Summer

The other day at Sprouts, a local grocery store, a woman saw me selecting baby eggplant.

She asked, "Do you like those?"

"Oh, I adore them," I said. "They're much sweeter and more tender than large eggplants."

"How do you cook them?" she asked.

"Lots of ways," I replied. "You can saute them, stuff them, broil them."

She screwed up her mouth, looked perplexed. "Mmmm... I don't know," she mumbled.

I scanned her shopping cart and noticed she had a bag full of baby eggplants in it. I said, "Well, you must like them too."

"Me? No, I don't really like eggplant," she said. "I only bought these cause they're just too cute to pass up."

Blame it on the cute factor — you know, when you buy something not because you love or need it but because it's too cute to pass up.

Summer is coming to an end, and as I'm having trouble saying goodbye, I'm comforted by all the beautiful produce still available in the farmers' markets this late in the season. Last week I visited the Tucker Square Greenmarket at the corner of Columbus Avenue and 66th Street. They are a compact market with about six or eight small yet bounteous stands. I couldn't help but notice all the fruits: last-of-the-season white and yellow peaches and a few early varieties of apples, such as honey crisp. But what really caught my attention during this visit was a crate full of beautiful green and yellow zucchini. That's when I immediately decided on making this recipe for vegetable tian.

A tian is technically a name for a type of French earthenware casserole commonly used in the region of Provençe. But the name "tian" also carries over to the meal cooked in the earthenware container. This vegetable tian is possibly one of the simplest recipes that can be made especially with an abundance of late-summer vegetables like zucchini, squash, eggplant, and tomatoes. Similar to a gratin, this casserole features layers of thinly sliced vegetables artfully assembled together, topped with Swiss cheese, and baked until tender and brown.

The farmers' markets here in Southern California are amazing -- you can find dates, figs, guavas, kumquats, passion fruit, persimmons, and pluots, but rarely do you see humble blueberries.

I grew up picking and eating fresh blueberries every summer back in New England. Why, I wondered, are they so hard to find in California?

The problem is dirt. Apparently blueberries like to grow in highly acidic soil and Southern California has alkaline soil. This presents a challenge to growing blueberries in Southern California (which explains why most the of the blueberries I buy at the market are from Washington).

New England's acidic soil is perfect for blueberry bushes. I don't know what was better, marching along rows of blueberry bushes, basket in hand, with blue lips and fingertips or standing in the kitchen watching my mom use my very own fresh picked berries to make sweet blueberry buns with lemon icing, old-fashioned double crust blueberry pie, or a loaf of hot blueberry-corn bread (that went straight from the oven to my mouth).

Peas, alas, are not a spring vegetable, despite what legions of food writers would have you believe. It is wonderful to think of things like spring pea risotto and minted pea soup in May, but unless you are lucky enough to live in a really temperate climate, you’ll be waiting for fresh peas until late June with the rest of us.

I feel bad being a Scrooge about this. Actually a super-Scrooge, as, these days, I can’t really even get behind those so-called fresh peas (usually already shelled) that arrive in the grocery stores before they do in my garden. I’d rather eat frozen peas. (And I do.)

The reason is that shell peas–or English peas–lose that just-picked sweetness rather quickly and wind up tasting bland and starchy when they travel many miles to get to you.

So right now I have to content myself with staring at the squat little pea seedlings in my garden, imagining what they’ll bring me. I’m very proud of them, actually. Yesterday I noticed that they’ve started unfurling their little tendrils and have obligingly begun to grab on to the curtain of strings I hung for them. Such good peas.