the revolv­ing door at Red Gate Farm

Some­times Con­necti­cut is sim­ply too good to be true. This ear­ly evening I was dri­ving home from the super­mar­ket (a bag of ice cubes and a tube of cor­ti­sone, which tells you that our hol­i­day is full of cock­tails and bug bites), and I passed a lawn sim­ply COV­ERED with wild turkeys. Sev­en or eight or ten of them, all in a row, but not a moth­er and babies. More like a busi­ness meet­ing or a book sign­ing. And they were all gath­ered under… an Amer­i­can flag atop a mail­box, with a red barn in the back­ground. Too, too much.

And lit­tle Kate from across the road, lend­ing her “hi!” and “bye-bye” and her chi­na-blue gaze to all endeav­ors… aren’t she and Avery the most beau­ti­ful pair?

We’ve been ele­vat­ed by our usu­al sum­mer­time social whirl. Rose­mary has set­tled into her guest room with­out undue cer­e­mo­ny, after arriv­ing late enough to want noth­ing more than a roast beef sand­wich and a look at Avery’s school report, which does make awful­ly nice bed­time read­ing, I must say. I’ve stopped short of xerox­ing it for ALL fam­i­ly mem­bers, but you know who you are. Actu­al­ly, no one. But I will if you ask.

My point being, Avery sim­ply has thrived at her new school. She is so relieved, she says, to have a sum­mer where she’s not antic­i­pat­ing mov­ing, or start­ing exams, or won­der­ing what school she’ll get into, or how it will be. Now she knows all of the above, and can spend her sum­mer in its right­eous pur­suits like tram­polin­ing, think­ing about tram­polin­ing, and announc­ing that she is almost ready to begin trampolining.

Our qui­et lives were spiced up last week by the arrival for a late lunch of our old, old (yes, they’re old) friends Craig and Renee, they of long-ago Tribeca days, our first loft when it was still cool to have a loft in Tribeca. And they were seri­ous­ly cool: music pro­duc­ers for com­mer­cials, so Craig had a sound-proofed room (or do I just hope so, after some par­tic­u­lar­ly amorous encounter with him at a din­ner par­ty?! Renee would kill me and then ask ques­tions lat­er), their son Ben was high-school cool, they even had a cool dog, a box­er called Oscar who Avery called “Okker” and hearti­ly feared after get­ting stuck in the ele­va­tor with him, her face just at the lev­el of his mouth.

Renee swears now that her first intro­duc­tion to me involved her admir­ing my stain­less-steel coun­ter­tops, when she said, “So con­ve­nient for either cook­ing or gyne­co­log­i­cal exams,” which I wish I remem­bered, but since I had Avery hang­ing from my chest in a Baby Bjorn, I must have been dis­tract­ed. But for sure, every­thing Renee and Craig ever said was filed, in my mind, under “how I wish I’d said that,” and I sim­ply decid­ed to have them around as much as pos­si­ble to absorb the coolness.

We screamed with laugh­ter the whole of their lunchtime vis­it, to the point that I wor­ried a bit about Kate’s nap­time across the road! It isn’t just the jokes or the one-lin­ers, it’s the con­stant sparkle of fun in Renee’s eyes, which sparkle any­way just on their own, and Craig’s ador­ing (yes, it’s true) audi­ence for her zany sense of humor… and then, just when you least expect it, he pulls out his iPhone to take a lit­tle video of us all togeth­er, “This is Kris­ten, and she cooked this food [moves the cam­era phone to the emp­ty plat­ter that had con­tained tow­ers of moz­zarel­la and toma­to], which does­n’t look like much, but I’m sure it’ll be deli­cious,” then to the stacked emp­ty plates from lunch piled up with cut­lery, “this will be on offer, too, din­ner from last night,” and final­ly to Renee, who smiled sweet­ly, then picked up a steak knife, and Craig uttered the most blood-cur­dling scream! A snuff film on on iPhone, at my pic­nic table. Which is FINE.

Avery tried hard to get Renee inter­est­ed in her all-time favorite nov­el (which I have to aver is pret­ty mar­velous), “The Sil­ver Don­key,” relat­ing its heart-warm­ing tales of WWII brav­ery, sol­dier res­cue, metaphor­i­cal beau­ty, only to find Renee gaz­ing at her beat­if­i­cal­ly. “I always say, ‘dunkey,’ because why is it ‘munkey’ and not ‘dunkey’?” You must say it aloud your­self to get it. That’s Renee.

But what’s also Renee is that she BROUGHT even more food than I COOKED. “But you’ve come TO lunch,” I protest­ed, as dish after dish appeared from the car. And what’s more, the dar­ling, clever lit­tle con­tain­ers they’re pack­aged in were gifts as well. Cab­bage and meat­ball soup, apple cake (made with oil instead of but­ter so it could be served at a meal with meat!), gefilte fish, tatzi­ki (a gor­geous dip of yogurt and dill and cucum­ber), pota­to kugel, all the Jew­ish favorites that Renee, who feels as my friend Alyssa feels, that I am a clos­et Jew, should have at her lunch table. This in addi­tion to the shrimp sal­ad with cel­ery and pep­pers I had made…

Jan­ice’s Cold Sum­mer Shrimp Salad
(serves 6 as a main course for lun­cheon or a late supper)

1 1/2 lb cooked large shrimp, tails removed, cut in thirds
1 1/2 cups cel­ery, chopped fine
1/2 red pep­per, cut fine
tiny bit of shal­lot, minced
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tbsp Worces­ter­shire sauce
squeeze of lemon juice (plus the squeezed bit stirred through the salad)
1 tsp salt
dash Tabasco
hand­ful chopped chives

Serve sur­round­ed with endive, sprin­kled with chives, very cold.

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I had also thought­ful­ly pro­vid­ed toma­to moz­zarel­la tow­ers with pinenuts and lemon zest and basil! But they were all eclipsed by Renee’s mil­lion-dol­lar cook­ies (whose recipe I’ll post, if I get per­mis­sion). Actu­al­ly I won’t post it, I’ll let Avery do that, as she’s start­ed her own food blog! Strict­ly desserts, mind you, to fill in the gaps that I can’t fill, due to my sad lack of a sweet tooth. Well done, Avery: it’s beau­ti­ful­ly writ­ten, sim­ply pre­sent­ed, and will pro­vide you with some much-need­ed sweet treats for sum­mer and beyond.

Well, we laughed our way through the after­noon. John left to fetch his mama from the air­port, and after a bit Craig and Renee insist­ed they had their own home to go to as well. Avery and I waved them off, wish­ing they could sim­ply move in. Old friends, who remem­ber you from the old days. Who say, “Remem­ber that birth­day par­ty of Avery’s, where all you served was vichys­soise? And… those lit­tle cheese puffs, what were they called?” “Gougeres! Puff Dad­dies!” we all say togeth­er, and Renee remem­bers, “That was a recipe from Saveur mag­a­zine,” and I real­ize that my copy of the recipe, back in Lon­don, is the page torn from that very mag­a­zine. Old friends who kind­ly say, “You haven’t changed at all,” and then point out the under-eye wrin­kles, but say they add char­ac­ter. Which is fine.

There was a brief inter­lude where I cleaned up the kitchen and watched the sun set, and then in swept John and his mom! Tight hugs, “oh, my good­ness, Avery, stand there for a minute and let me see how tall you are!”, bring­ing in suit­cas­es, set­tling her things in her room, set­tling in the kitchen where we all stood around build­ing impromp­tu sand­wich­es of roast beef, ham, pesto, cheese, red onions. I’d mar­i­nat­ed salmon with gin­ger and gar­lic in case we want­ed “din­ner,” but it was soon set aside in the fridge for the much more fes­tive pic­nic. And catch­ing up. And Avery’s mag­ic paper airplanes…

John’s and my ten­nis has been def­i­nite­ly ele­vat­ed by our new rack­ets! We rushed off in the morn­ing to play a crazy game in hideous humid­i­ty, and has my face ever been red­der? I think Rose­mary was about to call 911. Typ­i­cal me. Cleaned up, a nice lunch of the salmon from the night before, grilled, and the steamed rice turned instant­ly into fried rice. Try it with your left­over steamed rice.

Instant Fried Rice
(serves 4)

1 cup bas­mati rice, steamed in a 1 1/2 cups water and set aside
2 tbsps peanut oil
1 tbsp sesame oil
2 cloves gar­lic, minced
hand­ful green onions, minced (includ­ing green parts)
hand­ful pinenuts
2 eggs, beaten
soy sauce to taste

Heat the oils in a heavy skil­let or wok, then quick­ly fry the gar­lic and green onions. Add the pinenuts and eggs and stir quick­ly, break­ing up the eggs as they scram­ble. Add the rice and sprin­kle with soy sauce, then stir fry until the rice is warmed through. How easy is that?

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The rain began just as we fin­ished lunch, and the piano tuner appeared to tune my bar­gain piano that would­n’t play into a rather expen­sive piano that would… almost.

More on all things piano, plus the return of a cer­tain feline char­ac­ter from our sum­mer world last year… soon!

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