Tropical Storm Fay

They forgot the “e”, but I can take a hint. I know I’m hot and moody, but you know all is forgiven when you know how to cook. As a child I baked to ensure my place in the family. And I would bet that more than once my marriage has survived because my husband would struggle thinking about life without my cooking. I’m not proud–sometimes it comes down to making it through a few critical minutes of indecision–quiet or that meat sauce full of love from the deep down depths of my heart and good enough to move mountains and men. So far it’s always been the meat sauce.
In the summer–same technique–different menu. Pesto with basil that has been grown in the earth finished with the tiniest bit of heavy cream, over pasta that you persuade to transform from a pile of flour into silk. On the side a warm string bean salad with slivers of garlic, and the tiniest, ripest tomatoes. And for dessert a peach crisp, heavy with the sweet scent of sunny days, sultry nights, and a little bit of sugar. To make the crisp, slice about 8 peaches. Smell them first to be sure they are ready. Toss them with less than half a cup of granulated sugar and set them in a baking dish to make a full layer. In a medium bowl, rub together 1 stick of cold, unsalted butter cut into tiny pieces, 1 cup of brown sugar, and 1 cup of all purpose flour. If cinnamon moves you, give a tiny shake to the flour before you add it to the mix. Bake at 400 degrees until the topping is golden brown.

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