Summer

Moms and grandmas love blueberries. Think about it. Doesn't your family have cherished recipes for blueberry pie and blueberry muffins? What about blueberry cobbler and frosted blueberry sweet rolls?

Why are blueberries so beloved? It could be their association with lazy summer days, Fourth of July cookouts, or time spent baking in grandma's cozy kitchen. Whatever it is, blueberries are sweet and easy-going, like the girl next door.

But like the proverbial librarian who lets down her hair, blueberries can also be sexy. That's right. Sprinkle plump, juicy summertime blueberries on peppery wild arugula or watercress for a stylish salad.

Top crostini with warm goat cheese, fresh blueberries, and rosemary for a sleek summertime appetizer. Add them to a martini made with blueberry vodka for a sophisticated summertime cocktail.

So while they're in season, explore the sexy side of blueberries. Just don't tell grandma. She wouldn't approve.

I woke up the other morning craving roasted red pepper soup. Not for breakfast -- that would be weird – but for dinner.

Since I had recently purchased a dozen bright and shiny red bell peppers, I thought it would be a good idea to roast them first thing in the morning. So by 6:15 am, the peppers were sliced, drizzled with oil, and placed under the broiler.

Like wood-fired pizzas or chargrilled burgers, the smell of roasting peppers is utterly enticing. Except when it's not.

You see, that utterly enticing aroma becomes not-so-enticing by three o'clock in the afternoon. You can light vanilla scented candles (which I did) and spray air freshener (which I did). It won't matter. The smell will linger like an unwanted house guest.

So here's my advice: Make roasted peppers only after 12 noon. And then make this soup because it's too delicious to pass up.

There’s a new kid in my garden. Can you see that dainty little sprig of green right on top of that pretty scone? Well, that’s it. That’s the new kid. His name is Orange Thyme of the Thymus family. I’ve known his cousin, Lemon Thyme, for many years. For several summers, Lemon Thyme has been a favorite visitor in my kitchen, adding shindig to my sugar cookies, cha-cha to chicken, liveliness to my lemon bread and sassy flair to my salads. I love Lemon Thyme. When she’s not in my kitchen, she’s just outside the door basking in the sunshine.

And then, last weekend I spotted tiny Orange Thyme at the Kingfield Farmers Market in Minneapolis. I snapped up the potted herb and found a spot for it very near to Lemon Thyme. If all goes well, Orange Thyme should be making a perennial appearance in my garden.

I could not wait to snip a few stems of Orange Thyme and start baking. With a few stalks of rhubarb still in my refrigerator, I chose to make Rhubarb Scones with Orange Thyme, using my favorite base recipe for scones. I added a bit more sugar to balance the tartness of the bits of rhubarb that I stirred into the batter.

And I’d say, “Yech.”Or at least I used to. I’m not sure when the exact transition from terrible to tantilizing took place, but I can assure you it’s a food miracle. As a child, if any part of a raw tomato touched my plate, I couldn’t eat the item on it. The pulpy, soft texture, the runny pink juice – don’t even get me started about the seeds – was all like garlic to a vampire. The only thing that was (and still is) worse – the pickle.  (How could they do that to the cool deliciousness of the cucumber?)  But, I digress. You seriously could have tortured me by forcing me to take a bite out of one. I would have given up every secret I had before I ever put one in my mouth.

The tomato was my friend as long as it was cooked. Pizza, spaghetti, even salsa (I know it’s raw, but spices count for a lot) was enjoyed with pleasure.  Gradually as I made my way into the world I became more embarrassed by my food quirks and stopped picking them out of things. If I could order something without the tomato, say a sandwich, I would. Though I didn’t like it I hated wasting a “perfectly good” slice I wasn’t going to eat.  However, as I became more and more addicted to big, bountiful salads – inevitable for anyone who moves to California where there’s fresh produce year-round – I found leaving the tomato out was a much harder request.