Strawberry basil smoothie

This morning in the garden, I noticed a lone rogue basil plant working its way skyward from beneath the shelter of a neighboring prickly yellow squash. I plucked three broad green leaves from its shady base, and headed inside for breakfast.

I had been planning to indulge in a frozen strawberry smoothie; amidst the humidity of the past few days, I'd tucked a cup of chopped berries into the freezer for an icy morning treat. As today dawned hot and muggy, I pulled them out to throw in the blender.

My early basil discovery proved a fortuitous addition to the smoothie's ingredients. Along with the dollop of Greek yogurt and tablespoon of lime juice that followed the partially thawed strawberries into the blender, in went the basil leaves to be tumbled against the rest.

Basil and strawberry are a common pair; they both emerge just as the heat of summer sets in, both cool and crisp and bursting with flavor. They're often spotted together on pizza, bruschetta, and salads, or muddled together in cocktails or lemonades. It's not as often, however, that the sweet and savory pair of summer are mixed in a smoothie. The chilly drinks tend to be the domain of the sweet, allowing only for the tamest of interlopers like peanut butter or carrots.

This morning's concoction proved that theory wrong. The sweetness of the berries balanced out the subtle, spicy flecks of basil and the acidic, bright sting of Key West's finest lime. It's a recipe to be repeated—perhaps next time as popsicles.

STRAWBERRY BASIL SMOOTHIE

Serves 1

In a blender, combine until smooth: 1 cup partially thawed or fresh strawberries, 2 large basil leaves, 1 tablespoon Key West lime juice, 1 heaping tablespoon Greek yogurt. If berries are fresh, add 1/2 cup ice. Garnish with a third basil leaf and serve immediately.

Arlington piz-Za

It isn't often your first five minutes at a restaurant table involve a tutorial. Upon sitting down at noon sharp at Za, a Mass. Ave. Arlington eatery known for its pizza, salads and creative use of local ingredients, we received a crash course in How to Order 101 before even taking a swig of water.

Our waitress was well versed in her explanation; the pizza ingredients were fresh, she told us, picked or harvested locally that week, and changing often. She laid down two menus, one year-round and one comprised of seasonal "chalkboard specials," and explained that the two should be thought of as a collaborative experience. "For example there is no basil on the toppings list for our menu of make-your-own pizzas," she pointed out, "but since you see it on the specials, you are welcome to add it to any dish." The same, that afternoon, went for rhubarb, asparagus, bib lettuce, and strawberries.

We selected two chalkboard specials: the first, an asparagus, rhubarb, caramelized onion, cheddar, and parmigiano reggiano 10-inch round, and the second a layering of Maine Ducktrap smoked salmon, creme fraiche, caramelized onions, fontina cheese, red onions, caper, dill, and lemon vinaigrette. Other options for the day included a goat cheese and basil creation accompanied by strawberries from nearby Verril Farm in Concord, and a "Caesar's Pizza" of creamy potatoes, kalamata olive tapendade, crisp romaine, garlick croutons, and a fresh lemon-Caesar dressing.

When our pizzas emerged steaming, we each grabbed a slice of the thin, pliable dough (made, we were informed by the menu, of organic flour, honey, wild yeast, and salt). While a bite of our first selection lacked the rhubarb punch we were hoping for, the smoky flavor of the Maine cured salmon gave the second enough pizazz to cover both. The salads—mine a fresh Verril Farm bib lettuce, shaved red onion, local micro-green, and creamy mustard masterpiece and my tablemates an artistic heap of Verril farm strawberries and arugula—were better still. Dessert, a Verril strawberry covered lemon tart topped with a scoop of fresh whipped cream, sealed the deal. We left satiated and happy, hoping to return.

Still, even while Za is serving up good eats and is ahead of most competitors in using and advertising local ingredients, it didn't take the locavore premise far enough to truly blow me away. Even on the chalkboard special pizzas, the asparagus was from California (despite being in season locally) and the salmon (while smoked nearby) was a far cry from a Massachusetts fish. Certainly, not every ingredient can be sourced locally, but on a menu that comes with a tutorial in eating seasonally, I expected a bit more precision in the department of local fare.

That being said, if every menu came with a tutorial like that offered at Za's we'd be a more conscious state of eaters.

Beneath the mulberry tree

Yesterday afternoon, I was walking with my sister through the streets of Somerville near her Boston Ave. apartment when we noticed a rain of berries falling from the sky. We crouched down to examine the fruit on the sidewalk.

In color, shape, and size they resembled a blackberry, but when crushed lacked the sweet smell and boasted instead a dark, purple stain. Looking up, we saw that every bough of the neighborhood tree was laden with berries—some black, some red, and some white in various stages of ripeness.

We returned home to do some research, eager to find out the name behind the strange fruit. After reading through page upon page about edible fruit, we found the answer: our tree was a black mulberry.

Mulberry is an old fashioned fruit, remembered in the children's rhyme and folk recipes for berry cordial or sugared preserves. Despite its importance as a food for pies, jams, and livestock feed in earlier centuries, it seems to have fallen out of favor in the era of the grocery store and convenience mart. I had never encountered a mulberry in a recipe or at the market before that afternoon, let alone tasted one.

Intrigued by the prospect of a first stolen bite, we headed back to the grass beneath the tree to try a piece of fallen fruit. The flesh crushed easily against the tongue, with a taste somewhat reminiscent of a watered down blueberry or grape with a hint of citrus tang.

We couldn't eat more than a few; most of it had been ground into the sidewalk, and it was someone else's property after all. I wondered at the waste of it all—pounds of berries strewn unwanted across the walkway, with hungry mothers and grandfathers and children strolling over them by the hundreds. I pictured a time when a white sheet might be spread beneath the branches, collecting the block's worth of pies and jam.

Were the tree mine to care for, I hope I'd do the same. Perhaps one day I will. In the meantime, here's an old cobbler recipe for those of you with a mulberry of your own.

MULBERRY COBBLER

Serves 8

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. In a large bowl, stir together 8 cups mulberries and 1 and 1/2 cups sugar. Let sit and in a separate bowl mix together 3 cups whole wheat flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 4 tablespoons sugar. Cut in 1 and 1/2 sticks butter with a pastry knife. Add 3/4 to 1 cup whole milk until it forms a sticky biscuit dough. Pour berries and sugar over the bottom of a large Pyrex pan and top with dollops of dough. Bake for 10-15 minutes, or until dough is golden. Serve hot with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

Sugar snap salad

Last night, I walked bare footed through the overgrown rows of my garden to see what might be ready for dinner. The air lay heavy against the forest of green, bearing down against the sturdy roots of the pole beans and the orange blossoms of the squash.

I plucked a head of bib lettuce, a few leaves of romaine, and the thin, wavering head of an early scallion. Then, I noticed the peas—entangled with the mesh of the chicken wire, hanging full and ripe and bursting out from the pod—was my very first crop of sugar snaps.

I caught them in their prime, each edible pod rich with the reticent sweetness of early summer and possessing a crispness particular to the just-picked variety. When I was through with the patch, empty tendrils buoyed back towards the sky and the plants stood free of their fruit.

The simple salad we enjoyed for dinner would, with other ingredients, have been nothing special, made up as it was of only lettuce, peas, balsamic, and oil. But with the distance from garden to table so short, it proved instead to be one of the best I've had this year.

SUGAR SNAP SALAD

Serves 2

Pick and wash 1 head Boston bib lettuce and several leaves romaine lettuce or other sweet early green. Dry and tear into small, wide salad bowl. Top with 1/2 cup sugar snap peas, broken in half. If desired, add several sprigs finely chopped chives, wild garlic, or scallion. Drizzle with 1-2 tablespoons olive oil and a sprinkling of balsamic vinegar; toss well and eat immediately.

Scallops and tinfoil

I do not normally endorse foods wrapped in tinfoil. Generally, what you find inside is nothing to write home about: soggy McMuffins or a BK broiler or perhaps a left over sandwich that's begun to show some mold.

Burritos, however, are one notable exception. By definition, the burrito should be wrapped in tinfoil; for ease of consumption, warmth containment, and hold-in-your-hand convenience, there is nothing better.

In the midst of a thunderstorm yesterday, I headed down to Mac's Seafood on the Wellfleet pier to pick up a scallop version of this Cape Cod summer essential. With the rain pouring down, the crowds were cleared out from the window, and I ordered my usual in record time. Scallops, black beans, rice, salsa, cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and calamata olives were pushed together, rolled into a wrap, and encased in tinfoil before being handed to me through the bay side window.

The first round bite was replete with mollusk and stuffing. With new scalloping grounds recently opened up 60 miles off Cape, the bivalves are not only abundant this week, but also extra rich. In hopes of recreating the wrap at home, I'm working today to master this tortilla recipe.

BASIC FLOUR TORTILLAS

Makes 8

In a large mixing bowl, combine 4 cups whole-wheat flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/4 cup olive oil, and 3/4 cup water. Mix with your hands, adding water until the dough is firmly in a ball but not sticky. Knead for 5 minutes, then divide into 8 balls. Place these on a lightly floured surface and cover with a damp towel.

Light a medium flame under a cast iron skillet. Roll out dough balls one at a time until they are about 1/4 inch thick. Place each in the pan and cook on both sides for about 30 seconds, making sure that the pan is not too hot or the tortillas will burn.

Eat hot or keep refrigerated for several weeks or frozen for up to six months.

Pizza bianca

Last night we reaped the first meager harvest from our garden rows. Five violet streaked leaves of romaine, a handful of basil leaves, and one spring onion sat strewn across the cutting board, waiting in limbo for the calamitous clang of the dinner bell.

When the clock struck eight, down came the blade. Swiftly, silently, the green harvest heralds resigned to their fate. Tonight, they would provide the toppings for an impromptu pizza bianca.

I had heard about the dish on NPR. Driving lazily along the bayside on Saturday afternoon, the wavering voice of Lynne Rossetto Kasper drifted over the airwaves, bringing with it the tastes and smells of a Roman artisanal favorite. Pizza bianca, as Kasper and her guest Anya Von Bremzen (travel writer for Travel + Leisure; check out her article on eating on the cheap in Europe) explain, is the antithesis of American pizza. In other words, it lacks tomatoes and and cheese.

The Roman variation focuses instead on simplicity. A good dough, fine olive oil, and sprinkling of coarse salt are the key ingredients. Often ricotta and fresh vegetables serve as toppings, dotted across the crust as tiny accents rather than layered in the thick tradition of a New York pizza.

Following the season, we topped ours with our first tiny basil, a smattering of bok choy and romaine, sautéed spring onion rounds, the leaves of our burgeoning potted rosemary, and a few scattered dollops of Shy Brother's lavender cheese. A sprinkling of oats over the pan allowed the crust to crisp up in the oven, and we sat down to a meal that—at least in the vegetable department—was entirely the work of our own earthen hands.

PIZZA BIANCA for June

Serves 8

Let 2 and 1/4 teaspoons yeast dissolve in 1 and 1/3 cups very warm water for 5 minutes, or until bubbly. Add 1 tablespoon salt, 2 tablespoons olive oil, and 3 and 1/2 cups whole wheat flour. Mix well and knead 8-10 minutes or until elastic. Set aside to rise for 1 hour or until dough has doubled in size.

Punch dough down and divide into two balls. Preheat oven to 475 and set dough aside to rest. In a heavy frying pan, sauté one large chopped spring onion or scallion until tender. Add several sprigs of chopped rosemary, sauté for a minute longer, and turn off heat. Add several chopped lettuce, bok choy, or other spring green leaves to hot pan to quickly coat in oil (to keep moist in oven).

Roll out dough and place on cookie sheet sprinkled with oats (this will prevent dough sticking to pan and burning). Brush dough with several tablespoons olive oil and top with sautéed veggies. Add a handful of basil leaves and several dollops of soft cheese as desired. Crank sea salt and pepper over top to season, and cook for 10-12 minutes.

Enjoy hot or cold as leftovers.

Quail eggs, toast rounds, and broccoli rabe

It is the season of gourmet breakfasts. As afternoons and evenings are turned over to the clamor and bustle of a restaurant kitchen and harried snatches of a midnight meal, the morning spread appears a peaceful, deliberate treasure.

This morning, I awoke early to see what pleasures a hungry riser might steal from the depths of the fridge. I began with quail eggs, an epicurean item by any measure. From there, I worked my way down; what began with tiny, speckled gold moved from a box of soft artisan cheese to a bunch of broccoli rabe to a pat of butter and finally to the utterly mundane: a slab of stale toast.

Nevertheless, it only took those first few finds to make a feast. I lit the stove, heated up a skillet, and dropped in a pat of butter to coat its cast iron flat. Next I spread a handful of the long, leafy broccoli rabe across the pan and covered it tightly to steam and sizzle. Stale bread became toast rounds, cut to the size of a tiny coaster and spread with a thimble of classic French cheese from Shy Brothers' Farm in Westport. With the rabe nearly tender, I pushed it to the side of the iron and cracked two quail eggs onto a layer of butter. In seconds, they were firming up, and I slid the over easy pair into a layered tower of toast and egg.

The rich, miniature yolk soaked down through the bread as I sliced and toppled the cheese laden spire. Broccoli rabe lent a bitter cut, while a few scattered strawberries sweetened the plate. Slowly, quietly, I sat back to enjoy the simple elegance of the meal, before giving way to the hurry of the day.

QUAIL EGGS, TOAST ROUNDS, AND RAPINI

Serves 1

In a heavy frying pan, melt 1 tablespoon butter. Spread 5-10 stalks broccoli rabe (rapini) across pan and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cover and let steam for 2-4 minutes. Push to side and add tiny dab of butter where eggs will cook; crack 2 quail eggs into pan and cook as desired.

Toast one piece stale bread and cut into two rounds slightly smaller than the size of the eggs in the pan. Spread each with 1/2 Hannahbell Classic French thimble or 1 teaspoon other soft cheese. Layer toast and eggs into two tier tower and serve alongside rapini and several strawberries.

Beach peas

I missed the peas at the Provincetown market; a woman in line just ahead of me yesterday afternoon scooped deep into the bottom of the basket, and the last pods walked away. Resigned to wait for the first harvest from my garden, I made my way back to the sticky heat of the car.

Driving home, the bay beckoned. My legs stuck to the creased black leather of the drivers' seat, and I veered off the highway towards Ryder Beach. Dune gave way to water, and the sultry weight of the day deliquesced.

Climbing back towards home, I noticed a stand of wild beach peas clinging to the sand. With tendrils reaching tenaciously at moving earth, they stretched across the foredune intermingled with roses and grass. The pods were just ripe, their fuzzy skin a brilliant green and bumped with the promise of tiny peas.

From only four plants, I picked enough peas to fill my makeshift gathering towel. At home, I began shucking. For every pod, I found perhaps two peas the size of a teardrop; not a great yield, but certainly worth the work. Within a half hour, a cup stood before me, ready to cook. While the tiny snacks can be eaten raw, they sweeten when served hot.

I arranged several lettuce leaves in the bottom of a heavy saucepan, sprinkled the peas, a dash of butter, and a sprinkling of sugar and salt on top, and ten minutes later we sat down to a foragers supper of petit pois. Tomorrow, I'm heading back to the dune for another harvest—this time for freezing.

PETIT POIS, or English peas

Serves 4

Line a Dutch oven with 4 large lettuce leaves. Layer with 1 and 1/2 cup tiny shelled beach peas. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon sugar, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and several grinds of fresh pepper. Dot with 2 tablespoons butter, and cover with several more lettuce leaves. With a tight lid on top, cook for 8-10 minutes or until peas are tender, adding small amounts of water if peas begin to dry out. Serve peas atop lettuce leaves, or chop and serve together. Enjoy hot.

Orleans market update

It was a struggle this morning to make it to the market. Every week, I have worked to rise earlier, having watched the last cabbage or asparagus bunch slip from beyond my grasp onto the table of another.

Still, by 7:38 I was in the car, sleepy-eyed and ready to do the week's shop. A quick jaunt into the South Wellfleet General Store for an icy jolt of locally roasted Beanstock coffee revived me further, and within the quarter hour I hit the hidden Old Colony green in Orleans.

The first new find was broccoli rabe; a thin cluster of deep green leaves and petite florets sold for $3 a bundle from Tim Friary at Cape Cod Organics.

The second was a strawberry chocolate chip muffin from the Optimal Kitchen, a booth run by Orleans nutritionist Heather Bailey and specializing in healthy, wholesome baked goods. I assumed the strawberries were local, but when asked, Bailey hesitated. "Strawberries are in the top ten for pesticide levels," she explained. "For this fruit, I only buy organic." It wasn't til the day after she made her muffins that Friary brought the first organic berries to the market. Next week, says the baker, she'll switch.

Ben Chung (dentist by day, farmer by night) had his first batch of quail eggs for sale, now enthusiastically endorsed by the board of health and his kids. At $3 for ten eggs, the speckled rounds would make an exquisite accompaniment to any breakfast gathering.

Leafy greens and lettuces were everywhere; ranging from $7-$9 a pound and in every shape from kale to bok choy to cabbage to spicy anise. Spring onions and wild garlic also saw a growth spurt this week, with the size of each doubling or tripling as they sprouted skyward each day.

The lobster lady, Laurie, stood with her cooler at the eastern corner of the crowd, selling yesterday's catch at $8.99 per pound for today's dinner. While diesel prices are driving up her bottom line, she says she thinks she'll make it through the summer at under $10 per pound.

Julie Winslow was back with her shiitake mushroom logs, tempting me to buy another to accompany the one already stashed away in my shed. Perhaps in the fall; for now I'm content to wait for her next harvest, which should arrive in a week.

On my way home, arms loaded down with broccoli, bok choy, and berries, I ducked quickly into Stop n' Shop to pick up a wheel of cheese. The contrast in noises, air, and smells was startling—the chirp of the birds replaced by the squawk of a mechanical labeler, the sweet, heavy scent of berries whisked away by the stale cool of the air conditioner, and the cheerful clatter of voices silenced against the walls and aisles and the sterile sheen of the linoleum floor.

I picked up a slice of Great Hill Blue and a Maine-churned stack of Kate's Homemade butter, and ran for the door. Back in the car, I rolled down the windows and took in a breath of berry laden air. Now, on to the market of Provincetown.

The first zucchini

Zucchini begins so innocently. The first small, round fruit drops from the vine, and the season for the squash commences. For a week or two, this pace keeps up. We run out to the garden each evening before supper to see what the day will offer, delighted with another slender stalk.

It is not until several weeks later, when the baseballs begin to turn into bats, and neighbors begin sneaking bags of the green beasts onto car seats and bicycle baskets and refrigerators, that the overabundance turns malignant.

Thankfully, that phase is still weeks away in my garden. The tiny round perpetrator I picked up is from the Orleans farmers' market, coaxed along in Ron Backer's greenhouse to reach even this modest size by mid-June. Soon enough, I'm sure, he'll be stuffing them surreptitiously into our purchases, but for now, we're clamoring for that first taste of the season.

Last night, I sliced and sautéed my green monster against a backdrop of olive oil, spring onions, wild garlic, and rosemary. With the first bite, I gave thanks for this zucchini, and did my best to tuck away some gratitude for those to come.

ZUCCHINI FRY

Serves 2

Thinly slice 1 small zucchini, 1 spring onion, and several sprigs wild spring garlic. Pick the rosemary from 1 two inch twig and set aside. In a large frying pan, heat up 1-2 tablespoons olive oil or butter. When the fat is hot, add onions. Sauté several minutes over medium-high flame, or until they begin to become translucent. Add zucchini and wild garlic. Cut rosemary into tiny pieces over pan. Stir frequently as the vegetables cook, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.

This side is an excellent accompaniment to seafood, particularly scallops and white fish.