and garlic and saute briefly. Add chopped vegetables – whatever you have in the crisper – and coat in the oil. Stir as they tenderize. Add any sauce of your choice (hoisin, Szechuan, or simply salt and pepper). Add leftover rice or noodles and cooked protein of choice as the vegetables are ready.

Scooped, Pierced, and Handheld: Meal planning for the non-dominant hand

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I just had surgery, so I cannot use my right hand. In place of my regular blog, my husband stepped in:

“When you’re right-handed, eating exclusively with your left hand is not pretty. Kate’s right shoulder joint was replaced last week, and for the first two weeks of recovery, her right arm will be immobilized. While her left hand can manage the keyboard and mouse (with difficulty), it hasn’t been trained for the more difficult task of moving food from plate to mouth.

We started meal planning and preparations a couple of weeks before surgery. When her left shoulder was replaced last year, food planning and prep were simple: nothing on her plate that needed to be cut. The right shoulder presented more challenges.

Think inside the box 

This is not a moment to explore new and creative cooking. With surgery and medications affecting taste and appetite, we learned to stick to comfort foods that can be scooped, pierced, or handheld. For the first several days, that meant focusing on wraps, quesadillas, open-face sandwiches, and soup in a mug.

Wraps

Almost anything you can eat with a fork can be wrapped. There are a host of online videos about folding, tucking, and rolling a tortilla. Wraps are easy to make, but with very little error tolerance. Too much food on the tortilla and a misaligned fold were my downfall. But a little practice makes perfect. 

Our neighbor Susan, dropped off a wonderful entree salad that easily converted to a wrap. The lightly dressed tuna on a bed of marinated cucumbers and daikons, spring mix, and rice moved nicely to the tortilla. Kate’s a TexMex fan, and we made variants on breakfast burritos with sour cream and salsa for dipping. Wraps worked well for lunch and dinner, ranging from salmon with rice, chicken and white beans to tofu with grains. Dressings were spur of the moment, Caesar, ranch, olive oil, or a vinaigrette. The key to success lies less in the planning and more in responding to what sounds good at the moment.

Quesadillas

Like wraps, there are infinite possibilities for quesadillas. Great choices are scrambled eggs and cheese with onions and chilis,  a quesadilla layered with black beans, salsa, sauteed greens, and a protein, or a simple spicy black bean and cheese quesadilla.

Fruit Salads

With a good napkin or two, the right fruits make fruit salad a finger food. Grapes, cherries, pineapple, strawberries, and apple and pear slices are a great start.

Soups

Soup in a mug with a sliced baguette introduces some needed variety to the diet. We started with a creamy tomato soup and graduated to chicken soup. The key to the chicken soup is the size of the pieces of chicken and vegetables. They need to be small enough to flow from the mug yet big enough to be palatable. Potato and squash soups are also on the menu.

Snacks

Throughout the two weeks, snacks are an important part of the diet. Whether as a snack or a light meal, consider fruits, nuts, cheese and crackers, or even a simple charcuterie. One of the messy highlights was a store-bought chocolate Napoleon that lifted our spirits.

I’m looking forward to sharing meal prep again with Kate in the near future. But, as a lefty, I have enjoyed the freedom of always having utensils on the useful side of the cutting board, and having the handles on skillets on the range pointing in the right direction. A kitchen occupied by a left-handed and a right-handed person involves constant negotiation. 

Whatever the temporary or permanent reason you may be functioning primarily with your non-dominant hand, enjoy the moment. Look for the little things to brighten your day, whether you’re the chef or the diner.

Seasonal Eating

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Eating seasonal food is one of the simplest ways to feel more connected—to the land, to local farmers, and even to our own bodies. 

When we eat what is naturally ripe at a given time of year, food tastes better. A summer tomato, warmed by the sun and eaten in July, bears little resemblance to a pale winter tomato shipped across continents. Strawberries in spring are sweet and fragrant; apples in autumn are crisp and complex. Seasonal eating restores flavor to its rightful place at the center of the plate.

To eat seasonally is not about restriction; it is about attention. It is a quiet practice of noticing what the earth offers in this moment and responding with gratitude.

Beyond taste, seasonal food often carries greater nutritional value. Produce harvested at peak ripeness retains more vitamins and antioxidants than food picked early for long-distance travel. Leafy greens in cooler months, berries in summer, squash in fall—each arrives just when our bodies seem to need them most. Hearty root vegetables and grains sustain us through winter; light cucumbers and melons hydrate us in the heat.

Finally, seasonal eating invites creativity. It asks us to adapt, to cook with what is abundant now rather than relying on the same ingredients year-round. This rhythm—anticipating asparagus in spring or savoring the first pumpkin of fall—creates a gentle sense of celebration woven into everyday life.

Long before we could order strawberries in January or asparagus in October, our bodies learned to listen to the land. And somewhere deep inside us, that memory still hums. Our bodies crave seasonal food because we are seasonal creatures.

To eat with the seasons is to accept that we are not separate from the turning of the earth, but shaped by it. And when we honor that turning—one bowl of soup, one handful of berries, one crisp apple at a time—we rediscover that the body already knows what it needs.

As we quietly anticipate the arrival of asparagus and snap peas, there are abundant greens at the grocery and farmers’ markets right now – they are the stalwart vegetables of the winter season. I make this dish at least twice a week. 

Sauced Greens

1 small bunch of greens – Swiss chard, kale, mustard, collards 

1 clove garlic, minced

¼ c. onion, sliced

1 T. olive oil

1 T. balsamic vinegar

1 t. sugar

Salt and pepper to taste

½ c. chopped tomatoes

2 T. sour cream or plain yogurt

1 T. Sriracha sauce if desired

2 large eggs if desired

Rinse the greens liberally and remove tough stems. Stack the leaves and roll them into a “cigar” and slice thinly. Add garlic and onion to olive oil in a heavy pan and saute until tender. Fry eggs in a separate pan if you intend to use them. Add greens, vinegar and sugar and saute for about 5 minutes until greens are tender. Turn off the heat and stir in tomatoes and sour cream or yogurt. Salt and pepper to taste. Top with eggs and sriracha if desired.

Sauces: The Wizards of the Kitchen

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Every good cook knows this truth, even if they won’t say it out loud: we are all just one good sauce away from greatness.

You can roast the vegetables. You can grill the chicken. You can boil the pasta to perfect al dente. But without a sauce, it’s like kissing someone through a screen. The motion is there, but the pop of flavor is missing.

Sauces are the unsung heroes of the kitchen—the wizards who swoop in at the last second and whisper, “Relax. I’ve got this.” Sauces exist to rescue food from boredom.

Plain rice? Respectable, but sleepy. Add a gingery soy drizzle and suddenly you have a dish worthy of “mmmmm”. Steamed broccoli? Nutritious, but pretty dull. But toss it in lemon tahini and you have the makings of a delicious accompaniment to any meal.

Sauces don’t ask much of us. They don’t require perfection. They don’t judge uneven chopping. They are generous and forgiving and help remedy mistakes. A sauce says, “I see you forgot the salt earlier. Let’s move past that.”

The best sauces are rarely complicated. They’re just a few ingredients that happen to get along exceptionally well. Just keep in mind this combination: Fat (olive oil, butter, yogurt), acid (lemon, vinegar, tomato), salt or soy sauce, something with a little personality (garlic, mustard, anchovy, miso, chili crisp). That’s it. That’s the whole secret. The rest is flair.

Buttermilk Basil Sauce

5 T. buttermilk

5 T. olive oil

2 t. white wine vinegar

Mix together.

1 garlic clove

1 c. packed basil leaves

⅓ c. parmesan cheese

Combine in a food processor. Slowly drizzle in buttermilk mixture and process until smooth. Serve over grilled vegetables such as zucchini and summer squash.  

Cilantro Sauce with Lime and Garlic

2 c. cilantro

2 cloves of garlic

⅛ c. lime juice (or lemon)

½ c.oil

1 t. salt

½ t. black pepper

Wash and dry cilantro. Remove thick stems.

Combine all ingredients in the bowl of a food processor or blender. Process for 30 seconds; scrape down sides. Continue processing until the ingredients are pureed. Serve over slivered cabbage and carrots (or a taco salad or roasted peppers).

Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to a week or freeze in small containers to preserve longer.

Goat Cheese Sauce

⅓  c. buttermilk

2 oz. goat cheese

1 T. olive oil

¼  t. thyme

¼  t. black pepper

½  clove garlic, peeled and crushed

In a blender, combine buttermilk and cheese; blend on low speed until smooth. With the motor running, drizzle in olive oil. Transfer to a small bowl and add the rest of the ingredients. Serve over grilled chicken or vegetables. Can add roasted peppers or cream cheese.

Lemon Herb Sauce

¼  c. olive oil

1 T. chopped fresh tarragon or basil or chives

1 t. chopped Italian parsley

¼  t. lemon juice

½  c. plain yogurt

½  c. sour cream

1 T. Dijon mustard

salt and pepper to taste

Combine in blender. Good on vegetables, rice, chicken. Makes 1 1/4 cups

Toum (Lebanese garlic sauce)

½ c. garlic cloves peeled

1 t. salt

¼ c. fresh lemon juice

1 ½ c. sunflower, grapeseed, or avocado oil

Water as needed

Place garlic and salt in a food processor and pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed, until the garlic is finely chopped.

Add 1 T. lemon juice and continue processing until a smooth paste forms, about 3 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl a few times.

With the food processor running, start incorporating 1/2 c. of the oil, drizzling it in very slowly. Once the oil is incorporated, stream in another 1 T. lemon juice. Repeat this step with another ½ cup oil, then another 1 T. lemon juice. The texture should be smooth and creamy.

If needed, with the motor running, slowly stream in 1-2 T. water to loosen the sauce.

Once finished, transfer to a lidded container and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. Serve on grilled meats, sandwiches or as a dip.