Quince, meet toast

This is what happens when you leave a quince unattended. I hate to admonish a fruit so early in the morning, but really, it's been quite out of hand.

I'd been watching it for nearly a month, when its bedfellows had disappeared rather suddenly into the steam pot, and finally come to rest in a batch of fruit leather. It had been softening, slowly, but no where near the pace of, say, an apple or a pear.

I had neglected it, certainly, but I hardly expected the redress I received this morning. I had tiptoed, sleepy eyed, into the kitchen in search of breakfast. I'd seen the quince, complacent, and halved it face down in a pan to poach. With the stove at a simmer and an inch or so of water in the pot, I hurried up to the shower to clean up for the day. By the time I returned, a chaotic hiss had broken loose. The water was gone, the quince black, and the pot bottom scorched beyond repair.

It seemed so personal, somehow, like the quince had known my plan and sat eager in rebellion. Still, I managed to quell my disappointment, scraped the burnt skin and seeds from the fruit's surface, and mashed the remaining flesh with a bit of water and sugar. I pinched in nutmeg and cinnamon, set it back on the stove, and watched carefully over my unruly charge.

By the time the toast was hot, fruit and spice had softened into a thick paste. With a bit of butter and spread like jam, it turned out far too good for rebuke.

QUINCE BUTTER

Serves 4 

Poach 1 quince until soft (taking care to continue adding water). Remove skin and core. Mash with 1/2 cup water, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, and 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon. Cook over medium heat, stirring often, until mixture thickens into a paste the consistency of apple or pumpkin butter. This makes enough spread to serve four on breakfast toast.

Buckling down

It seems November has arrived for good. The light is different, suddenly, the trees stark, the sky a bleak, gray blanket over the woods. The chimney churns out smoke at a steady pace, filling the neighborhood with a thick, cozy, scent.

It is time to buckle down. The forays of Indian summer are past; the weather is contemplative, stern. The oats have bidden their time through strawberries and peaches, melons and apples, and this morning, finally, I returned for them.

They were patient grains—still sturdy and whole after a season's rest, still good from the 20 pound bag I bought last February by mail. They came from a farm in Maine, Wood Prairie Farm, along with the beans and flour and a few packets of seed. They were round, robust, the kind of oat with chew and a resonating wholesomeness of sorts. We ate them nearly every morning last spring, cooked in milk and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and then out the door to another frosty day.

Today, I managed to make them while holding on to the season. I cooked them in milk, gently, added cinnamon and nutmeg, and finally stirred in a good dollop of homemade applesauce to the cooling pot. The fruit blended seamlessly into the porridge, and I sat down to put in a good day's work.

APPLESAUCE & OATS

Serves 1

Heat up 1 cup milk until hot and steaming (do not boil). Add 1/2 cup oats, and stir, bringing to a gentle boil. Let cook 5-10 minutes, or until oats and milk become a thick porridge. Turn off heat, and stir in a pinch of cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg, and 1/4 cup applesauce. Top with cream and cinnamon sugar to taste; enjoy hot.

Fish tacos

By the time we set out the fixings, our guests had been there for hours. It was a potluck, of sorts—a celebration. The gifts piled up in the form of venison, wagyu steak, fresh dug steamers, and pollock.

Once a full inventory was taken, we set the menu: fish, game, and beef tacos, with a primer of Orleans clams.

I threw together a tortilla dough, and began thinning the dense flour balls with a rolling pin. A friend joined in using an already empty wine bottle, and the room began to sweat. The gas ran high, another friend manned the pan, and we churned out a full stack of soft, pliable wraps.

Meanwhile, another friend took to the toppings. He chopped cabbage and lettuce, simmered beans and spice, and finally sliced a lone tomato before looking around for more. A basket of ground cherries caught my eye, and we dropped them in to soak, half-ripened green balls falling from their dusty husks.

By the time we finally settled into our chairs, the gentle comfort of good food and company sat heavy in the air. There was a toast; perhaps two, and we talked into the night—plates scraped clean, dogs licking their chops, women bustling through the kitchen with dishrags and soap. We gave thanks for family and friends, and for the lingering fruits of the season, and settled in for a restful fall night.

FALL FISH TACOS

Serves 12

Make ahead a double batch of flour tortillas. Keep warm (wrapped in cloth) in the oven. Cut 6 pounds pollock into 12 steaks. Mix 1 tablespoon each of: cumin, chilli pepper, cayenne, black pepper, and salt. Rub spices on fish, drizzle with olive oil, and set aside. Arrange on a long platter 1 cup cabbage, cut into very thin strips, and 1/2 cup ground cherries. Make a hot aioli from 1/2 cup mayonnaise and 1 tablespoon hot sauce (such as Sriracha). In a hot pan, sear pollock for several minutes on each side. Bring out to table along with tortillas, and let guests create their own tacos.

Surprise, surprise

I saw two things this weekend in Maine that I thought I'd never see. This first was the fishmonger, down on one knee. (Yes, I agreed! Anyone with a bake ahead cake recipe, or some idea of how many whole pigs it takes to feed two hundred hungry guests, please report immediately.)

The second surprise, more startling still, was a Myer lemon tree, hidden from the fog and wind by a subtle layer of plastic, and in full bloom nonetheless. Tucked into the eaves of a Down East greenhouse, it sat warmed by a woodstove and the gentle hum of the sun.

It was on the grounds of Eliot Coleman and Barbara Damrosch's famous Four Season Farm that we found the tree, on a tour through their greenhouses after a noontime meal. I was there to interview the year-round gardeners, to learn how they kept their plates so green in the months of white and gray.

The farm was beautiful, full, laid out in a clearing that once belonged to the estate of Helen and Scott Nearing, the back-to-the-lander legends. The Nearings hadn't touched the land when Eliot came looking exactly forty years ago, and so they sold it to him at the price they'd paid: $33 an acre.

His thrift is as inspiring as theirs. Together with Barbara, he runs the farm from January through December with very little waste, changing crops with the season and working with the weather rather than against. On that gray November noon, she served us a hearty meal of whole wheat pasta, fresh cauliflower and peppers, Tuscan kale and carrots, and a warming sauce of Tahini and lemon. I never guessed the lemons could have been local—until I walked into the greenhouse, that is.

As it turns out, the Myer lemons do just fine over the winter. So long as they're potted and moved into a greenhouse or sunny room for the duration, they'll likely keep fruiting for months to come. Just be sure to re-pot the plant periodically, keep its soil moist, and feed it from time to time. It may be a labor of love, but the promise of Florida sunshine on a winter's day ought to chase any doubts away.

Love in the season of applesauce

Just last week, I was teasing the fishmonger for falling head over heels for a pie crust. And now, here I am, crumpled at the feet of an applesauce bunt cake.

It was a hasty romance, tied up in anticipation of a friend's fast approaching birthday and an afternoon whir of fallen leaves. I'd called my mother; it was 5pm. I have to have made a cake, showered, and driven to a party by 6:30pm, I pleaded. Got a recipe in mind?

She did. Once we'd established that I had a jar of applesauce (just made, and perfectly pink), and a bunt cake pan on hand, she began streaming orders. Two sticks of butter, she commanded. Two cups sugar, two cups applesauce, 3 cups flour. It went on like this; me scrambling for cinnamon and nutmeg, spoonfuls of vanilla and baking soda pouring in, and a last minute combing of the cupboards for anything remotely like raisins.

Figs are what I turned up in the end. They were perfect, really, leftover from our summer roommates and long forgotten amidst corn starch and oats. I chopped them to bits, stirring gently, and poured the cake into a well-buttered pan. Upside down, it cooked, baking through my shower, the inevitable outfit dilemma, and right up to the honking of an eager horn. In the nick of time it flipped, still steaming, onto a serving platter and out to the car.

When it was finally cool and cut, I was startled by how deep I felt it. The moist crumbs seemed to rumble in my mouth, reverberating through the hollows and dancing off my tongue. It was warm, autumnal, eager—rife with thick, seedy figs and the gentle specter of apples. In short, there was little I could do to resist.

The others seemed to feel the same—gulping down thick chunks of the stuff, until finally nothing but golden crumbs remained soft on the plate. I called my mother to thank her, later, describing the tumbling hunger and the quick disappearance of it all, and she said my father had made it first. He doesn't bake much, but when he does, he doesn't miss.

APPLESAUCE FIG CAKE

(adapted from the Silver Palate Cookbook, by Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins)

Serves 10-12

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 10-inch bunt pan. In a mixing bowl, cream 2 sticks butter with 2 cups sugar. Add 2 cups applesauce and 1 teaspoon vanilla; mix well. Sift in dry ingredients: 1 and 1/2 cups white flour, 1 and 1/2 cups whole wheat flour, 1 tablespoon cinnamon, 1 tablespoon nutmeg, and 2 teaspoons baking soda. Add 1 cup chopped figs*; stir well. Pour batter into bunt pan and cook approximately 1 hour, or until firm but moist. Let cool in pan 15 minutes; turn onto serving plate and let cool completely.

*Fig trees can survive in our area as long as they are well protected over the winter. They go dormant during periods when temperatures stay between 20 and 40 degrees (F). Their roots and trunk base can be well insulated with wood chips or other thermal protection and they will do quite well outside. The fruit makes one of the best treats both fresh and dried.

The Local Food Report: Boston Marrow Squash

Ok, so technically this is the round end of an orange Hubbard squash. It's not a Boston Marrow, though the two are look alikes, at least from this angle. While the Hubbard lacks the curved, elongated neck of the Boston Marrow, it could easily pass from behind.

I would have a picture of the real deal, rather than this imposter, but it's been impossible to find. I visited farmers' market after market, farm stand after stand, and to no avail. The Boston Marrow squash truly is disappearing.

But there is one less tangible place I've encountered it. Tucked between the careful pages of local food author Gary Nabhan's book, Renewing America's Food Traditions: Saving and Savoring the Continent's Most Endangered Foods, there it was. In bright and glossy orange, it jumped from the page with startling statistics. Brought to popularity in the mid-1800s, the squash can now be found from only two commercial seed companies: D. Landreth Seed and Heritage Harvest Seed.

Even one of the companies Nabhan lists in his book as one of the last to sell the seeds no longer does. Those have been hard to get for a while, now, the friendly operator informed me. We stopped carrying them a few years back. It's no surprise, then, that the squash are disappearing from our dinner tables.

The time to save the squash, if we decide too, is now. That's the easy part, of course. You simply order the seeds instead of Hubbard or butternut, and nurse the tiny seedlings through the spring. A year from now, you'll serve your friends a stunning pie or soup or autumn gratin, and they'll wonder at the magnificent taste. It won't be hard at all to do, you simply have to choose to.

If you need convincing, Nabhan's written a load of books on the subject. There's Where our Food Comes From, which tells the story of a great Soviet botanist who traveled the world in search of seeds to ward against hunger. There's Coming Home to Eat, on the pleasures and politics of eating locally, and plenty of other more specific reads, too. In case you need to munch while you read, here's Nabhan's recipe for the ancient New England standing dish of Boston Marrow Squash. If all else fails, you can always grab a Hubbard.

THE ANCIENT NEW ENGLAND STANDING DISH OF STEWED BOSTON MARROW "PUMPKIN"

adapted from Gary Nabhan's Renewing America's Food Traditions: Saving and Savoring the Continent's Most Endangered Foods

Serves 6-8

Slice and dice about 4 lbs. Boston Marrow squash. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed pot half full with squash, and cover with water. Cook over low heat (preferably on a woodstove, where you can leave it to stew all day). When water is largely evaporated and squash is tender, remove from heat and add (to 4 cups squash) 3 tablespoons butter, 3 tablespoons cider vinegar, 2 teaspoons ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1 tablespoon maple syrup. Mix well and serve hot.

To see the New York Times' map of Gary Nabhan's 13 food nations, click here. Roll mouse over "Clambake Nation" for a list of 12 endangered foods in our area.

Green peppers & dip

It always startles me how late in the season green peppers come in. They rush onto the tables of the last farmers' markets, harried and out of breath but stunning just the same.

I bought my last two over a week ago, on the streets of Provincetown, while a dog fight played out at my feet. I picked them carefully from the finale table, and tucked them atop storage onions and winter squash in my well-laden bag.

They sat at home until just yesterday. Still perfectly crisp, their skin cool and green, they split without caving beneath the weight of the knife. I cut them into slices and arranged them carefully on a plate next to my computer. Word after word I typed, crunching through the sweetest of peppers as the afternoon slipped by.

HERB DIP

Serves 6 to 8

Beat together 1/2 cup mayonnaise and 1/2 cup sour cream. Add 1/4 cup parsley, chopped, 1/4 cup chives, chopped, 2 cloves garlic, minced, 1 tablespoon lemon juice, and salt and pepper to taste. (The herbs in my garden are still hanging on. If yours are not, try your own blend of dried herbs in place of the fresh ones). Mix well and enjoy with veggies.

Voting night

There's something soothing about foods that crunch beneath your teeth. Potato chips, crackers, celery—they all do the trick. But this election night (tonight!) calls for something a bit more politically correct.

There is an industrial food crisis to account for, after all, so on this night of all nights, junk food would hardly be right. (You never know the subliminal message your snacks could be sending to those west coast voters as they close the polls).

My kitchen message, I decided, would be seasonal. The terribly erratic jack-o-lantern I carved from a pumpkin picked up down the street sat empty on the living room table. The seeds lay out to dry on the kitchen counter, atop a cookie tray and alongside a jar of salt.

It was only a matter of minutes before I had the oven cranked up, blazing away at 350 and beckoning warm. I sprinkled the seeds with water and salt, and popped them in to bake. In 5 minutes flat, I'd concocted this evening's snack.

Ten minutes later, I heard the seeds begin to pop and ran to the oven to check their progress. They were beginning to brown, salt shriveling against tempered pods, and the smell of pumpkin oil spread through the kitchen. When the last pop had burst forth, I pulled the seeds out to dry, and settled in to pray.

TOASTED PUMPKIN SEEDS

Serves 2 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Rinse and clean seeds of 1 large jack-o-lantern (other winter squash seeds will do just as well, but given the season, I'll bet you can rustle up some pumpkin seeds). While still wet (they must be wet for the salt to stick), sprinkle with salt to taste. Bake 15 to 20 minutes, or until seeds are golden brown.

Molly's tomato soup

I wish I could tell you I came up with this recipe myself, but truly, that's not the case. I borrowed it from Molly, who has a good many recipes worth perusing. But honestly, it's so simple, it's amazing none of us have ever thought of it before.

The occasion for Molly's soup was the last tomatoes of the season, of course. Though her recipe calls for the fruits canned, I had a heap of red, sunny globes, bought on the cheap as the farmers market rode out on the coattails of fall.

They were starting to go—there was a reason for the sale—and I'd purchased many more than an afternoon lunch could take care of. The freezer was already bursting with sauce and the cupboard with jars, and so I turned instead to this hearty fall soup.

The soup pot was ready, spitting hot, when the first onions piled in. With oil and salt, they softened into translucence, and garlic came along. Next fell lipstick peppers and fresh ground black kernels, vietnamese cilantro and another pinch of salt. With base flavors at the ready, it was time to drop in the tomatoes.

They softened slowly at first, red meat crumpling into herbs and oil, the whole mess burping and jumping until it practically leapt from the pot. Finally, the flame hunkered down, and they settled in to simmer. A half hour later, a velvety red liquid emerged: chunky, flecked with green, and absolutely wholesome. With hats off to the fruit, we promised to make another pot just as soon as the season allowed.

TOMATO SOUP with VIETNAMESE CILANTRO

(adapted from Molly's recipe, which was adapted from a Martha Stewart Living cutout, April 1995)

Serves 4

In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, heat up 1 tablespoon olive oil and sauté 1 medium white onion, chopped finely. Add 1 clove garlic, minced, and cook until onions are translucent. Add 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper, 1/4 cup Vietnamese cilantro, torn, (alternatively, you can used chopped cilantro stems, as Molly does), 1 small hot pepper, seeded and minced, 2 pounds tomatoes if chopped fresh, and 28 ounces if canned, and 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice. Let simmer 30 minutes, and enjoy hot with a dollop of Greek yogurt or sour cream.

Sunday supper

The clocks skipped back today, shifting the season for good. Afternoon light faded as I worked my hands into the chilly cavity of a chicken, and we prepared the oven for a roast.

It was the perfect evening for the bird. We'd picked it up from Paskamansett Farms in Dartmouth several weeks before, frozen solid beside its two sister birds.

When a turkey arrived from the same fields this morning, there was squawking in the freezer. Packed solid, it showed something had to go. With Sunday evening looming and no dinner in sight, the carefully packed chicken got the first ticket out.

It didn't help the bird's cause that a rotisserie sat, unused, in our beloved new oven, just itching to be used. I left the meat to thaw and returned hours later to find it ready to dress. Rubbing the meat with olive oil, salt, pepper, and fresh cut rosemary, I allowed it to sit while I rummaged around for twine. Rope offered the next best option, and so around the bird it wound.

With the oven hot, we stuck the bird between the hungry jaws of the spit and watched it begin to spin. Slowly, with excruciating appeal, it began to turn. Dripping fat and sizzling skin filled the oven, and we settled in to wait.

An hour or so passed; potatoes were mashed, salad whipped up, a jar of beach plum-cranberry chutney pulled from the pantry. Red wine was poured, gravy made, and stuffing pulled from the oven. Finally, brilliantly, the bird emerged from the oven. It was mouthwatering in its perfection, perfectly cooked on all sides, and wonderfully browned. The smell filled the dining room and we dug in to enjoy an old-fashioned Sunday supper.

ROTISSERIE CHICKEN with ROOT VEGETABLE GRATIN

Serves 4-6

Wash a 5-8 pound chicken with cold water. Drizzle with olive oil, and rub with salt, pepper, and rosemary. Tie wings in close to body; spear onto rotisserie. In a large Pyrex pan (big enough to fit beneath the bird and catch drippings) toss 1 large beet, peeled and diced, 1 apple, diced, and 1 lb. winter squash, peeled and diced, and 1 cup torn bread with salt, pepper, rosemary, and olive oil to taste. Place pan beneath chicken on floor of oven, and turn on rotisserie. Let cook 1 to 2 hours, or until meat and vegetables are cooked through and tender and bird skin is brown. Remove meat from oven, place on serving platter, and allow to rest 15 minutes before serving. Enjoy alongside vegetables.