Frosé Cliché
Spring peaked early this year. Exceedingly early, in fact, worth noting this week given the painful step backward from responding to the emerging realities of climate change. Sandals in mid-March and sweaters in May. The seasonal markers by which we’ve set our calendars and expectations have shifted so palpably, so dramatically that our how-about-this-weather small talk is now a legitimately engrossing conversation about the state of the world. The good news is that we’re all welcome to head to France. Allons-y!
Today is definitely summer in London, whatever that means, and I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning up our little yarden in hopeful anticipation of more or less living out here till the leaves turn. Somehow I managed to follow the most unnervingly obtuse instructions (I longed for Ikea to have a go at writing them instead) to construct a dining table and six chairs. So goddamit this weather better hold up. I’m dying to have my first BBQ in years. A friend of mine put the idea in my head of going Caribbean style- a cuisine in which I haven’t much dabbled. The obvious stuff comes to mind- smoky spice rubs, sweet fruits and sharp jolts of citrus, and tongue-numbing heat, of course. Time to brainstorm how I’ll put my own spin on things.
So now I’m shopping around for a new grill, and since the Big Green Egg is out of reach for the time being, I’m weighing the pros and cons of gas versus charcoal. I’ve mostly been a gas griller; I guess it’s a little less fussy, a little cleaner, and yeah, kinda the easy way out in terms of the artful management of fire. I’d definitely gain a lot more grillmaster credibility with a good ol' Weber kettle. The key is going to be ease of use, because I’ll grill every single night if I can. What’s better than a simple summer meal of some grilled meat or fish and a plate of salted tomatoes. Ooh! Or hotdogs. I like mine good and charred, with a casing that snaps and a big pile of homemade kapusta and some Kosciusko mustard. I’ll have to poke around the Polskie sklep nearby to since if I can find a hotdog or kielbasa that approximates the best in world- from Martin Rosol, made in my hometown of New Britain, Connecticut. Man, nothing beats those dogs. Sometimes when I’m feeling a little homesick, I’ll ride on over to the Broadway Market on a Saturday afternoon just to treat myself to a grilled German bratwurst with spicy mustard and sauerkraut. It’s as close as I can get to the real thing…for now.
Speaking of kraut, a few months back, before we moved, I decided to take the massive stoneware fermentation crock I’d bought…oh, five years ago on sale at the Brooklyn Kitchen, for its maiden voyage. Well, wait- there was that ill-fated batch of sour dills I tried out at the time. Mush-city. The trick, I hear, is to throw a grape or oak leaf into the brine. I threw in some kinda leaf from the streets of Fort Greene but I think maybe I got that one wrong. I’m not sure my crock-luck has improved vastly since then. I wasn’t 100% convinced when I decanted my batch of red cabbage and allspice sauerkraut into a sealed jar to continue its journey to funkytown, but in principle, these things improve with time. Fast forward to last weekend, about three months later. I finally cracked open the jar. Wooooooeeee that was pungent, but honestly, I wouldn’t have expected any less. A timid taste and things were…just alright I guess. Despite its promising nose, it didn’t quite pack the punch I want from my kraut. I’m not sure what variables need adjusting here, and if I’m really honest, I’m also not sure I’m gonna keep this kraut hanging around. Maybe I’ll try again in the fall. Or maybe I’ll just hit up that Polskie sklep again.
But here we are in June, and while I’m barely through my bunches of British asparagus, I can’t deny I’m already dreaming of that time in late summer when I generally lose my mind over fruits and vegetables. My first flicks through Jeremy Fox’s On Vegetables definitely threaten to put me over the edge. Charred broccoli with miso bagna cauda? An elaborate borscht with cherries? I’m breathless. Two important things: First, this is a vegetable cookbook, not a vegetarian cookbook. No, there’s no meat in here, but that’s beside the point. Second, there is some complex shit happening in this book. The final third of it is a breakdown of all the individual components that are the backbone of Fox’s genius “end-to-end” whole veg approach. Of course, he does also suggest a set up for a tomato “raw bar.” He is speaking my language.
It’ll be a while until my annual tomato frenzy kicks in though, so until then you can find me in my backyard, eating my weight in Kent strawberries, whizzing up frosé made with my homemade elderflower cordial, and soaking up as much sun as this British summer has to offer. It’d be rude not to.