emster's Profile

The following from the Times Celia Barbour epitomizes what's fun about "cooking" for one:

By CELIA BARBOUR
Published: August 23, 2006

PEACHES vex me. For weeks, I have been trying to figure out why.

In July and August, when peaches make their annual rosy appearance at the Union Square Greenmarket, I always stop to admire them. I'm a sucker for a pretty peach, and wind up wanting to take home one, and then another, and another. And no sooner do I tear myself away from vendor A's peaches than I behold vendor B's, which are really stunning and ''tree-ripened'' to boot, and determine that it is necessary to have some of those, too.

I come to my senses only after I have purchased 15 peaches.

As anyone who shops the Greenmarket knows, you can learn a lot from the farmers there (though not, sadly, self-restraint). But the things you learn aren't always what they seem. For example: tree-ripening matters -- so much that the owners of Terhune Orchards go to great lengths to prop up the limbs of the peach trees with two-by-fours so that they can support the mounting weight of the fruit a few days longer without being ripped from the limbs. Judging by their peaches, it makes a difference, sort of. A tree-ripened Red Haven peach will be as good as a Red Haven can be, which is very, very good, but not quite as good as a John Boy.

Variety trumps ripeness, in other words, as long as the fruit isn't green when picked. So why are there no signs indicating peach varieties at the Greenmarket? The labels read simply ''yellow'' or ''white.'' It's as if apples were marked ''green-skinned'' or ''red-skinned'' and nothing more.

I puzzle over things like this mainly to distract myself from the bigger peach problem that I must confront when I get home. Because think about it: What does a peach need from a cook like me? Nothing. I cannot improve upon it, try as I might. A ripe peach is an improbable fusion of extravagant juice, delicate perfume and tender, buttery flesh. The moment I try to cook with it, the peach becomes more ordinary.

Not that this stops me from bringing all my culinary ambitions to bear upon the poor fruit. After all, with 15 peaches turning up in my kitchen a couple of times a week, I'd better have some good ideas up my sleeve. And I do. I make classic dishes like peach ice cream and peach cobbler. I add peach slices to a green salad, along with tomato, torn mint or basil, and include Champagne vinegar in the dressing.

I also make a peach-butterscotch sauce that I dreamed up recently to impress my children, whose love for me, though unwavering, I am nonetheless constantly trying to cement with food. The result was delectable. We ate the sauce straight from the pot. We ate it from the serving dish. And we ate what was left for dessert that night, poured over Ronnybrook vanilla ice cream with chewy gingersnaps from Hawthorne Valley on the side. My children's adoration of me was unaffected by the butterscotch, but their energy level definitely got a boost from all the sugar.

But the best thing I've ever done with a peach isn't something I'd serve to company, or even to my family. It falls into a category of things I think of as single-girl food, since it reminds me of the quirky indulgences that brightened my days before my husband came into my life.

On a Saturday morning not long ago, my husband took our three children upstate, leaving me alone in the city. At the Greenmarket, I bit into a peach, and it was heaven. Like a revelation, this idea came to me: I would create a simple ode to the peach, using flavors that would offset it, but not alter it. I jogged over to Tonjes Farm Dairy, where I had just sampled some lovely fromage blanc, then to Rock Hill Bakehouse for a loaf of pane bello. From there, I went to Tremblay Apiaries and bought Russian olive honey; it has a bit of heat, like honey liqueur. Purchases in hand, I rode the elevator upstairs and entered the remarkable quiet of our empty apartment. I set everything out on the dining table.

First, I spread the fromage blanc on the bread, then sprinkled a bit of damp gray sea salt over it. With a little paring knife, I cut a peach into slim slices and laid them carefully on top. Then I dipped an old baby spoon into the honey and let it drizzle onto the peach slices.

I took a bite. Perfect. I sat back, content. The peach and I were at peace at last.

Butterscotch Peaches
Time: 1 hour

6 medium or 5 large ripe peaches
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup cream
1/2 cup sugar
1 tablespoon honey
Pinch of salt
3/4 teaspoon vanilla, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger or 1/2 teaspoon almond extract
Vanilla ice cream
Almond biscotti, gingersnaps or other cookies.

1. Fill a large bowl with ice and water, and set aside. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Place peaches in boiling water for 2 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer to ice water. When cool, drain and pat dry.
2. Working over a bowl to catch the juice, peel skins from peaches, squeezing as much juice as possible from the skins. Slice each peach into 10 to 12 slices, and set aside with juice; discard skin and pits.
3. In medium skillet over low heat, melt butter. Raise heat to medium-high and cook butter until it foams, subsides, foams again and begins to brown. As soon as butter is nut-brown, add the peaches with juices. Sauté 2 to 3 minutes, then place skillet over low heat to keep warm.
4. In medium heavy-bottomed saucepan, combine cream, sugar, honey and salt. Place over low heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until sugar is completely melted. Raise heat to medium and let boil without stirring until it turns a rich golden brown, 12 to 15 minutes. (Because of honey and cream it will appear to turn pale brown before it has caramelized; wait until it has darkened noticeably, thickened and reduced before proceeding.) Carefully pour contents of skillet into saucepan; it will boil and spatter; stir to combine. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly. Add vanilla or other flavoring. Serve warm or at room temperature over ice cream, with cookies on the side.
Yield: 4 to 6 servings.