standing by


Last weekend: Saw a post on Freecycle offering six gallons of black walnuts from a guy’s tree, just 15 minutes away. Squealed like a birthday girl with her hands in a Rapunzel cake.

Wrote to guy asking if could possibly have three gallons; he agreed, which is good, as am strong but small, and disdainfully imagined self hauling two heaping black Hefty bags up two flights in manner of underpaid North Pole intern.

Still plenty heavy. Required walking horizontally as if through strong winds. Set bag on kitchen floor, slashed it open, and stood somewhat dumbstruck. Remembered freshly fallen black walnuts are comprised of two layers, and containing brown staining ink—the reason why the buggers are so pricey. Also remembered my tendency to jump at chances and think later. This was the later part.

Emailed loyal reader Angie, retired Kentucky farm wife who grew up on black walnuts. Obviously was in good hands. Her advice: Let them all go dark, take them outside, put on shoes I never wanted to wear again, and stomp them silly to get the outer shells off.

Curses. Not a lawn owner. Toyed with notion of dragging heap to local park to stomp, and children’s class trips being shooed away to teachers’ warning words about liberals with free afternoons, or witnessed by local deer who would roll their eyes contemptuously at my technique. No crappy shoes, either.

Bought rubber kitchen gloves, and sat down on kitchen floor on Friday. Peeled thick, spongy outer shells off to reveal damp, coffee-ground color beneath, and hour later gloves looked as though I’d just delivered an Angus heifer. It was not the first time I marveled at how I spend my Friday nights. The right thumb ripped, too. But got the job done.


Wait about a month and turn them every day to let them dry, says Angie. Hanging them in a grass sack is best. I have none. Drying and turning a burnished chartreuse-bronze every day. The goal: that they are not damp on the inside (useless) but light and dry (perfect). Hoping. If I don’t like the flavor, Angie generously offered to take all of them off my hands. Such a true friend.🙂

Here they are, with outer shell off. Nutwatch 2016 is underway.



crab apples


When I learned a few years back that crab apples weren’t just decorative, I went a lil nuts. First I made them into schnapps (electric red and fantastic), then I made applesauce. One significant lesson: They’re a pain in the patoot to work with (they have tiny seeds like sesame seeds), and can be dry. I now turn on some good tunes to keep me company while chopping, and hit them with the schnapps for sweetener and to juice them up. That helps.

Recently I picked a bunch of my usual red crab apples by the lake and put them in the fridge to work with later. (Like their cousins, your regular cultivated apples, they keep very well.) One day soon after I was driving along a busy stretch of highway and spied trees with deep yellow fruit. I flipped out a little, not so much that I was a menace to the other drivers, but just enough that I pulled into the nearest lot. Thinking they were wild persimmons, I scampered back along the road, came upon the trees…and saw they were crab apples. Just yellow ones.

Bummed out a bit. I only know of two wild persimmon trees in the area, and I get the stink-eye when I forage there, so this would have been a solid find. But no. Turned around, headed halfway back to the car, then said, ‘Although. Yellow crab apples. That’s new.’ And so I turned around again.

(Hence, TIP: If any of you happened to see someone pacing back and forth along Route 36 in Oceanport, NJ last week, like the girl version of Hamlet in a black leather jacket, that was me.)

They were really healthy for fruit from wild trees. I picked a bunch. Here’s how they look in my bag….


…and here’s how they look cooked down with their red brothers, on top of toast and a layer of mascarpone for teatime…


…and, non sequitor, here’s the author. Today is my birthday, and I shot this in early July. This is what almost 47 looks like.



cheese–toasted mostly

It’s Fall, and come Fall, I start wanting to melt stuff until it’s goopy and eat it with the shades pulled. Chocolate is a big draw, and so is cheese.* I started thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches and issued myself a challenge to come up with new combinations.

A half-hour’s trip to Whole Foods provided a beautiful crusty loaf of levain**. They bring in some of their bread from Balthazar, and this was one of them. Pullman shaped, it was perfect for sandwiches. Then I bought two kinds of cheese, and then I went to the farm and picked things.

The first sandwich! This is sliced figs (of the six hard-won ripe ones I found in the trees at my favorite farm, but worth the rain in my hair to dig for them), Canadian bacon that I crisped up in olive oil, little tiny caramelized red onions, mascarpone cheese, a little balsamic vinegar, and lots of black pepper. Cooked the whole thing in the same pan that I used to crisp the Canadian bacon. I call it ‘Pigs & Figs.’


Second! I made Marcella Hazan’s luminous pasta arrabbiata sauce and left out the pasta. It calls for really ripe tomatoes, four cloves of garlic, red pepper flakes, and one hot stuffed cherry pepper. I toasted it up with some oozy Monterey Jack. It was a stunner, and I named it ‘Hot Stuff.’ I think I’ll make it again tomorrow for breakfast.


One more sandwich to go, with lovely Macoun apples from the farm and more Monterey Jack. I haven’t even made it yet, but I’ve already named it ‘Applejack.’

* And sometimes chocolate and cheese together. I once reviewed a fancy-pants macaroni and cheese place that had a French-trained chef, and he made me grilled chocolate and Brie. It was completely out of control. I still dream about it.

** Not for long. With a proper counter and a dishwasher to boot, soon I’ll be rekindling my affair with the yeast stored in my freezer. It could use a spark.

food writing, the sequel

I love talking about food, so consequently I love writing about food. Between tight deadlines and the odd lousy interview, it’s not all ice cream*. But I do think there’s a place for intelligent foodspeak. Granted, there’s plenty of frivolous (‘Fun with Cilantro!’) and half-baked** (‘I Went Vegan For a Week and Whined My Way Through It’) content out there, but dismissing the genre as a whole is just as frivolous and half-baked—the equivalent of throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

So. Here’s why I write about food and why I think it’s relevant. In my case, it’s mostly about teaching. I love:

-Introducing or re-introducing people to the seasons. Years ago a co-worker told me she didn’t know watermelons grew in the summer. I can’t blame her; how could the average person know when they’re offered at Shop-Rite all year? But I’m still shaken by it. I write about food because I want to teach people when produce grows. And it’s not just because I’m an avid supporter of local agriculture, and because food will be cheaper, easier to come by, more nutritious, and tastier if purchased close to the source and in season. I want to teach them when it grows because it can help repair the disconnect between ourselves and the earth. Besides breathing, sleeping, and kvetching about politics, eating is at our fundamental core. Knowing where our food comes from can provide a deep sense of peace and balance…not to mention incentive to do right by the earth.


Still available at farmers’ markets. Pull out the seeds, scoop the flesh into your blender, add lime juice and zest, and blitz. It’s a great thirst quencher—and has no added sugar.

Showing people that cooking isn’t beyond them. Most food shows are less about instruction than they are about entertainment, which means bravado and fancy knife work. They can be intimidating to first-time cooks or to those whose skills are rusty. I want people to know that our world’s most treasured recipes were likely made in a makeshift kitchen with crappy light, over a fire or smoky coal or wood stove, with dodgy equipment, and with leftovers. The common denominator, by a long shot, was a woman determined to feed her family. If she can do it—without All-Clad or track lighting—you can.

-Being able to share what I learn in the kitchen or in the field. I absolutely love trying new (in my case, that usually means vintage) recipes, tweaking, and tasting. And I love taking a walk and spotting something edible. It always feels like a present, and I giggle all the way home. I suppose in another life I’ll be into Christian Louboutin shoes, but this life granted me a thrill in wild discoveries. It’s a cheaper pastime, if nothing else. For what it’s worth, I hope you’re enjoying the ride with me.


Wild peppermint, which I found down by my lake in Spring 2015.

L’shana tova tikatevu, chaverim. Hope it’s a sweet one.


*Ha! I slay me.

**Did it again.😀


Okay, I know I meant to write more about food writing* this week, but I’ve had so much fun with another idea that I want to talk about it first. It’s my dearest love of sloppy food.

There’s such pressure to be perfect these days. It’s not new; our great-grandmothers used to compete, silently, to see which woman on the block was first to hang her clean wash on the clothesline on Monday morning. Those days are over, mercifully. But new ones, and pressures, took their place. With the advent of movies, TV, and now social media, we’re holding ourselves up for comparison to endless others paraded in front of us, forgetting that what we see is not likely the whole enchilada. Very not likely. (Philip Galanes of The New York Times recently received a letter from a young woman asking why on earth her stepmother, who had always been cold to her and her sisters, would post kitten memes on Facebook that read, ‘I heart my stepdaughters!’ He replied, ‘Facebook is not the real world. It is not even adjacent to the real world.’)

One way to counteract the deluge of pretentious perfection is to go whole hog in the opposite direction, at least for a time. An excellent way to start is with eating.

I work my way down this list if the pressure mounts, or when my life gets too tidy, and would encourage you to do the same. Sandwiches feature prominently.

  1. Tomato-raw onion-Cotija sandwiches. The ingredients slide out in 17 different directions, and I slurp extra-virgin olive oil off the backs of my arms.
  2. Dark chocolate that I’ve melted for a recipe, and had extra at the bottom of the Pyrex bowl, so I put it in the refrigerator to firm up overnight. This is one of my favorite choices for chocolate day: wedging the tines of a fork into that bowl to chip out the chocolate in shiny shards, and eating just shy of a migraine. I take my joys where I can get them.An example of bloomed chocolate. Looks cool in the bowl. Not so much on candy.
  3. Italian subs. With everything on it, and lots and lots of oil and vinegar. A sopping roll is a blasphemy and an aberration to many; to me, it’s a requirement. I learned from a counter guy at a local sub shop that if you like your sandwich this way, you should say, ‘WET.’
  4. Tuna-anchovy sandwiches. It drips out the edges of the bread as you bite into it and you get to pick up all the fishy little bits with your fingers.
  5. S’mores. Homemade, baby.
  6. Ice cream with leaky cones. I like to take the paper cone off the bottom and slurp.
    on the clock to take the shot before I wear this.
  7. Thanksgiving dinner. The ultimate. On the floor. I grew up eating a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, but it was far too straight-laced for the likes of me. So one year I spread out my best friend’s grandmother’s afghan on the floor and we had a picnic of turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. We wore fleece and socks instead of dressy clothes, and we deliberately ate the whole thing with our fingers. It was one of the most liberating meals of my life.StuffingIn the early ’90s, I taught a camp group of Pre-Ks (four-year-olds). One rainy day when we were stuck inside, all of the Pre-K groups were given smocks, big sheets of glossy fingerpaint paper, and bowls of chocolate pudding. I plopped a blob of pudding onto each of their papers with a plastic spoon. For most of my kids, this was exceedingly well received. One little girl, though, Lucy, didn’t want to touch it. Her mom always had her dressed just so; I can still picture her, with tiny gold stud earrings and her long hair pulled back with a ribbon. Everything she did at camp she did with caution, and I would gently encourage her to try more, to do more.

    At first she agreed to put her pointer finger in the pudding and swirled it around a little. That went on too long. It was a rainy day, and this was all we had to do in the cramped gym for 45 minutes, so I kept cheering her on. ‘Come on, Lucy Luce! Get your hands in there!’ She put two fingers in and Mona-Lisa smiled. That was it. I looked away for a few minutes and came back to find her with both hands flat to the paper and pushing them up and down and laughing her little beribboned head off.
    There’s a place for excellence in our lives…not perfection. There’s a place for tidiness. But too much, and with the wrong expectations, and we stifle ourselves. Life is a rainy day in the gym. Every day is. Go messy for a while, laugh, lick your fingers, and fresh new ideas will start bumpity-bumping around in your head. Let yourself enjoy it, too. Be a Lucy.

*Sorry if I melted your brain there. Peace & love.

food writing (1)

One fine day in 2010 I decided I wanted to be a food writer. It was that out of the blue. Clunk.

I’d happened upon a classy local food magazine in a specialty food store, took it home, and emailed an inquiry to the publisher. She asked if she might review some creative work I’d written. This was a roadblock: At the time I was a commercial copywriter and had been for a decade or so. My portfolio consisted of broadcast spots, fundraising appeals, website copy, things like that. Oh, and editing. Not dry at all. I guess you could argue that convincing people to go to Pooltown and not Home Depot for huge Labor Day savings on Jacuzzi filters was creative. But I’d never written an article in my life. I have a B.A. in English, but I’d never taken a Creative Writing class; they always filled up before I could get in. My degree was essentially made up of research papers. It wasn’t creative, let alone food oriented.*

I sent her one of my appeals that had been unusually successful, and luckily she liked it. A few months later, when she had an article assignment that needed an author, she got in touch with me. My first piece was to be a sidebar about a hot sauce full of local piri-piri peppers, made by Jon Bon Jovi’s childhood friend and original stage manager.

Obviously this had potential.

I’d never done an interview in my life, let alone one in person; and moreover, with a guy who had celeb leanings. So I just talked to him as if we were on line at Target or something. I figured if I don’t know how to be an interviewer, then I’d just be a regular person who likes hot sauce and wants to talk about it. It worked; we laughed our bottoms off and got on like peas and carrots. The article turned out pretty well. I remember I called that sauce, very truthfully, a ‘red-orange Matterhorn ride.’

Around that time a buddy of mine suggested I start a food blog. My first reaction was, ‘But…that’s essays, right? Personal musings?’ I wrote back to him: ‘I don’t know what I could say that anyone would want to read.’

Understand that I’m not used to calling attention to myself. I certainly wasn’t taught to do that; quite the opposite. But the idea grew on me. During down time at my contract job at Vonage, and there was a lot, I’d scribble down topics I might be able to write about. Then I sat down and tried one of them out. It took all afternoon.

Rereading that first post today, just try it, it feels very rough—it rambles, gets too intense. I was full of opinions, and they have merit. It did sum up the spirit of what I wanted the blog to be. But I didn’t have any control yet, and zero practice in writing from a personal standpoint. I could speak from a client’s perspective with no problem. That was as easy as falling off a log. But from my own?

I hit publish and the friend who suggested the blog asked why I hadn’t included any photos. I said, ‘You can add photos?’**

The original name I’d chosen for the blog was semisweet, after one of my favorite varieties of dark chocolate. But it also describes me well—and would nicely sum up what readers could expect. But someone else swiped it first. eve’s apple was my next idea (holy crap—I just realized I came back to Milton and the apple after all!). It was a diva of a name, and I loved it. When you’re a nutcase former teacher and home cook who wants to encourage people to try something new, or better still, to see the familiar through a different lens, the name fits perfectly.

You all know I love ingredients; I can rhapsodize endlessly about Meyer lemons, for one example, and have (here, and here, and more, but I’d break the internet trying to find every mention). But at heart I’m a sociology/anthropology nerd, much more interested in how we approach food as a culture. My friend Tom describes eve’s apple in a different way: ‘Marisa has a blog about food. Well, it’s about more than food, but it always comes back to food.’

I threw a (1) in the title. (2) will be next week. Stand by.


My cover shot! These are very soft caramels I made with flakes of fleur de sel pressed into them.

*My final paper focused on Milton’s Paradise Lost and argued that Eve’s blind love was the catalyst that led to original sin. Maybe I should have worked the apple in more.

**I am such a technodweeb. Just with a WordPress account. Totally not kidding.

color code


Natsukashii (Japanese): A sense of loss inherent in transience; bittersweetness, nostalgia tinged with longing

Sycamore trees have fallen out of favor for landscaping for decades, it seems. I’ve heard them called messy; they do shed their bark more liberally than other trees, it’s true. You can always tell a town, at least here in New Jersey, that was settled 100 years back or more: The streets are lined with sycamores. People weren’t fazed by excess bark back then, I’m guessing. In the area where I grew up and still live, the sycamores tower several stories high and come together in the middle of the street. If it started raining while we were on our bikes, we kids would dash to the narrower streets, where the thick canopy of branches would keep us pretty dry until the rain let up. On dry days we used to love snapping the bark’s roughness into pieces as we sat on the curb and talked. And in mid-August, the leaves started changing from green to pale ochre. Katydids chirping away at night is the first sign that fall is nearby. The second sign is the change in the color of the sycamore leaves. Fall is not yet on the doorstep, but it’s tiptoeing closer.

Years ago I read a story about a hero named Milarepa who fought and defeated monster after monster, each one bigger and scarier than the last. Then he came across the worst and spookiest monster of all. But all of his usual kill moves didn’t work, and he grew more and more desperate. Finally he did the only thing he could think of: He climbed into the monster’s mouth. As he was swallowed, the monster dissolved. And along with getting to live, Milarepa achieved enlightenment.

This time of year we dig in our heels and hang onto summer, and that’s natural. But there comes a point at which we have to climb into the monster’s mouth. And it’s not all bad, change. Loss isn’t all bad, either. There’s something to be said for allowing ourselves to be swallowed, to go with it, to change our colors along with the sycamores. And I’ve found that the closer I am to nature, the easier the shift is.

Tonight I made a peach-bourbon upside-down cake with the last of the peaches. It’s still hot and needs unmolding, or I’d post a picture. I’ll enjoy every bite—never you worry about that. But then later this week I’m picking elderberries and crab apples so I can make jam. I’m going from green to ochre as I do every year, letting the monster dissolve. I’ll let you know if enlightenment bonks me over the head. In the meantime, I’m kind of digging it.