Summer

I’ve got this Meyer lemon tree in my yard that is dripping with fruit. With a sudden burst of culinary energy (for some reason I’m channeling Rachael Ray) I am doing a lemon project this week, finally committed to using my harvest for something other than dog toys.

First, of course, I made lemonade. While I have often advised my kids (much to their irritation) to make lemonade out of lemons, I have rarely taken that advice myself, at least not literally. I had no idea how much sugar is in the stuff. No wonder it’s so addictive. Best rush since the Easter egg hunt.

I decided to make a couple of lemonade variations that would cut the sugar and add interest. Voila: Chamomile Arnold Palmers and Cucumber Mint Lemonade. Love that basic Meyer Lemonade, but if the sugar has you bouncing like a pinball, try one of its slightly less sweet cousins.

"Whether you're cooling off by the pool, by the beach, or on the patio....! Our summer drinks to help you on your way."

Beach Martini

Bermuda Rum Swizzle

The Bootleg

Cuba Libre

Key Lime Martini

Long Island Iced Tea

Mai Tai

Mojito

POMtiki Smash

Sassy Sangria

Sea Breeze

Tequila Sunrise

Watermelon Falls

It’s just that time of summer when I feel I haven’t had enough BBQ.

Ribs to be specific. Pork Ribs. For some reason and I’m not sure what it is. Either we’ve been eating lighter or the bbq-er in my house has been opting for fancier fare (like boneless chicken breasts wrapped in prosciutto – I’ll let you know how it turns out). And due to the Highway Jobs Incentive (or whatever you call that thing that’s tearing up our streets and making automobile travel next to impossible at night) as one of the many “405 challenged”, the trip over the hill to Boneyard Bistro seems daunting, forget Hoggly Woggly’s, and Baby Blues has become so popular that unless it’s dinner for ten and we can get them to deliver, take-out’s more trouble than it’s worth.

So, I’m declaring Sunday August 7th National BBQ Ribs Day! I don’t know who decides these things anyway. So, if it’s someone else’s National Day, like National Heirloom Tomato Day, I apologize, you’re just going to have to share.

The best ribs I’ve had this summer were Alan Ett’s (but I haven’t quite convinced him to give me the recipe). That’s not true, he told me the recipe, but I didn’t write it down. And I’m hoping this will inspire him to write it down for me and send it in, because they were divine.

BBQ Sauce | Lyndon Johnson's BBQ Sauce

Barbecue Beer Ribs | Brown Sugar Pork Ribs
POM Pomegranate Barbecue Ribs | Quincy Jones' Thriller Ribs

When Jeff watches t.v., it’s typically one of three types of shows: sports (he’s a guy), nature/science programs (he’s a doctor), and cooking competitions (I’m stumped). He’s not so much into instructional cooking shows, though he doesn’t mind Giada’s Everyday Italian (he’s a guy). What he really likes are the cooking competitions, like Top Chef and Iron Chef America.

One night last summer, we saw a particularly inspiring episode of Iron Chef featuring Bobby Flay, Jeff’s second favorite chef after Cat Cora (he’s a guy; Jeff, not Cat, that is). We like Bobby’s creativity and the way he makes ordinary grilled food seem chic.

So the following day when I went to the library, I checked out a couple of his books, including Grilling for Life and Boy Gets Grill. They were mixed in among a 4-foot high pile of cookbooks (including many baking ones) that caught Jeff’s eye when he came home.

Picking through the pile like he was looking for the perfect apple among many bruised ones, he paused upon seeing Bobby’s books. “Hon, why do you have two Bobby Flay grilling cookbooks?” he asked. “Because he’s the guy you really like on Iron Chef, so I thought I’d check out some of his recipes,” I replied. “So, are you planning on just reading them or actually making something from them?” he asked.

“Making something. Why else would I have gotten them?” I said. (Though we both instantly realized the flaw in that argument—for the next three weeks, the closest thing those baking books would come in contact with is dust.)

“But hon, we don’t have a grill,” he said delicately. “I know we don’t have a grill, but we will some day,” I said.