This spring, I worked as an organic gardening teacher at a Houston public school. It was at once inspirational and terrifying, as most new experiences are. My sister, who has been assisting at a summer camp, recently theorized that children grow up by sucking the life out of everything around them. A haunting way to consider one’s youth, though probably true: I ended each class feeling like a wrung out rag, used and floppy, drained of all capacity.

Fortunately, we ended our experience on a happy note, which is to say, a cessation of my top-of-the-lung instruction and a belly-filling feast. Thanks to a generous supervisor at Urban Harvest, I got my hands on a traditional Mexican molcajete y tejolote—an ancient, granite mortar and pestle and some locally grown pecans. With a block of Parmesan, some homegrown basil and a touch of lemon juice and olive oil, we ground together one of the tastiest pestos I’ve had: never again will I make an herb-based sauce without pulverizing the leaves beforehand. It really does take pesto to new heights of delicious.

When I got home, I made quick use of my borrowed tool. I had to give it back at the end of the week, and, under such extreme pressure, was able to muster a tiny bit of post-gardening energy to roast some tomatoes, grind a few bunches of basil and create a few varieties of my favorite summertime sauce.

I started with a large batch of classic pesto, divided it and added roasted tomatoes to the second half. In anticipation of serving fish for dinner, I added a bit of lemon to some of the plain batch, which gave it a light citrus kick. Making these all at once turned into quite an efficient way to dress up all of my meals for the week, including a crunchy roasted broccoli salad. Second only to the super-spongy eggplant, broccoli is truly the best vehicle for sauces and marinades, given the many branches and crags of each floret. More on that to come.

Basic Pesto:

(Double recipe if you plan to make another batch using this as a base)

2 cups fresh basil leaves, tightly packed
¼ c toasted pine nuts
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of 1 lemon
¾ cup finely-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus extra for serving
Coarse salt

Grind basil (you may have to work in batches) into a paste using a mortar and pestle.

Grind the pine nuts, garlic and salt in a food processor until pasty.

Add the basil and lemon juice and pulse a few times until incorporated. Drizzle in oil and process until smooth.

Transfer to a medium sized bowl and stir in cheese.

Lemony Pesto:

Repeat recipe, adding juice of 2 lemons and 1 Tbsp lemon zest.

Roasted Tomato Pesto:

Add 1 c roasted tomatoes to pesto mixture after adding oil, and before transferring to bowl.

Buckets of rain / Buckets of tears / Got all them buckets comin’ out of my ears. / Buckets of moonbeams in my hand, / I got all the love, honey baby, / You can stand.

I been meek / And hard like an oak / I seen pretty people disappear like smoke. / Friends will arrive, friends will disappear, / If you want me, honey baby, / I’ll be here.

Like your smile / And your fingertips / Like the way that you move your lips. / I like the cool way you look at me, / Everything about you is bringing me / Misery.

Little red wagon / Little red bike / I ain’t no monkey but I know what I like. / I like the way you love me strong and slow, / I’m takin’ you with me, honey baby, / When I go.

Life is sad / Life is a bust / All ya can do is do what you must. / You do what you must do and ya do it well,  / I’ll do it for you, honey baby, / Can’t you tell?

There are few things better than cooking for a party that ends with a booming display of fireworks and the requisite swelling of pride and patriotism. That said, making use of leftovers in the following day is equally pleasing in its own humble way. I guess it works best when the house is full of people you love: a visiting fiancé who has to leave that very afternoon, a sister who took the train in from New York instead of going to some schmancy party on Long Island, a mom and pop with summer time to spare, and a dear old family friend named Olga, who eats anything, as long as it’s not green.

We spent a sunny afternoon in preparation for the 4th of July party, chopping, mixing, marinating and the like. At around 3 pm, Christopher and I took brown paper bags out to the dock and shucked upwards of twenty ears for a corn salad, doing our best to keep the shaking dog and her lake-water-dewiness at bay. Next, we hauled our gilded logs and their empty husks to the picnic bench on the porch and sheared the kernels into bowls, though they were worthy of a much larger vessel. (Got all them buckets comin’ out of my ears / buckets of corn kernels in my hands.)

There was truly an abundance of corn: corn so sweet you could literally gnaw it raw from the ear, which we did for respite from the shucking and hair pulling. It’s amazing to me that each kernel has its own fine strand—the vehicle for its pollination. Despite my fascination with maize-mating, it can be quite tedious to pull every one of those fine little hairs from the tight rows of plumped up kernels, especially when you’re dealing with a couple dozen cobs.

It was a labor of love, and when it was all over, it felt like a real treasure. So much corn, so many sated friends, such a display of fireworks. “America!” I shouted, and I meant it, thinking of our beloved president and, oh, the place we’ll go. But the magic truly began when all the guests left, and only the Cowles plus one remained on the dock. Christopher, ducking into the house for more beers, somehow knew to win our hearts with Blonde on Blonde. Out came a crooning Dylan, loud enough to drown out the neighbor’s bad musical selection, and leaving us to bundle together and reminisce as the fire pit glowed against the lake. We all knew we were in love—not just me.

And even though Christopher has been here so many times before, the thought of sending him off with a plain old granola breakfast or some standard eggs and bacon was beyond heartbreaking. So I took to the pint of kernels I’d saved to make a very special batch of pancakes, for a very special Sunday morning. These are summer flapjacks at their finest—put away your blueberries and give these a go.

Fresh Corn Pancakes

Adapted from Gourmet: yields about 12 pancakes

1 c all-purpose flour
4 tsp baking powder
2 tbsp Turbinado sugar (or white)
1 tsp kosher salt
3 ears of just-plucked, local corn
¾ c whole milk
2 large eggs
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 stick unsalted butter, melted and cooled
½ c pure maple syrup, warmed in a skillet with a pad of butter

__

Whisk flour, baking powder, sugar and salt in a medium bowl.

Cut 2 cups worth of corn kernels. Transfer ½ c kernels to blender and puree with milk until smooth.

Strain through a sieve into a large bowl, pressing out as much liquid as possible, then discarding solids.

Whisk eggs, oil and butter into the milk. Add flour mixture with remaining corn and whisk until just combined.

Working in batches, pour dollops onto a hot, generously buttered griddle. Don’t be afraid of the butter here: add about half a tablespoon each time you start with a new batch. You want the melted butter to run around the edges of each cake, rendering it crispy and golden.

Once upon a time in 2006, I attended a summer financial program in Hanover, New Hampshire. In three weeks—nearly the most miserable twenty-one days of my twenty-one years—I learned little more than that I had no business at business camp. I had enrolled right after college graduation, hoping to postpone the inevitable job-market—or at least make myself more marketable.

Graduation came and went in a soggy flourish, but as soon as I got out of a rainy Philadelphia, I was back at school again, studying spreadsheets in the glorious green mountains. Although I endured the program for a full month, it took less than a single lecture for me to come upon a pretty simple formula: Isabel + Spreadsheets = Tears.

Indeed, I spent most of that sun-shining June wearing wet misery upon my face. I woke up in the night, febrile, tearing, tossing and terrified, like a little dinghy on fire out in a stormy sea. The workload was horrible—intended to mimic life as a banker—and most of my peers were econ or accounting majors. Yes, I was definitely out to sea. Nothing in my arsenal of literary theory had prepared me for this. I was in a cellular Hell, surrounded by McKinsey-courting, money-crazed madmen. All I wanted was to be a writer, I lamented, slinking away into the woods, wishing some sylvan hero would rescue me, a worn “Walden” tucked in his back pocket.

Which brings me to this tidbit: my frustration was also born from a certain sideways glancing boy I’d noticed in the lecture hall. He had dirty blond hair, the kind that curls a bit at the nape of the neck, and wrinkles around his smile…the kind that make me weak at the knees. On the first day of spreadsheet modeling class, I watched him unwrap a Bartlett pear from a brown paper bundle and eat it slowly, half chewing, half sucking, all while cradling its bulbous bottom as juice slinked down his fingers and dripped into his lap. It was quite a show.

Naturally, images of this impish fellow kept me up at night, and I was torn between wanting the days to pass so I could get out of my office-dormitory, and wanting them to last a bit longer, so that he and I might get a chance to speak. Well, one day we did—the 26th of June, when he sent a note that challenged me to a race up the fire tower. Not knowing what that was, I accepted, on the condition that he fetch me at 5am. After a very sleepless night, we were off. I lost. But the view up there was spectacular, and afterward, we had croissants and coffee by the river and took a very nude-ish dip before our accounting lecture at 8am.

July 4th soon followed, and by then we had traded accounting class for trips up trees with bagfuls of cherries. We spit pits at each other from our perches—highly romantic, indeed. We celebrated our Independence by drinking Moonshine he’d made (those Dartmouth boys are like grown-up scouts) and eating salted Edamame pods, knee-deep in a creek. We walked to the nearest grocery store as the sun started to soften, and bought ourselves a picnic of feta cheese, an aged baguette, green peppers, (which I later admitted I find too bitter) a gigantic tomato and fresh basil to eat in a field while the fireworks boomed for us.

As I limn this three years later, he’s sitting by my side, reading the Financial Times. He finally got a day off! He made the trip to my parent’s house in Connecticut late last night! And while I’m still grumbling about Thoreau and feta cheese, he’s gone off and become a banker. But, in his spare time, he has helped me make this one of our favorite summer recipes. Try it with somebody you love, and if you can get your hands on some homemade lemonade and Moonshine, you’ll love them even more.

Salmon Burgers with Zucchini and Fennel Slaw

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves Two (easily halved if your dining partner is busy with a spreadsheet)

6 Tbsp Mayonnaise
4 tsp fresh lemon juice, divided
6 Tbsp chopped chives
2 tsp grainy mustard
¼ tsp cayenne
½ pound skinless salmon filet, chopped
8 saltine crackers, crumbled
2 medium zucchini, grated (or 3 cups)
1 small fennel bulb, trimmed and sliced thin
s & p
Olive Oil
Dijon mustard

___

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Whisk together mayo, 2 tsp lemon juice, chives, mustard, cayenne and salt and pepper (about ½ tsp of each).

Stir together salmon, crackers, 1 ½ cup zucchini, and half of mayonnaise mixture in another bowl.

Add fennel and remaining zucchini and leftover lemon juice to mayo mixture in medium bowl and toss to combine slaw.

Form salmon mixture into 4 patties and place on a baking rack for 12-15 minutes, until fish turns lighter in color. Serve with slaw and a dab of Dijon mustard.

Alternatively, you can cook salmon cakes in a skillet over medium heat, which takes about 6 minutes.

Home, home, home I go, in time for the fourth of July. Checkered tablecloths on wooden picnic benches! Golden, sweet, salty corn, sputtering and exploding in kernels betwixt my teeth! Blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream! Fireworks over the dock! My dog jumps into the patterned water! Oh, high-stepping I shall be when I waltz from the airplane platform tomorrow at 3:16 pm and declare myself home.  I’ll wear my favorite rainbow shoes and run off the dock at dusk, drink in hand. HOME–is where I want to be. (!)

I came to Texas almost two years ago—with Christopher, for the light in his eyes. Mostly it inspires me, sometimes it tires me, but always, no matter what, I dream of home. I grew up in such a wonderful way, I can hardly believe it: in a New England farmhouse on a wooded hill, no television, no neighbors, just me, my younger sister, the creek, the trees and the happy dog, Pippy—may she rest in peace.

The seasons were penetrating, way out there, away from everybody—especially the summertime, with the smell of wild roses and the heavy, quiet leaves, and the cool, wet plunges into Lake Waramaug, imagining myself a fish. I’m lying. I imagined myself a mermaid, even if the water was murky and brown.

So tomorrow home I go again—and I’m taking the new(er) dog with me. We’ll swim, we’ll berry pick, (you should see Lupe berry pick…she’s incredibly talented, even without  thumbs…) we’ll make a lattice-top pie and get tipsy on a canoe, licking our lips. Before we set out, I’ll lift my family’s spirits with this wonderful cocktail my dear Christopher has turned me onto. He may not have invented it, but it’s his in my mind.

My fingers are crossed that he’ll find a last-minute flight out for the weekend, but if he can’t I’m prepared to do the honors. In the meantime, for practice, let me reiterate the simple recipe in hopes that you will find yourself with one, tingling and refreshed. It’s just a bit sweet, just a touch bitter, but definitely the most cheerful summer cocktail I’ve ever tasted. It’s so light and dignified, you could drink it with breakfast. Oh, the thrill of Independence Day. Oh summer, oh home, did I find you or you find me?

The Campari Greyhound

Serves 4, theoretically.

4 oz chilled local vodka (if you can—otherwise, try Kettle One)
4 oz Campari (probably not a local ingredient for you)
8 oz grapefruit juice (preferably fresh-squeezed)
4 sprigs grapefruit zest for garnish
2 c ice

Shake ingredients (reserving zest) and distribute evenly into highball glasses.
Garnish with zest and serve immediately.

Hi Yo!  Sing into my mouth.

I woke up yesterday morning with a sharp stick in my throat…at least it felt that way. Every time I swallowed, my glands cried out and begged me to stop the searing pain. Oh how I hoped the feeling would pass, but it persisted—all day long. To add insult to injury, I also had an eyelid that refused to open (and creases from wrinkled sheets embedded into my right cheek—but that’s another complaint entirely). I looked like I was elbowed in the socket by an angry bedmate, and though I do have a penchant for stealing the covers, I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen. Did I mention my nose was running? So here’s what I had yesterday in a nutshell: a searing sore throat, a single operative eye, and a dribbling nose. I was gruff, winking and weepy. There’s only one magical thing that can save a gal on a day like that one, and it’s called a gut full of soup.

But, there’s a rub: it’s hard to make soup during a Houston summer. Once June rolls around, I am in a knockdown, drag-out fight with the heat. It’s all I can do to peel myself out of bed and trudge lugubriously from place to place, feigning efficiency. Walking the dog is a serious undertaking, as is taking out the garbage; watering the plants; making it from the driveway to the front door. Am I the only weirdo in the world to get a head cold during the dog days of summer?
In any case, the typical chicken soup nostrum is not something I gravitated to during my febrile bout. I had no homemade chicken stock on hand, and the idea of simmering a bird in quarts of water for hours did not appeal to my already over-heated house and head. Skimming fat off the bubbling broth while blowing my bubbling nose seemed too unglamorous for words. Fortunately, I was saved by a bounty of summertime produce—a heady, red dash of Lycopene and vitamin C, which did wonders for my ailing sinuses and broken immunity.

I’m the kind of gal who can never have enough tomatoes, even when they’re rolling off my countertops. I feel like a kid who greedily stuffed her pockets with too many marbles. Tomatoes are spilling out all over the place, tumbling from their colander perch, overflowing from brown paper bags and falling like un-ripened Humpty Dumpties from my windowsill. I’ve grown, bought and hoarded so many sun gold, heirloom and cherry tomatoes that there’s really nothing to do but roast them, turn them into sauce, or make soup.

I had fortuitously roasted a whole batch the day before and was saved by my own unknowing foresight. There they were, shriveled, glazed, red and yellow, beautifully bright and beckoning me from their little glass jar in the refrigerator. There’s nothing so delightful as a sweet roasted tomato, either fresh from the oven or cooled and served on a bed of Arugula. But that is a story for another time. Today I talk about soup.
A few other summer odds and ends were also put into the mix, including two recently roasted red peppers, some garlic and a bunch of basil. What emerged was a warm, red broth that did wonders for my irritated throat and heat-induced irascible mood. I was soothed and calmed from top to bottom. If only there were a recipe to cure stinkeye.

Roasted Tomato Soup

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size

2 large red peppers, cored and quartered

3 yellow onions, quartered

1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil

3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken

1 c basil, torn plus 1 Tbsp basil chiffonade

Turbinado sugar

Balsamic vinegar

Olive oil

Dash of heavy cream (optional)

S & p

—-
Spread tomatoes skin-side down on a large baking sheet along with peppers, onions and garlic bulb. Drizzle with balsamic vinegar, olive oil and a shake or two of salt and Turbinado sugar.

Roast at 450 degrees for about 30 minutes, or until the tomatoes have collapsed and the onions have caramelized. Rotate if necessary.

In the meantime, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins into a large bowl. Add the roasted vegetables, 1 c basil and broth to the bowl (if you have an immersion blender) or blend them traditionally, working in small batches to prevent any heat-induced explosions.

Once blended, bring soup to a simmer if it has cooled. When it’s warm enough to eat, swirl in a dash of heavy cream and top with some basil chiffonade. (You can also enjoy this soup cold–as I did for a few days after.)

Sometimes it’s fun to get stuck in a rut—especially when the rut involves lots of butter and nuts. A few weeks ago I made the bold claim that I’d found THE PERFECT SCONE RECIPE. This is a load of malarkey, not because the scones were anything less than perfect, but because it implies that there’s no longer a need to poke around for another option.

Maybe that’s your cup of tea. There’s definitely a lot of comfort to be had in discovering one solid, sure-fire strategy for a crowd-pleasing dish. That said, perfection can also come from the thrill of discovery: a new golden flake, another rich crumb, and still the old faithful melts-in-your-mouth flavor of a perfect scone.

I recently went to visit my parents for a week in Connecticut and discovered another good-looking scone recipe. While the house was quiet and sleepy, I made my way downstairs, chopped, mixed, folded, rolled, cut and baked. By the time my family was awake, a plate of scones was piled high on the kitchen table, ready to be smeared with butter, strawberry jam or dipped in maple syrup.

It was a rainy, cold Sunday, and warm scones with coffee seemed like rays of sunshine and warmth in the morning gloom. They gave us an excuse to lounge until lunch on the couch, cozy with lots of newspaper and piles of books: another type of perfection altogether.

So for anyone who can’t get enough scones, here’s another recipe to try. This dough comes from the latest issue of Gourmet Magazine, but instead of using currants, I added dried sour cherries and toasted pecans. Definitely make them when you’ve got people to please—they’re just right for sharing. I’d say they make an ideal hostess gift.

Sour Cherry Pecan Scones

Makes 20

3 ½ c all-purpose flour
¾ c sugar
1 Tbsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
1 ¾ sticks cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
¾ c whole milk
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
¾ c toasted pecans
¾ c dried sour cherries

—

Preheat oven to 375. Set racks in upper and lower thirds.
Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.

Add butter and blend with your fingertips (or pastry blender, if your hosts have one) until mixture resembles coarse meal with some pearl-sized lumps of butter.

Stir in milk, eggs, nuts and fruit until combined—don’t be alarmed if dough is sticky.

Drop batter in ¼ c scoops at least 1 inch apart on 2 large, un-greased baking sheets.

Bake 15-20 minutes, rotating trays once to ensure a consistent, pale gold color.

*I like to serve mine with a variety of preserves and butter. These went well with some warmed maple syrup melted in a small bowl with butter.

My grandmother had a variety of addictions—who wouldn’t after surviving two world wars and The Great Depression? Until she passed at age 87, she began each day with a glass of Scotch and drank until the sandman replaced her hiccoughs with slumber. She smoked at least a pack of Winstons a day. She played cards like a shark. When I was five years old she deemed me mature enough to learn Gin rummy. We played late into the night, gambling for chocolate chips.

Yes, among other things, my grandmother was a self-professed chocoholic. According to her son in law (my father) it was the only addiction she admitted to—ironic since she was actually quite measured in her cocoa consumption. She ate chocolate every day, but in modest quantities… damn aesthetic quantities compared to the amount of booze, tobacco and gambling she indulged in daily.

Well apparently, her chocoholism was genetic. I’m not much of a drinker—although that may depend on whom you ask—and I don’t smoke or play cards much anymore, but I do eat chocolate every day, and not in moderate amounts. Last January I gave it up for a month to see if life would be worth living. IT WAS NOT. (Picture me pouting, stomping my foot and pointing a finger of blame at my loved ones, repeating the phrase.) Indeed, my abstinence lasted the full 30 days, though close friends have since told me that, not only was life not worth living for me, it was also hardly worth living for them—so downright bratty, so terrifyingly monstrous did I become.

Ladies, you know the feeling. It probably strikes you every 21 days or so. Without a bit of chocolate you feel as though your insides will literally drop out and you might attack an idiot bystander like a ravenous she-wolf lunging at a deaf, dumb and blind jackrabbit. It’s a strange hormonal mixture of famine and spite: stand between my estrogen and the chocolate, and you’re a damn fool in physical peril.

I have a slightly tempered version of that feeling all the time, but nearing the full moon I really must be mindful to keep plenty of cocoa-based comestibles close at hand. Nevertheless, chocoholism must be treated with caution. I can’t go around eating mass-quantities of Phish Food and Butterfinger bars, and expect to fit into my pretty sundresses, if you know what I mean.

So, I find healthier ways to incorporate chocolate into my life. This keeps both my murderous tendencies and my gut at bay while satisfying even the severest cases of choco-lust. I recently came upon a truly decadent dessert, eaten in small spoonfuls and with good conscience. I am living proof (and so are my friends and neighbors) that even a rapacious craving can be quelled with a vegan dessert.

Yes, believe that.

Almond Chocolate Mousse

(adapted from 101 Cookbooks)

½ c chocolate soy milk
1 ½ c semi-sweet chocolate chips
¼ c amaretto
12 oz silken tofu
¼ tsp almond extract
¼ tsp vanilla extract
kosher salt
slivered almonds (for garnish)

–

Heat soymilk in a saucepan until simmering then cover and let stand.

Melt chocolate chips in a double broiler. Add warm soymilk to hasten the process.

Blend or food-process melted chocolate, soymilk, tofu, amaretto and extracts until smooth, adding a pinch of salt to taste.

Divide into six small cups and chill for at least 2 hours for best results. (Or make 1 big batch, depending on the severity of your condition.)

Top with slivered almonds and serve.

The next time I make this recipe I may add some peppermint oil and garnish with a few mint leaves. May also try making some of Heidi Swanson’s Thin Mints to sit upon the side.

Oh, melancholy mealtime. Inevitably, one moment of every eating experience makes me sad, and it’s called THE END. I never want to stop. I spend the hours from sleep to waking dreaming about getting my teeth into breakfast. I prepare it with glee—even if it’s just a slice of toast and a cup of tea—and devour it, enraptured. I dread the final bite, the moment when I should push away from the table and get onto important things. A few minutes later I forget my troubles, awash with thoughts of lunch. I start planning my mid-day meal at about 8am and spend anywhere from four to five hours mulling over the upcoming thrill. Like all good things, it ends too quickly, and I’m left pondering a mid-afternoon snack, and the prospect of the biggest, most fulfilling gastronomical adventure of my day—dinner.

My recent musings have been largely affected by the weather: we’re pushing 100 degrees daily here in Houston, with 90 + percent humidity. Needless to say, it puts a damper on my desire for hot oatmeal or anything roasted in-house. But it hasn’t been all bad: the warmth inspired a delightfully easy cold cucumber and avocado soup, and recently prompted me to re-examine one of my favorite warm-weather dishes: slaw.

I first discovered the versatility of slaw about five years ago and have been playing with it since. I generally stay away from infusing my own with heaps of mayonnaise, although I do enjoy a good deli-made slaw from time to time. Slaw is something I believe should be eaten in great quantities. I can easily make a batch and polish it off on my own within a couple of days. That is what I like most about slaw: it is the kind of thing you don’t have to stop eating—especially when it is dressed in something elegant, unlike the typical unctuous gloss of mayo.

The slaw I stumbled upon most recently is truly exceptional, and I will probably keep a refrigerator stocked full until the heat abates. That way I can eat until my jaw tires of crunching and chewing, keeping cool all the while.

Please remember to play with this recipe as you see fit—adjusting the citrus, sugar or cream to suit your fancy. You might also whip some goat cheese to the dressing to make it a bit richer. It would go nicely with the toasted walnuts and apples. Or try adding a handful of dried currants or cherries.

Crunchy Slaw with Ginger and Apples

For dressing:

½ c olive oil
¼ c agave nectar or honey
¼ c heavy cream
juice of 1-2 lemons
¼ c apple cider vinegar
S & P to taste

For slaw:

1 finely shredded green cabbage
1 grated ginger root (use as much or as little as you like)
2 crisp, red apples
1 c toasted walnuts, chopped
½ c dried currants (optional)

______
Mix apple cider vinegar, agave and lemon juice. Whisk in olive oil and cream. Set aside.

In the meantime, toss grated ginger and cabbage together in a large bowl. Grate apples over the bowl and toss with dressing. Add walnuts and dried fruit and toss a final time before serving.

Eat, eat, eat until you can’t eat no more.

Houston, you are truly a hot, wet babe. Not exactly gorgeous, but certainly widespread and lusty, full of sprawling roads leading to spicy foods of all kids. You’ve got about as much culture as any of the other more glamorous cities out there. Pfff. You are, by far, the most cosmopolitan and egalitarian place I’ve ever lived—everybody now, altogether, sharing collective road rage, heat waves and hurricanes.

So here we are again, another summer in the city. The sweat starts to bead along my lower back at 8 am, creep up to my armpits by mid-morning and seep out of my fingernails by noon. It is hot, but I think it’s sultry. More importantly, it has inspired one of the most delightful soups I’ve ever tasted. A mere handful of ingredients can be blended with an ice cube at the end of a long day for an absolutely refreshing meal, both hearty and light.

For the last few months I’ve been working as a gardening teacher in inner city schools through an organization called Urban Harvest. The last thing I want to do when I get back to my little house after hours in the sun and dirt is ignite a stove. Fortunately, I do have it in me to start up a blender.

I can’t give you an exact recipe for this dish, since it changes somewhat every time I make it, depending on what I’m in the mood for. I can tell you that it requires about ½ an avocado and 1 ½ medium sized cucumbers per person. Mix and match the flavors to suit your fancy, or your energy levels at the end of a hot, summer day.

Cold Cucumber and Avocado Soup

For 2

3 cucumbers, peeled, seeded, chopped
1 avocado
1 shallot, diced, divided
1 jalapeño pepper, diced, divided
Juice of 1 lemon, divided
2 ice cubes (optional)
Kosher salt and pepper to taste

Blend cucumbers, avocado, half of the shallot, half of the jalapeño and half the lemon juice. Add remaining shallot, jalapeño or lemon juice as desired. Add salt and pepper and ice cubes, if desired.  Serve as chilly as possible.

“Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you who you are.” Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

Food is everything, in the best of ways. It is what ties us to our friends and families, what holds us to our traditions and the planet, what keeps us coming together each day for nourishment and to express our values. It is the element of our humanity we share above all else: more than sleep, more than sex, more than childbearing and death, all of which come at different times, in different ways, for different people. But breaking bread is something we do together: elemental and symbolic, it is an act that binds our community in clear and subtle ways. Food is the source of the health and vitality of society–the foundation of a peoples’ success and the prognostication of a peoples’ future.

Because food is so enmeshed in our bodies, our communities and our environment, it can also be a source of tremendous cultural complication. Robert Kenner’s new documentary Food Inc. explores some of America’s seemingly unrelated ills and ties them together within the subversive–and shrinking–network of American factory farms. The film shows how the food industry has shifted from a broad network of producers and consumers towards a handful of corporate giants that control food culture not only in the grocery store, but also on the farm and on Capitol Hill.

On one hand, consumers are detached from what they eat–gone are the days of seasonally-imposed menus. On the other hand, Americans have fewer and fewer choices of what to eat and where it comes from–even if the options seem endless. Easily manipulated foods like corn, wheat and soy are engineered to enhance virtually every product found in a conventional grocery store. You may be drinking a soda, eating a steak or having a bowl of ice cream, but you’re also having corn three ways, and in so doing, supporting multinational corporations that have usurped and exploited traditional American farmers, replacing them with engineers, machines and impoverished workers.

The film points to a litany of social ramifications brought on by the American food system, but I won’t be a total spoiler. Either way, Food Inc., sets out to tell you things you’ve most likely already heard, or at least noticed. To wit, many Americans are getting sicker, fatter and poorer every year. This is happening, in large part, because of America’s complex and hidden food system. Multi-layered elements of the food industry are deliberately withheld from the public because of how shocking and, frankly, unappetizing they are. Industrialized farms, Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations (CAFOs) and large-scale meat packing plants (only 13 plants supply virtually all of America’s beef, according to the film) create sick animals, a sick environment and sick people.

But Food, Inc. doesn’t simply rely on a series of horrifying images of slaughterhouses and factory farms to get its cultural message across, although it certainly contains scenes unfit for the squeamish. Instead, the film uses real people and their struggles with financial, physical and emotional distress tied to industrialized food. One family is forced to choose between Burger King and broccoli in order to pay for diabetes medicine. One woman lost her child to an E.coli- infected hamburger and has spent the last six years fighting (unsuccessfully) for improved food safety standards. One farmer agrees to let the filmmakers see her chicken coup and subsequently loses her contract as a Purdue supplier. These people testify to the perversion of American nourishment. Something is amiss when a hamburger costs less than a head of broccoli. When spinach and tomatoes become a serious risk to public health, something beyond the individual is sick. The people who produce what we eat should not be forcefully silenced about their practices.

Human beings, economically and politically savvy as we may be, cannot exist for long outside of our ecosystem. Even if it seems cheaper today to buy a burger at a fast food restaurant than to buy seasonal vegetables from a local grower, the overall environmental cost is devastating in the long-run. Unfortunately, food calories have been re-routed so that energy-dense options often lack real nutritive value and require greater amounts of overall energy to produce. Efficient though the factory farm may currently seem, it will end our ability to feed ourselves as oil, clean water and healthy soil become increasingly limited. Alternatively, growing a wider variety of crops seasonally and humanely will keep people and the environment nourished for generations.

The film leaves us with an empowering extension of this message, reminding the viewer that while the high demand for food has gotten America into a threatening monopolistic mess, it is also the key to recovering our food heritage. Eating happens at least three times a day for most of us, and the choices we make at each meal greatly affect the state of our local growers and communities.

Food is everything: it is a reflection of how we value ourselves and the world, though the fact is often forgotten in a culture where fast, cheap and easy eating has become the norm. Emerging generations should not grow up believing that diseased bodies and a polluted world are necessary conditions. Food, Inc. empowers and challenges us to choose our food with a higher consciousness and care, reminding us that every product we buy and every bite we take can be a commitment to restoring an ailing network: the people, communities, animals and land that make America. The health and future of our society begins with the journey from seed to plate and perhaps for some, a ticket to this film.

Check out the original on The Huffington Post.