The official average temperatures for New York in the month of July do not tell the real story. In fact, I’d be tempted to say, they lie. Sneak weeks of consecutive high 90s, with heat indices going berserk in New York’s concrete and tar-topped jungle, turn the juggernaut of July into a clammy, clingy, real-life sauna whose only escape is either air conditioning or emigration.
And July comes around every year, despite our best intentions. Occasionally the latter stickiness of the month and the endless flat white sky are so bad that not even the lure of picnics in the long, daylit evenings can tempt us from our artificially chilled cocoon. We renege on dinner party invitations because no one can face the sweat of the subway and its platform temperatures that hover in the 100s.
Somehow, we survive. Plants have a lot to do with that.
In the city, July belongs to echinacea. The North American daisy is in ubiquitous and saturated bloom in parks and brownstone gardens where new cultivars flash carmine or orange, fluffed ruffles, double colors, or modest white petals drooping around exaggerated green cones. Bees and butterflies converge on the flowers that stand three feet tall and pink between streams of trucks and cars and yellow cabs.
All plants reach tropical proportions. Quirky edible gardens in the front yards of homes, in church grounds, and in community gardens are floral mirrors of the cultural background of their gardeners, transplants from Italy, Poland, the Caribbean, the Latin Americas, India, and the Midwest. In Kensington, one of the most culturally diverse neighborhoods in the city, yard-long purple hyacinth beans run up fences and green tomatoes stand guard in concrete driveways. The Greenest Block in Brooklyn Competition is under way, sponsored by the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, which sends clipboarded judges to score the relative horticultural merits of competing blocks. Across the enormous and sprawling borough, block associations vie for the title of the most floriferous. In a Caribbean neighborhood hot pink moss roses (portulaca) and purple petunias cascade from baskets wired high on street signs. Concrete urns on the sidewalk are filled with cannas and amaranth and the highly cultivated tree pits turn the sidewalk into a continuous garden. Rudbeckia and hydrangea and lilies squeeze through chain-link fences and march up stoop steps in dozens of pots. One block away there is nothing. The street is depressed, filled with unkempt front yards and bare chain link. It is another planet.
Along the summer beaches of the Far Rockaways new growth on the bayberries has turned them into green hedges flanking the wide, white beachside path under a glaring sun. I pocket the leaves to perfume a marinade. In the hot, brushy dunes early beach plums turn purple. I find yucca pods on the skeletal remains of their flower spikes and bring them home to pickle; other plants, more shaded, are still in bloom, their petals creamy and crisp as iceberg lettuce. Above the high-tide line native sea rocket is wasabi in leaf form—a herb whose pungent salad brings tears to the eyes. Milkweed has pointed and warty green pods, excellent pan-roasted with a pinch of cumin and sumac.
Farmers’ markets have moved into high gear. Field-grown tomatoes arrive from New Jersey. For the first time, I have refrained all year from buying hothouse tomatoes from Canada. I choose the big fruit carefully. Will these really taste different? asks a worried man beside me. Yes, I say, they will. Privately, I hope it’s true. The tomatoes are heavy and they cost a lot. But I can’t wait. These will be supper, stuffed with fragrant rice and dill and small currants and pine nuts. It is a meal I will repeat for months, never tiring of it, happy to be gorging myself after such a long fast.
The market tables have become complex canvasses. Red fruits continue to arrive: cherries, shining red currants. There is a yellow and red heap of the first freestone peaches. My shopper’s temptation is exacerbated by green gooseberries and succulent black currants, grown and sold by Wilklow Orchards. My mouth waters. My bags are full, but I have been waiting for this. Every year I buy black currants for mouthpuckeringly tart jam that is eked out through the year, and for infused gin, which turns a deep purple, redolent of the fruit—a homemade crème de cassis. I choose my little blue boxes of fruit, load up, and stagger toward home, stopping at Sahadi’s to squeeze in the rice and pine nuts on the way.
In the cool, air-conditioned apartment I stand at the kitchen counter, free of my burden, and wolf the tart and musky berries compulsively, straight from their bag, stuffing my mouth with the intensity of summer at its bursting point.
I crave this dish. The recipe is based on one given to me by my friend Bevan Christie who lives, cooks, and eats in Istanbul. Bevan hates basmati and recommends baldo rice, which is hard to find in my neck of the woods. I don’t think that basmati tastes like “wet burlap” as he does, but Bevan is usually right, so do try to source baldo if you can.
These tomatoes are equally good hot or at room temperature for a picnic or a cool supper, later in the week. Vegans, venture nearer.
SERVES TWO 
4 large or 6 medium tomatoes
Salt
1/4 cup (60 ml) olive oil
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3/4 cup (140 g) basmati rice
2 tablespoons pine nuts (see Note)
1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons currants
Freshly ground black pepper
5 whole allspice berries
1/4 cup (10 g) chopped dill
2 tablespoons chopped mint
Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C).
Cut the tomato tops to form a lid. Scoop out the flesh; chop it and reserve it in a bowl. Salt the insides of the tomatoes. In a sauté pan over medium heat, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil. Sauté half the onion until golden. Add the rice and the pine nuts and stir until glistening. Add the chopped tomato flesh and any juices in the bowl and 3/4 cup (180 ml) of water along with a generous pinch of salt, the sugar, currants, a generous dose of pepper, and the allspice.
Bring the liquid to a boil, then cover and reduce the heat to low. Cook until the liquid is absorbed into the rice, about 15 minutes. Add the chopped dill and mint and mix well with a fork. Taste for salt and add a little more if necessary. Stuff the tomatoes. (There will be lots of leftover stuffing.) Place the tomatoes in a baking dish or pan and top them with their caps. Distribute the leftover rice mixture between the tomatoes in the dish and pour the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil over everything.
Bake until the tops of the tomatoes begin to brown, about 40 minutes.
Note: Some people—myself included—experience an intensely bitter taste when eating pine nuts sourced in China. Consequently, I avoid Chinese pine nuts.
Picnics have turned blowsy and luxurious in the long evenings and are no longer the nipped and huddled lunchtime meetings of winter. Twenty minutes away on foot, the lawns of Pier 1 beckon.
In the grips of a mega-heatwave with air quality alerts and heat advisories and air conditioners cranked to the max, and ironed-out cats and sweating husbands, I make cold cucumber soup and then we walk to find the breeze on the water. For picnics I transport it—chilled—in reusable hinge-top bottles or a flask.
SERVES FOUR
2 medium (10-inch- / 25-cm-long) cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and chopped (about 3 cups / 400 g)
2 cloves garlic, ground into a paste with a pinch of salt
3 scallions, white parts only, chopped
10 fresh mint leaves
1 teaspoon sugar
2 cups (480 ml) vegetable stock
1 cup (240 ml) plain yogurt or buttermilk (omit the vinegar if using buttermilk)
2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Blend the cucumbers, garlic, scallions, mint, sugar, stock, yogurt, and vinegar until smooth, working in batches. Taste for seasoning, adding salt and pepper as necessary.
Chill it thoroughly, covered, in the refrigerator.
I first tasted these peas in Ayvalik, a pretty town on the Aegean, sitting with my friend Bevan Christie and his friend Lale under a bower of jasmine in her garden. It was idyllic, a rare moment. Lale set our small lunch table with linen and silver. We drank cold wine and cold beer, and she placed before us plates onto which she scooped heaps of green peas laced with whiskers of dill from a large glass jar.
Years later I thought about those peas and made them on a whim, cooking them for longer than you would think necessary. These are not the emerald of just-cooked peas. The longer cooking turns them khaki and sweetly complex and fragrant with the herbs and olive oil. I eat them on their own as a meal. Later I learned that Lale adds lots of young garlic or scallions to her peas at the start—try it, it’s good. For this version, I keep it simple, and I use lemon juice, too. Because I can’t help myself …
SERVES FOUR
3 cups (435 g) shelled peas
1/3 cup (80 ml) extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 bunch dill
1 teaspoon sugar
Salt
In a saucepan, combine the peas, olive oil, and lemon juice over high heat. Add enough water to cover the peas and bring to a simmer. Add the dill and sugar, cover, lower the heat, and keep the mixture at a simmer for 30 minutes. Add more water if necessary. At the end of the cooking time, raise the lid to allow any extra moisture to cook off. Add salt, stir well, and taste, adding more salt if necessary. Serve at room temperature.
Nothing travels quite as well as a meatball. I adore them. Their variety is endless. Here I use the prolific and flavorful summer savory growing on the terrace and roof.
SERVES FOUR
1/2 cup (120 ml) milk
1/2 cup (55 g) bread crumbs
1 1/2 pounds (680 g) ground lamb
1/3 cup (45 g) pine nuts (see this page)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup (100 g) chopped scallions, green parts only
2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
2 tablespoons chopped fresh summer savory (or substitute fresh parsley or oregano)
2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
1 egg
1/4 cup (60 ml) olive oil
Pour the milk onto the bread crumbs and let them absorb the liquid for about 3 minutes. Squeeze them out and reserve.
In a large bowl, combine all the ingredients except the olive oil and mix very well. If you have time, leave the bowl in the fridge for an hour to allow the flavors to blend. Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pan. Start forming the lamb mixture into small balls the size of pingpong balls. Fry until brown on one side, flip, brown, and remove to a plate when cooked. Cook in 3 or 4 batches and do not overcrowd the pan or it will lose heat and you’ll get gray, steamed meatballs. Shudder.
Alternatively, preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C) and roast the meatballs on an oiled rimmed baking sheet for 15 minutes, turning once.
Serve the meatballs at room temperature.
My mother made clafoutis often, usually with canned cherries. To us the word sounded like platvoetjies, meaning “little flat feet” in Afrikaans, so that is what we called it.
SERVES FOUR
2 cups (310 g) pitted ripe cherries (or enough to cover the bottom of the dish)
2 eggs
3 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons flour
Pinch of salt
1 1/4 cups (300 ml) whole milk (see Note)
2 drops vanilla extract
1 tablespoon kirsch (optional)
Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).
Lightly butter a round, shallow quiche dish. Scatter the cherries evenly across the bottom. Whisk together the eggs, sugar, flour, salt, and milk until smooth. Add the vanilla extract and kirsch, if using, and pour gently over the cherries.
Bake until just set, about 35 minutes (the middle should barely quiver when the dish is lightly shaken).
Note: For a more indulgent batter, substitute 1/4 cup (60 ml) heavy cream for the same quantity of whole milk.
After irreproachable June, temperatures do not rise so much as expand and fill every available space. Humidity presses down and envelopes the terrace in a heat which flattens perspective and sucks the color out of the sky. Stepping outside is like entering an oven. The sliding door to the terrace remains closed. Our tiny apartment contracts again while summer hangs above us like a steaming death star.
These are long, long, hot days, with a steady watering of the pots, sometimes twice daily. The potent combination of daylight, heat, and water creates an explosion of growth. The herbs in July are at last luxuriant and every meal is dominated by one or the other, or all of them, chopped together. Our meals profit from them:
An oregano-spiked, butterflied leg of lamb, summer savory–rubbed baby back ribs, salade niçoise littered with basil and parsley, salsa verde singing with parsley and cilantro, and chilly vichyssoise fringed with snipped chives. Mushrooms à la Grecque swim with fennel and parsley and thyme and garlic. And there are pigweed crostini. The weed is delicious, given a flash in a pan with some olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice. Cold watermelon soup is heady with basil leaves, and basil tops buffalo mozzarella with the first of a succession of wonderful tomatoes from the roof.
The basil of July is purple and spotted, and my favorite. It forms a cool pool of contrast for the herbs and flowers around it and is smaller than the later-maturing Thai basil. Beyond it on the terrace edge the echinacea is a shock of pink. The sunlight is threaded with the flight of small insects whose patterns of approach and takeoff mirror in miniature the movement of massive aircraft on approach to or departure from LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark. Hornets, many species of bees, iridescent little flies, and butterflies work until dusk, not ceasing until they hand over to the moths, who arrive to sip nectar until the moon begins to set. By day, as I water and move the leaves of plants on the terrace, these sleeping moths start up from their hiding places, flying blindly into the light and fleeing to the canopies of the four oaks across the road. Above the terrace cumulus clouds march east.
It is another month of lilies. The petals of pale yellow Turks caps flare demurely beneath a raucous gaggle of Dunyazades whose louche appearance rewards close inspection. Lime, yellow, white, and hot pink are striped on the heavily beaded interior surface of each petal, designed, it seems, for those who read color in braille. Their pollen continues to give me electric, unwashable war stripes.
Eastern tiger swallowtail butterflies appear every summer, drawn to the parsley and fennel. Their plush, voracious offspring appall me. They eat my parsley. After the first year of war I learned to compromise by planting more. Eggs are laid, caterpillars follow, hatching from the single, tiny green dot deposited on the underside of a leaf. I check the leaves extremely carefully before washing them to eat.
During the day the silvertop of the roof farm burns my bare feet and I feel it even through the thin soles of the shoes I put on reluctantly. The edges of the black metal hatch to the roof are so hot in the middle of the day that I wear gloves to grip its edges if I have to do emergency daytime watering. The summer farm is best tended in the early evening.
Going to the roof when the sun’s angle is low is like a small holiday now. It is not the terrace, all lush and contained. It is a little wild and primitive, urban in the company of satellite dishes and chimneys, and always fresher with a wind from the water. One’s thoughts stray farther than usual, freed by the horizon and the view over New York Harbor.
The row of tomatoes, after months of slow growth, looks like a respectable hedge. Their green bulk makes the ragtag farm of early spring resemble a garden at last. By the end of the month I begin to harvest the Black Cherries, and a fat Black Krim, which is a revelation—dark green and red inside, intensely flavored.
Everything up here—the broad leaves of the summer squash, the flowering eggplants, the new green canes that will produce the black raspberries’ second crop, the first ripe blueberries, the swelling fruits of the small water-melon—grows under a wide sky and an unimpeded sun. Herds of titanic clouds, each distinct and filled with storms, pass overhead. When they gather to drop warm rain, it fills the wide gutter that skirts the terrace to create a transparent moat in the sky. The rest of the water is absorbed by the thirsty plants, which continue to grow, and grow, and grow.
In the apricot-colored west a helicopter stutters toward its tour of the Statue of Liberty, passing above the brightly lit orange layer cake of the Staten Island ferry. Giant dragonflies appear in the twilight and zoom over the rooftops, smaller versions of the chimney swifts who are hunting closer to the water. After a picnic eaten late to avoid looking into the slipping sun, we stay on the roof in the dark and see a firefly light up once, twice, and then the night is black again, stars above, and rows of moving lights on the water as ferries and taxis and tankers continue to carry people to where they want to go.
Whether bought at market, collected from our own bush, or foraged from nearby Pier 6, I like blueberries best for breakfast. I separate yolks from whites and fluff up the whites to make a more buoyant pancake. This recipe works equally well with serviceberries in June. Or with slices of banana, for that matter.
SERVES TWO TO FOUR
1 cup (125 g) whole-wheat flour
1 cup (125 g) all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, separated
1 1/2 cups (360 ml) milk
1 cup (150 g) blueberries, rinsed and patted dry
Warmed maple syrup, for serving
Mix the flours, sugar, baking powder, and salt together in a large bowl. Whisk the egg whites until fluffy in a second bowl. Make a well in the dry ingredients and pour the egg yolks and the milk into it, and incorporate well. Add half the fluffed egg whites, folding them in. Add the second half of the egg whites and fold them in gently.
Drop a large spoonful of this batter onto a hot, well-buttered skillet. Once it has spread out to 3 to 4 inches (7.5 to 10 cm) across, scatter some blueberries over its surface. Flip each pancake when bubbles have risen and popped on the uncooked surface. Keep the cooked pancakes warm in a clean napkin while the rest are cooking. Serve in a stack with the maple syrup and good, strong coffee.
Dinner outside is a juggling act. Should we or shouldn’t we? Will we die?
Much of our summer cooking is done outside, on the braai. I start the fire with paper, pack on hardwood charcoal, and then escape indoors as blue smoke billows. When I see an edge of gray dusting the molten coals, I venture out again, and commune with this primitive form of energy, which is also my favorite. We rarely entertain friends in the heat of summer, choosing to meet instead for picnics in a park. So this is a meal for two. My first crop of cured garlic almost always finds expression in this ritual combination of cold soup and warm ribs.
Baby Back Ribs with Fresh Herb Rub
Grilled Peaches with Mascarpone
A Kir made with cold red wine becomes a Cardinal. It is surprisingly refreshing on a sultry night. My farmers’ market black currants have been swimming in a bottle of good gin with sugar for two weeks and I unscrew the lid of the large mason jar for a premature taste (it is best after two months).
MAKES ONE DRINK
Light-bodied red wine, lightly chilled
Ice
1 ounce (1 tablespoon) crème de cassis
Slice of lime or sprig of basil, for garnish
Pour the red wine into a tall glass over ice, and top with the crème de cassis. Add a slice of lime, or a sprig of crushed basil, and you have summer in your hand.
This Spanish soup, often called white gazpacho, is a restorative. Cool after hot, smooth after rough, simple after complicated. Ajo blanco contains no vegetables besides raw garlic, to which are added powdered (ground) almonds, some bread, chicken or vegetable stock, and the vital vinegar. It is one of my favorite things to eat (how often have I said that? I mean it every time), it is the key to my husband’s heart, and I always make more than I need in a single sitting. Kept in the fridge in a jug it is a quick pick-me-up at any time of day or night, poured into a glass and sipped.
I use the garlic pulled in June from the roof.
SERVES TWO
4 slices white bread, crusts removed
1/2 cup (120 ml) milk
5 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
5 cups (1.2 L) chicken or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 pound (225 g) almond meal
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar plus extra (sherry vinegar is also good)
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 cups (140 g) grapes, cut in half and pips removed, for serving
Ice cubes, for serving
Soak the bread in the milk, then squeeze out the bread and discard the milk (NO! says the thirsty cat …). In a blender, put the garlic, 1 cup (240 ml) of the stock, the soaked bread, 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, and 1/4 pound (115 g) of the almond meal. Blend well until smooth. Transfer to a large bowl and repeat with the remaining 4 cups (1 L) stock, 1 tablespoon oil, and 1/4 pound (115 g) almond meal, adding it to the large bowl with the first batch once it is well blended. Whisk in the vinegar, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover the bowl and chill. Serve with a small handful of grapes and a couple ice cubes in each bowl.
These neat little racks of ribs come from the top of the rib cage, above the spare ribs, and below the loin. Cooked like this they are good warm, the same night, or as gnawable leftovers the next day, if you can wait that long; they are excellent for messy picnics. I use two racks so that we have extra.
The herbs always vary according to the month and season, but this is my typical summer rub, when the summer savory is at its peak and when the terrace garlic is ready. If you cannot find savory (which is why I grow it), use rosemary and reduce the quantity to 1/4 cup, as its oils are more pronounced.
While I usually cook these ribs over coals, they can also be put under a blazing broiler, if you can stand the heat in the kitchen, which in July I cannot. Either way, be sure to let them rest for at least 10 minutes afterward, leaving them tender and juicy before slicing.
SERVES TWO
1/3 cup (20 g) chopped summer savory (or substitute rosemary or thyme)
1 cup (60 g) chopped parsley (about 2 small bunches)
1/2 lemon or lime, very thinly sliced and then chopped (including the zest and pith)
Juice of 3 lemons
8 cloves garlic, finely chopped
3 tablespoons mustard
2 teaspoons brown sugar
2 racks baby back ribs
1/4 teaspoon salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Combine the herbs, lemon or lime, lemon juice, garlic, mustard, and sugar in a bowl or mash them together on the chopping board to mix well.
Lay the ribs in a large, flat dish. Add the herb rub and massage it into the meat, covering both sides. Season heavily with black pepper and lightly with the salt. Leave to rest in the fridge for at least an hour, but remove the ribs half an hour before you are ready to start grilling.
Make a fire in the grill. When the coals have formed a fine layer of gray ash, add the ribs and cook them for about 12 minutes per side. Typically, by the time they are brown and are smelling mouth-wateringly good, they are ready.
Remove the ribs to a warm dish, tent with foil to allow some steam to escape, and let them rest for 10 minutes or longer. Slice each rib from the next and serve them from a communal bowl, piled high.
Summer squash enjoy a six-week season on the roof. Young and raw, they have a delicate flavor and soft crunch that pairs well with fresh mozzarella and tender lettuce. My first cherry tomatoes make an appearance. And male squash flowers are good for two things: pollinating the females and then for the plate.
SERVES TWO
2 handfuls washed and dried Bibb or Boston lettuce
6 cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered
2 tender round squash, sliced paper thin, top to bottom
4 squash flowers, halved, lengthwise
1/2 ball (about 4 1/2 ounces) fresh buffalo mozzarella
FOR THE WHITE WINE VINAIGRETTE WITH BASIL
2 teaspoons white wine vinegar
Pinch of sugar
Pinch of salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Basil leaves, torn up
Arrange the lettuce, tomatoes, squash, and squash flowers on a serving plate. Pull pieces of cheese from the soft mozzarella ball and distribute them among the leaves.
Make the vinaigrette: In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, sugar, salt, and pepper to taste until the sugar is dissolved. Whisk in the oil until emulsified, then stir in the basil.
Just before serving, drizzle the vinaigrette over the salad.
The first red-blushed yellow peaches are at market. They have nothing in common with the woody balls in supermarkets, which have often been chilled to indignity and whose skins develop a suspicious wrinkle on Day Two.
After sating myself (and the cat, who adores them) on the fresh peaches, with juice dripping, I turn the rest into a simple dessert by grilling them on the cooling fire. This amplifies their peachiness, which is offset by the incomparable richness of a dollop of mascarpone.
When I am fireless I prepare them in a ridged cast iron pan, which also gives them impressive stripes.
SERVES TWO
2 large yellow freestone peaches, unpeeled, split apart, pit removed
1 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons mascarpone
3 amaretti cookies, crumbled
Sprinkle the sugar over the cut side of the peaches and allow to sit for 5 minutes. In a hot griddle pan or over a cooling grill fire, cook the peaches face-down for 6 to 8 minutes, then turn them carefully to cook the skin side. The cut side will have caramelized beautifully. Cook another 6 to 8 minutes and transfer to a plate. Fill each hollow with mascarpone, and strew the crumbled amaretti cookies over the top.
