Each day, these days, a sweet, earthy fall smell rises from my kitchen as I chop, chop, chop into chunks and slices the apples that Rick and I trekked to my parents’ farmhouse to pick.
Texture is important. With a crusty loaf of ciabatta and a 1/2 pound of Istara (a semi-hard French sheep’s milk cheese, slightly sharp and olive-y), I knew I hovered near grilled cheese nirvana.
I grow a variety of heirloom tomatoes in my garden and in the past week they’ve kicked in. My favorite, the tomato I would take with me to a desert island, is the Black Brandywine. It has a dusty red bottom that rises to a crown of green. The inside meat is dense but still [...]
